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Title: The Mysteries of Paris V2

Author: Eugene Sue

Release Date: October, 2004 [EBook #6602]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on December 30, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS V2 ***




Produced by Beth L. Constantine, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
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[Illustration: THE SAUCEPAN THROWN IN DEFIANCE]




THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS



_IN THREE VOLUMES_


VOLUME TWO



By EUGENE SUE




[Illustration]

THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE EXECUTION.


The surprised lapidary rose and opened the door. Two men entered the
garret. One of them was tall and thin, with a face mean and pimpled,
surrounded by thick, grayish whiskers; he held in his hand a stout
loaded cane, and wore a shapeless hat and a large green greatcoat,
covered with mud, and buttoned close up to the neck; the black velvet
collar, much worn, exposed to view his long, bare, red throat, which
resembled a vulture's. This man was one Malicorne. The other was short
and thick-set, his countenance equally mean, and his hair red. He was
dressed with an attempt at finery, quite ridiculous. Bright studs
fastened the front of his shirt, whose cleanliness was more than
doubtful; a long gold chain, passed across his second-hand plaid stuff
waistcoat, was left to view by a velveteen jacket, of a yellowish-gray
color. This man's name was Bourdin.

"Oh, what a stink of misery and death is here!" said Malicorne,
stopping at the threshold.

"The fact is, it does not smell of musk. What habits!" repeated
Bourdin, turning up his nose in disgust and disdain. He then advanced
toward the artisan, who looked at him with mingled surprise and
indignation.

Through the half-open door was seen Hoppy's evil, watchful, and
cunning face, who, having followed the strangers, unknown to them, was
narrowly watching and listening attentively.

"What do you want?" challenged the lapidary, roughly, disgusted with
the rudeness of the two men.

"Jerome Morel," responded Bourdin.

"I am he."

"Working jeweler?"

"The same."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Once more, I am that person; you annoy me--what do you want? Explain,
or leave the room!"

"Oh, you are coming the _bounce_, are you? I say, Malicorne,"
said this man, turning toward his companion, "there is no catch here;
it is not like the haul at Viscount de Saint-Remy's."

"No, but when there is much, the door is shut against you, as we found
in the Rue de---. The bird had watched the net, and would not be
taken; while such vermin as these stick to their _cribs_ like a
snail to his shell."

"It is my opinion that they only require to be jugged to cram
themselves."

"Still the costs will be more than ever the creditor _wolf_ will
get here; however, that's his look-out."

"Hold!" said Morel with indignation; "if you were not drunk, as you
surely are, I should be very angry. Instantly leave my room!"

"How very sharp you are this morning, old lopsides!" cried Malicorne,
insultingly alluding to the deformity in the lapidary's person.

"Do you hear, Malicorne?--he has the impudence to call this place a
_room_--a hole where I would not put my dog."

"For heaven's sake!" cried Madeleine, so alarmed, that till then she
had not spoken a word, "call for assistance; perhaps they are thieves.
Take care of the diamonds!"

In truth, seeing these two strangers, of doubtful appearance, approach
nearer and nearer to the bench on which lay the jewels, Morel, fearing
some evil intention, ran forward, and with both hands covered the
precious stones.

Hoppy, always on the watch, and listening, hearing Madeleine's words,
and seeing the movement of the artisan, said to himself; "They say he
is a cutter of false stones; if so, he would not fear their being
stolen. Just as well to know that. _I take!_ Then again, Mother
Mathieu, who comes here so often, is a dealer in _real_; and
those she has in her casket are real diamonds. I will put the Owl up
to this!" added Red Arm's son.

"If you do not leave this room instantly, I will call the police,"
said Morel.

The children, frightened at this scene, began to cry, while the old
idiot started upright in her bed.

"If any one has a right to call the police, we're the men. Do you
hear, Mister Sideways?" said Bourdin.

"You'll see the police lend a hand to take you, if you don't go
quietly," added Malicorne; "we have not the magistrate with us, it is
true; but if you wish to enjoy his society, you shall have a taste of
one, just out of his bed, quite hot and heavy. Bourdin will go and
fetch him."

"To prison! Me?" cried the astounded Morel.

"Yes, to Clichy."

"To Clichy!" repeated the artisan, with a wild look.

"Is he hard of hearing?" asked Malicorne.

"Well, then, to the debtor's prison, if you like that better,"
explained Bourdin.

"You--you--are--can it be?--the lawyer! Oh, my God!"

The artisan, pale as death, fell back on his stool, unable to utter
another word.

"We are the officers who are to take you, if we can; do you understand
now, old fellow?"

"Morel, it is for the bill in the hands of Louise's master! We are all
lost!" said Madeleine, with a sorrowful voice.

"This is the warrant," said Malicorne, taking from his dirty pocket-book
a stamped writ.

After having mumbled over in the usual way a part of this document, in
a voice hardly intelligible, he pronounced distinctly the last words,
unfortunately too well understood by the artisan.--

"As final judgment, the court condemns Jerome Morel to pay to Pierre
Petit-Jean, merchant,[Footnote: The crafty notary incompetent to
proceed in his own name, had got from the unfortunate Morel a blank
acceptance, and had introduced a third party's name.] by all his
goods, and even with his body, the sum of thirteen hundred francs,
with lawful interest, dated from the day of the protest; and he is
besides condemned to pay all other and extra costs. Given and judged
at Paris, the 30th of September," etc., etc.

"And Louise, then? Louise!" cried Morel, almost distracted, without
appearing to have heard what had just been read. "Where is she? She
must have left the lawyer, since he sends me to prison. Louise! my
child! what has become of her?"

"Who is this Louise?" said Bourdin.

"Let him alone," said Malicorne. "Don't you see he's coming the
artful?" Then, approaching Morel, he added: "Come, to the
right-about-face, march; I want to breathe the air, I am poisoned here!"

"Morel, do not go!" said Madeleine, wildly. "Kill them, the thieves!
Oh, you are a coward! You will let them take you, and abandon us to
our fate."

"Act as though you were at home, madame," said Bourdin, sarcastically;
"but if your husband lifts his hand against me, I will give him
something to remember it by," continued he, twisting his loaded stick
round and round.

Occupied solely with thoughts of Louise, Morel heard nothing of what
was said. Suddenly, an expression of bitter joy lighting up his face,
he cried out, "Louise has quitted the lawyer's house. I shall go to
prison with a light heart!" But then, glancing round him, he
exclaimed, "But my wife, and her mother, and my poor children--who
will support them? They will not trust me with stones to cut in
prison; for it will be supposed that my own misconduct has sent me
there. Does this lawyer desire the death of all of us?"

"Once for all, let us be off!" said Bourdin; "I am sick of all this.
Come, dress yourself and march."

"My good gentleman, forgive what I have just said to you," cried
Madeleine, still in bed; "you will not have the cruelty to take away
Morel; what do you think will become of me, with my five children, and
my idiot mother? There she is, huddled up on her mattress. She is
foolish, my good gentlemen; she is quite out of her mind."

"The old woman that is shorn?"

"Sure enough she is shaved," said Malicorne; "I thought she had on a
white scull-cap."

"My dear children, throw yourselves at the feet of these two
gentlemen," said Madeleine, hoping, by a last effort, to soften the
bailiffs, "entreat them not to take away your poor father--our only
hope." But in spite of the order of their mother, the children,
frightened and crying, dared not leave their beds.

At the unusual noise, and the sight of the two bailiffs, whom she did
not know, the idiot began to utter deafening howls, crouching herself
against the wall. Morel appeared careless to all that was passing
around him; the blow was so frightful, so unexpected, the consequences
of this arrest appeared so terrible, that he could scarcely believe in
its reality. Already weakened by privations of every description, his
strength failed him; he remained pale and haggard, seated on his
stool, as though incapable of speech or motion, his head drooping on
his breast, and his arms hanging listlessly down.

"Confound it! when will all this end?" cried Malicorne; "think you
that we come here for fun? Off with you, or I shall make you!" So
saying, the bailiff put his hand on the artisan's shoulder, and shook
him roughly. The threat and action alarmed the children; the three
little boys left their mattress half naked, and came, in a flood of
tears, to throw themselves at the feet of the bailiffs, and, with
clasped hands, cried, in tones of touching earnestness, "Pray, pray do
not kill father."

At sight of these unhappy children, shivering with cold and fear,
Bourdin, in spite of his natural callousness, and the constant sight
of scenes like the present, felt something akin to compassion; his
companion, unpitying, brutally disengaged his leg from the grasp of
the kneeling supplicants.

"Hands off, you young ragamuffins! A pretty business ours would be
truly, if we had always to do with such beggars!"

A fearful addition was made to the horrors of this scene. The elder of
the little girls, who had remained in the straw with her sick sister,
cried out, "Oh, mother, mother! I do not know what is the matter with
Adele! She is quite cold, and she stares so at me and she don't
breathe!"

The poor consumptive child had just quietly expired, without a murmur,
her looks resting on her sister, whom she tenderly loved.

No language can describe the heart-rending cry of anguish uttered by
the diamond-cutter's wife at this frightful announcement, for she
understood it all. It was one of those stifling, convulsive screams,
torn from the depth of a mother's heart.

"My sister seems as though she were dead!" continued the child. "Oh,
how she frightens me! She still looks at me, but how cold her face
is!" Saying this, the poor child suddenly rose from the side of her
dead sister, and, running terrified, threw herself into the arms of
her mother; while the distracted parent, forgetful that her paralyzed
limbs were incapable of sustaining her, made a violent effort to rise,
and ran toward the corpse; but her strength failed her, and she fell
on the floor, uttering a last cry of despair. That cry found an echo
in Morel's heart, and roused him from his stupor; with one step he
reached the bed's side, snatching from it his child, four years old.
She was dead! Cold and want had hastened her end, although her
complaint, brought on by the want of common necessaries, was beyond
cure. Her poor little limbs were already cold and stiff. Morel, his
gray hair almost standing on end with despair and fright, remained
motionless, holding his dead child in his arms, whom he contemplated
with fixed, tearless eyes, bloodshot with agony.

"Morel! Morel! give my Adele to me!" shrieked the unhappy mother,
holding out her arms toward her husband; "it is not true that she is
dead: you shall see--I will warm her in my arms!"

The idiot's curiosity was excited by the haste with which the two
bailiffs approached the lapidary, who would not part with the body of
his infant. The old woman ceased to howl, rose from her bed, slowly
approached Morel, and passing her hideous and stupid face over his
shoulder, gazed vacantly on the corpse of her grandchild. The features
of the idiot retained their usual expression of ferocity. After a
little time, she uttered a sort of hoarse, hollow groan, like a hungry
beast, and returning to her bed, she threw herself upon it, crying
out, "I am hungry! I am hungry!"

"You see, gentlemen, this poor little girl, just four years old--
Adele; yes, she was named Adele. Only last night, she fondly returned
my caresses--and now--look at her! You will, perhaps, say that I have
one less to feed, and that I ought not to murmur," said the artisan,
with a haggard look.

The poor man's reason began to totter under so many repeated shocks.

"Morel, I want my child; I will have her!" said Madeleine.

"True, true," replied the lapidary, "each in turn, that is but fair!"
He went and laid the child in the arms of his wife. Then, hiding his
face between his hands, he groaned bitterly. Madeleine, almost as
frenzied as her husband, laid the child in the straw of her couch, and
watched it with a sort of savage jealousy; while the other children
were kneeling round in tears.

The bailiffs, for a moment softened by the death of the child, soon
returned to their accustomed brutality of conduct. "Oh, look here, my
friend," said Malicorne to the lapidary, "your child is dead; it is
unfortunate, but we are all mortal; we cannot help it, nor can you, so
there's an end of it. We have an extra job to do to-day--a
_swell_ to grab."

Morel did not hear the man. Completely lost in mournful contemplation,
the artisan said to himself, in a hollow and broken voice: "It will be
necessary to bury my poor little girl--to watch her here till they
come to carry her away. But how?--we have nothing! And the coffin!--
who will give us credit? Oh, a little coffin for a child of four years
old ought not to cost much! And then we shall want no bearers! One can
take it under his arm. Ha! ha! ha!" added he, with a frightful burst
of laughter, "how lucky I am! She might perhaps have lived to be
eighteen, Louise's age, and no one would have given me credit for a
large coffin!"

"Egad! this chap seems as though he would lose his senses!" said
Bourdin to Malicorne. "Look at him; he quite frightens me! and how the
old idiot howls with hunger! What a queer lot!"

"We must, however, make a finish; although the arrest of this beggar
is only for seventy-six francs, seventy-five centimes, it is only
right that we should swell the costs to two hundred and forty or fifty
francs. It is the _wolf_ who pays."

"You mean who has to _fork out_--for this poor devil here will
have to pay the fiddler, since it is he that must dance."

"By the time he has paid his creditor two thousand five hundred
francs, for principal, interest, costs, and all, he will be warm."

"It will not be then as now, for it freezes," said the bailiff,
blowing his fingers. "Come, old fellow, pack up and let us be off; you
can blubber as you go along. Who the devil can help the youngun's
kicking the bucket!"

"Besides, when people are so poor, they have no right to have
children."

"A good idea!" said Malicorne. Then slapping Morel on the shoulder, he
continued: "Come, come, old boy, we can wait no longer; since you
cannot pay, off to prison with you!"

"Prison!" said a pure, youthful voice; "Morel to prison!" A young,
bright, rosy brunette suddenly entered the garret.

"Oh, Miss Dimpleton!" said one of the children, crying; "you are so
good; save papa! they want to take him to prison, and little sister is
dead."

"Adele dead!" exclaimed the girl, whose large, brilliant black eyes
were veiled in tears. "Your father to prison? This cannot be."
Stupefied by surprise, she looked alternately at the lapidary, his
wife, and the bailiffs.

"My pretty girl," said Bourdin approaching Miss Dimpleton, "you're
cool, you must try to make this poor man listen to reason; his little
girl is dead, but nevertheless he must come with us to Clichy--to the
debtors' prison. We are sheriffs' officers."

"It is, then, all true," said the girl.

"Quite true. The mother has the little one in her bed--they cannot
take it from her; and while she is hugging it there, the father ought
to take the opportunity of slipping out."

"My God! my God! what misery," said Miss Dimpleton. "What is to be
done?"

"Pay, or go to prison! there is no other way, unless you have notes
for two or three thousand francs to lend them," said Malicorne, in a
careless tone; "if you have them, _shell out_, and we will
_cut_, devilish glad to get away."

"Oh, this is dreadful!" said Miss Dimpleton, with indignation; "daring
to jest with such dreadful misfortunes."

"Well then, joking aside," replied the other bailiff, "if you would do
some good, endeavor to prevent the woman from seeing us take away her
husband. You will thus save each of them a very disagreeable quarter
of an hour."

The advice was good, though coarsely given, and Miss Dimpleton,
following it, approached Madeleine, who, distracted with grief, did
not appear to notice the young girl, as she knelt down beside the bed
with the children.

Meanwhile, Morel had only recovered from his temporary delirium to
sink under the most painful reflections. Having become calm, he could
view far too clearly the horror of his situation. The notary must be
pitiless, since he had gone to such extremity; the bailiffs did but do
their duty. The artisan was therefore resigned.

"Come, come, let's be marching some time to-day," said Bourdin to him.

"I cannot leave these diamonds here, my wife is half mad," said Morel,
pointing to the stones scattered upon the bench; "the person for whom
I work will come for them this morning, or in the course of the day.
Their amount is considerable."

"Good!" said Hoppy, who still remained near the half-open door: "good,
good! Screech-Owl shall know that."

"Grant me only till to-morrow," urged Morel, "that I may restore the
diamonds."

"Impossible! We must go immediately."

"But I cannot, by leaving the diamonds here, run the risk of their
being lost."

"Take them with you, a coach waits at the door, which you will have to
pay for, with the other expenses. We can call on the owner of the
stones; if he is not at home you can place them in the registry at
Clichy; they will be as safe there as in the bank. Come, make haste;
we will slip away before your wife or children are aware of it."

"Grant me only till to-morrow, that I may bury my child!" entreated
Morel, with a supplicating voice, half stifled with the sobs he
endeavored to restrain.

"No! we have already lost more than an hour waiting here."

"This burying still worries you, then?" added Malicorne.

"Oh! yes, it makes me sad," said Morel, with bitterness; "you so much
fear to grieve people. Well, then, a last farewell!"

"There, again! confound you, make haste!" said Malicorne, with brutal
impatience.

"How long have you had the order to arrest me?"

"The judgment was signed four months since; but it was only yesterday
that our officer received instructions from the lawyer to put it in
execution."

"Yesterday only. Why was it delayed so long?"

"How can I tell? Come, pack up."

"Yesterday! and Louise not yet here! Where can she be? what has become
of her?" said the lapidary, taking from the bench a card-box filled
with cotton, in which he arranged the jewels. "But never mind that; in
prison I shall have plenty of time for thinking."

"Come, pack up the duds to take with you, and make haste and dress
yourself."

"I have no clothes to pack up: I have only these diamonds to take
away, and place in the prison registry."

"Well, then, dress yourself."

"I have no other clothes than these."

"Going out in these rags?" said Bourdin.

"You will be ashamed of me, doubtless," said the lapidary, bitterly.

"No, it is of no consequence, since we go in your coach," answered
Malicorne.

"Father, father! mother is calling you," said one of the children.

"You hear?" muttered Morel, rapidly, appealing to one of the bailiffs;
"do not be inhuman; grant me a last favor. I have not the courage to
say farewell to my wife and children; it would break my heart. If they
see you take me away they will run after me, and I would avoid that. I
therefore beg of you to say aloud that you will return in three or
four days, and pretend to go away; you can wait for me on the landing
below; I will come to you in less than five minutes. That will spare
me the pain of saying farewell. I will no longer resist, I promise
you. I shall go stark mad; I was nearly so just now."

"Not so green!--you want to give us the slip!" said Malicorne, "want
to bolt, old son!"

"Oh, God! God!" cried Morel, with mournful indignation.

"I don't think he intends to chouse us," said Bourdin, in a low tone
to his companion; "let us do as he wishes, or we'll never get away. I
will wait outside the door, there is no other outlet from the garret--
he cannot escape us."

"Very well; but he needn't be so particular about leaving the mucky
crib!" Then, addressing Morel in a low voice, he said: "Now then, look
sharp, and we will wait for you below. Make haste, and offer some
pretense for our going."

"I thank you," said Morel.

"Very well, it shall be so," said Bourdin, in a loud voice, and
looking significantly at the artisan; "in such case, as you promise to
pay in a short time, we will leave you for the present, and call again
in four or five days; but then you must be punctual."

"Yes, gentlemen, I trust I shall then be able to pay you."

The bailiffs left the room; while Hoppy, for fear of being seen, had
disappeared down the staircase at the same time the bailiffs quitted
the garret.

"Madame Morel, do you hear?" said Miss Dimpleton, trying to withdraw
the attention of the mother from her melancholy abstraction; "they
will not take away your husband--the two men are gone."

"Mother, don't you hear? they will not take father away," said the
eldest of the boys.

"Morel, listen to me," murmured Madeleine, in a state of delirium.
"Take one of the large diamonds and sell it--no one will know it, and
we shall be saved. Our Adele will no longer feel cold; she will not be
dead."

Taking advantage of a moment when none belonging to him were observing
his actions, the lapidary cautiously left the room. The bailiff was
waiting for him upon a sort of little landing, covered also by the
roof. Upon this landing, opened the door of a loft, which had formerly
been part of the garret occupied by the Morels, and in which Pipelet
kept his stock of leather; and the worthy porter called this place his
_box at the play_, because, by means of a hole made in the wall
between two laths, he was sometimes a witness to the sad scenes that
passed in the Morels' room. The bailiff noticed the door of the loft;
in a moment he thought that most likely his prisoner had reckoned upon
that outlet for escape, or to hide himself.

"Come, march, old fellow!" said he, beginning to descend the stair,
and making a sign to the lapidary to follow.

"One minute more, I beseech!" said Morel; and he fell on his knees
upon the floor. Through a chink in the door, he threw a last look upon
his family, and clasping his hands, he uttered, in a low, heart-rending
voice, while tears flowed down his haggard cheeks: "Farewell,
my dear children--my poor wife! may heaven preserve you all!
Farewell!"

"Make haste and cut that sermon," said Bourdin, brutally, "Malicorne
is quite right; you needn't make so much fuss about leaving the
stinking kennel. What a hole! what a hole!"

Morel rose to follow the bailiff, when the words "Father! father!"
sounded on the staircase.

"Louise!" exclaimed the lapidary, raising his hands toward heaven; "I
can then clasp you to my breast before I go!"

"I thank thee, God, I am in time!" said the voice, approaching nearer
and nearer, and light steps were heard rapidly ascending the stairs.

"Be calm, my dear," said a third voice, sharp, asthmatic, and out of
breath, coming from a lower part of the house;

"I will lay in wait, if I must, in the alley, with my broom and my old
darling, and they sha'n't leave here till you have spoken to them, the
contemptible beggars!"

The reader has doubtless recognized Mrs. Pipelet, who, less nimble
than Louise, followed her slowly. An instant after, the lapidary's
daughter was in her father's arms.

"It is indeed you, Louise, my darling Louise!" said Morel, crying;
"but how pale you are! For mercy's sake what ails you?"

"Nothing, nothing, father," stammered Louise. "I have run so fast.
Here is the money!"

"How is this?"

"You are free!"

"So you know?"

"Yes, yes! Here, sir, take the money," said the young girl, giving a
rouleau of gold to Malicorne.

"But this money, Louise--this money?"

"You shall know all presently; don't be uneasy. Come and comfort dear
mother."

"No, not now!" exclaimed Morel, placing himself before the door,
remembering that Louise was still in ignorance of the death of the
little girl; "wait, I must speak to you. Now, about this money?"

"Stay!" said Malicorne, as he finished counting the gold, and while
putting it in his pocket; "sixty-four, sixty-five--that will just make
thirteen hundred francs. Have you no more than that, my little dear?"

"Why, you only owe thirteen hundred francs?" said Louise, addressing
her father, with a stupefied air.

"Yes," said the lapidary.

"Stop!" rejoined the catchpole; "the bill is for thirteen hundred
francs. Well, the bill is paid; but the expenses? Without the
execution, they are already eleven hundred and forty francs."
[Footnote: We append some curious facts about imprisonment for debt,
taken from "_Le Pauvre Jacques_," a paper published by the
Society of Christian Morality Prison Committee:--

"A protest and a warrant is legally set down as at 4 francs 35
centimes for the first, and 4 francs 70 centimes for the other, but is
generally increased by the warrant-officers to 10fr. 40c., and 16fr.
40c. respectively. Thus 26fr. 80c. illegally obtained for what should
have been but 9fr. 50c. The law sets down bailiff fees thus:--Stamp
and registry, 3fr. 50c.; hackney-coach, 5fr.; arresting and
imprisonment, 60fr. 25c.; turnkey's fee, 8fr. Total 76fr. 75c. One
bill of charges taken as the average of those sent in by sheriffs'
officers, swells the above to 240 francs!"

In the same paper is this paragraph:--

"M---, bailiff, has written to desire correction of the article on the
Hanged Woman. He did not kill her, he says. We did not say that he did
_kill_ that unfortunate woman. We reprint that article:--

"M---, bailiff, having writ out for a cabinet-maker in the Rue de la
Lune, was seen by the latter from the house windows. He called out to
his wife.--'I am lost, for there they come to arrest me!' His wife
heard this, and fastened the door, while her husband hid him self in
the loft. The bailiff called in a locksmith. The wife's room door was
forced, and they found the woman had hanged herself! The sight of
the corpse did not delay or prevent the officer hunting for the husband.
'I arrest you.' 'I have no money.' 'To prison, then.' 'Very well, let me
give my wife good-bye.' 'That be hanged, like she is herself. She's
dead.' What can you complain of, M---? we only print your own words,
which minutely and blackly paint this frightful picture."

This same paper quotes three or four hundred facts, of which the
following is a fair sample:--

"On collection of a 300 franc debt a warrant-officer charged 964
francs! The debtor, a workman with five children, lay seven months in
prison."

For two reasons, the present writer quotes from "_Le Pauvre
Jacques_," firstly, to show that the chapter just read falls below
reality; and again, to prove that, if merely in a philanthropic point
of view, the maintenance of such a state of things (the exorbitance of
extras, illegally extorted by public servants,) often paralyzes the
most generous intentions. For instance, with 1,000 francs there might
be three or four honest though unfortunate workmen restored to their
families from a prison whither petty debts of 250 or 500 francs had
driven them; but these sums being tripled by a shameful exaggeration
of costs, the most charitable persons often recoil from doing a good
deed at the thought of two-thirds of their bounty merely going to
sheriffs and their officers. And yet, there are few hardships more
worthy of relief than those befalling such unfortunate people as we
speak of.]

"Gracious heaven!" cried Louise; "I thought it was only thirteen
hundred francs in all! But, sir, we will very soon pay you the
remainder; this is a pretty good sum on account--is it not, father?"

"Soon!--very well; bring the money to the office, and we will then let
your father go. Come, let's be off."

"You will take him away?"

"At once. This is on account. When the rest is paid, he will be free.
Go on, Bourdin; let us get out of this."

"Mercy! mercy!" shrieked Louise.

"Oh, what a row! here it is--the old game over again: it is enough to
make one sweat in the depth of winter--on my honor!" said the bailiff,
in a brutal tone. Then advancing toward Morel, he continued: "If you
don't come along at once, I will take you by the collar, and bundle
you down. This wind-up is beastly!"

"Oh, poor father! when I had hoped to save you!" said Louise,
overwhelmed.

"No, no! hope nothing for me! Heaven is not just!" cried the lapidary,
in a voice of deep despair, and stamping his feet with rage.

"Peace! heaven is just! There is Providence for honest men!" said a
soft, yet manly voice.

The same instant Rudolph appeared at the door of the little recess,
from whence he had, unseen, witnessed the greater part of the scenes
we have just related. He was very pale, and deeply moved. At this
sudden interposition, the bailiffs drew back with surprise; while
Morel and his daughter stared at the prince vacantly. Taking from his
pocket a small parcel of folded bank notes, Rudolph selected three,
and giving them to Malicorne, said to him: "Here are two thousand five
hundred francs; give back to this girl the money you have just
received from her."

More and more surprised, the bailiff took the notes hesitatingly,
examined them very suspiciously, turning them over and over, and
finally pocketed them. But as his alarm and surprise began to subside,
so did his natural coarseness return, and eying Rudolph from head to
foot with an impertinent stare, he exclaimed, "Your notes are good;
but how came the likes of you with so large a sum? I hope, at least,
it is your own!" added he.

Rudolph was very humbly dressed, and covered with dust--thanks to his
stay in Pipelet's loft.

"I have bidden you restore that gold to the young girl," answered
Rudolph, in a sharp, stern voice.

"Bid me! Who gives you the right to order me?" cried the bailiff,
advancing toward Rudolph, in a threatening manner.

"The gold! the gold!" said the prince, seizing the fellow's wrist so
violently that he winced under the iron hold, and cried out,

"Oh, you hurt me! Hands off!"

"Restore the gold! you are paid. Take yourself off, without further
insolence, or I will kick you to the foot of the stairs."

"Very well; here is the gold," said Malicorne, giving it to the girl;
"but mind what you are about, young man--don't fancy you are going to
do as you like with me, because you happen to be the strongest."

"That's right. Who are you, to give yourself such airs?" said Bourdin,
sheltering himself behind his companion. "Who are you?"

"Who is he? He is my tenant, the king of tenants, you foul-mouthed
wretches!" cried Mrs. Pipelet, who appeared at last, quite out of
breath, still wearing the Brutus wig. In her hand she held an earthen
pot filled with boiling soup, which she was kindly taking to the
Morels.

"What does this old polecat want?" said Bourdin.

"If you dare to pass any of your blackguard remarks upon me, I'll make
you feel my nails--and my teeth too, if necessary!" screamed Mrs.
Pipelet: "and more than that, my lodger, my prince of lodgers, will
pitch you from the top to the bottom of the staircase, as he says! And
I will sweep you away like a heap of rubbish, as you are!"

"This old woman will rouse all the people in the house against us. We
are paid, and our expenses also; let us be off!" said Bourdin to
Malicorne.

"Here are your documents," said the last-named individual, throwing a
bundle of papers at Morel's feet.

"Pick them up, and deliver them properly! You are paid for being
civil," said Rudolph, seizing the bailiff with his vigorous hand,
while the other he pointed to the papers.

Convinced by this new and formidable grasp that he could not struggle
against so powerful an adversary, the bailiff stooped down grumbling,
picked up the bundle of papers, and gave them to Morel, who took them
mechanically. The lapidary believed himself under the influence of a
dream.

"Mind, young fellow, although you have an arm as strong as a porter's,
never come under our lash!" said Malicorne. Shaking his fist at
Rudolph, he nimbly jumped down the stairs, followed by his companion,
who looked behind him with fear.

Mrs. Pipelet, burning for revenge on the bailiffs, for the insults
offered to Rudolph, looked at her saucepan with an air of inspiration,
and cried out, heroically: "Morel's debts are paid; they will now have
plenty to eat, and no longer stand in need of my soup--heads!" Leaning
over the banisters, the old woman emptied the contents of her saucepan
on the backs of the bailiffs, who had just arrived at the first-floor
landing.

"Oh, you are caught, I see!" added the portress. "They are soaked
through like two sops! He! he! this is capital!"

"A thousand million thunders!" cried Malicorne, wet through with Mrs.
Pipelet's culinary preparation. "Will you take care what you are about
up there, you old baggage!"

"Alfred!" retorted Mrs. Pipelet, bawling in a voice sharp enough to
split the tympanum of a deaf man. "Alfred! have at 'em, old darling!
They wanted to behave improperly to thy 'Stasie! (Anastasia). Those
rascals would take liberties with me! Pitch into them with your broom!
call the oyster-woman and the potboy next door to help you. Quick!--
quick!--after them! Murder! police! thieves! Hish!--hish!--hish!
bravo! Halloo! go it, old darling! Broom!--broom!" By way of a
formidable finish to these hootings, which she had accompanied with a
violent stamping of her feet, Mrs. Pipelet, carried away by the
intoxication of her victory, hurled from the top to the bottom of the
staircase her earthenware saucepan, which, breaking with a loud,
crashing noise, the very moment the bailiffs, stunned by the frightful
cries, were taking the stairs four at a time, added greatly to their
fears.

"Ha! ha! I rayther think you have got enough for once!" cried
Anastasia laughing loudly, and folding her arms in an attitude of
triumph.

While Mrs. Pipelet was thus venting her rage upon the bailiffs, Morel,
overcome with gratitude, had thrown himself at Rudolph's feet.

"Ah, sir, you have saved our lives! To whom do we owe this
unlooked-for succor?"

"'_To HIM who watches over and protects honest men_,' as our
immortal Beranger says."




CHAPTER XXXIX.

MISS DIMPLETON.


Louise, the lapidary's daughter, was possessed of remarkable
loveliness; tall and graceful, she resembled the classic Juno for
regularity of features, and the huntress Diana for the finish of her
tall figure. In spite of her sunburned complexion, her rough and
freckled hands, beautifully formed, but hardened by domestic labor; in
spite of her humble garments, this girl possessed a nobility of
exterior.

We will not attempt to describe the gratitude and surprise of this
family, so abruptly snatched from a fearful fate; in the first burst
of happiness, even the death of the little girl was forgotten. Rudolph
alone remarked the extreme paleness of Louise, and the utter
abstraction with which she seemed oppressed, in spite of her father's
deliverance. Wishing to completely satisfy the Morels as to
apprehensions about the future, and to explain a liberality which
might otherwise betray suspicions as to the character he thought
proper to assume, Rudolph said to the lapidary, whom he took to the
landing (while Miss Dimpleton broke to Louise the news of her sister's
death):

"Yesterday morning a young lady came to see you."

"Yes, sir, and appeared much distressed at the situation in which she
found us."

"It is to her you must return thanks, and not to me."

"Is it indeed true, sir? That young lady--"

"Is your benefactress. I have often waited upon her with goods from
our warehouse. The day before yesterday, while I was here engaging an
apartment on the fourth story, I learned from the portress your cruel
position. Knowing this lady's charity, I went to her. She came, so
that she might herself judge of the extent of your misfortunes, with
which she was painfully moved; but as your situation might be the
result of misconduct, she begged of me as soon as possible, to make
some inquiries respecting you, as she was desirous of apportioning her
benefits according to your deserts."

"Good and excellent lady! I had reason to say--"

"As you observed to Madeleine: 'If the rich knew,' is it not so?"

"How, sir!--you know the name of my wife! Who told you that?"

"Since six o' clock this morning," said Rudolph, interrupting Morel,
"I have been concealed in the little loft which adjoins your garret."

"You, sir!"

"Yes, and I have heard all that passed, my honest man."

"Oh, sir! but why were you there?"

"I could employ no better means of getting at your real character and
sentiments. I wished to see and hear all, without your knowledge. The
porter had spoken to me of this little nook, and offered it to me that
I might keep my wood in it. This morning I requested him to permit me
to visit it; I remained there an hour, and I feel convinced that there
does not exist a character more worthy, noble, and courageously
resigned than yours."

"Nay, sir, indeed I cannot see much merit in my conduct; I was born
honest, and cannot act otherwise than I have done."

"I know it; and for that reason I do not praise your conduct but
appreciate it. I had quitted the loft to release you from the bailiffs
when I heard your daughter's voice. I wished to leave her the pleasure
of saving you; unhappily the rapacity of the bailiffs prevented poor
Louise from enjoying so sweet a delight. I then made my appearance.
Fortunately, I yesterday recovered several sums of money that were due
to me, and I was able to give an advance to your benefactress by
paying for you this unfortunate debt. But your misfortunes are so
great, so unmerited, so nobly sustained, that the interest felt for
you and deserved, will not stop here. I can, in the name of your
preserving angel, assure you of future repose with happiness to you
and yours."

"Is it possible? But at least tell me her name, sir--the name of this
preserving angel, as you have called her."

"Yes, she is an angel; and you have still reason to say that the great
and the lowly have their troubles."

"Is this lady, then, unhappy?"

"Who is there without their sorrows? But I see no cause to withhold
her name. This lady is called--"

Remembering that Mrs. Pipelet knew that Lady d'Harville had come to
her house to inquire for the Commander, Rudolph, hearing the
indiscreet gossiping of the portress, said after a moment's
reflection: "I will tell you the name of this lady on one condition--"

"Oh, pray, speak, sir!"

"It is, that you will repeat it to no one. You understand!--to no
one."

"Oh, I will solemnly promise that to you. But cannot I at least offer
my thanks to this savior of the unhappy?"

"I will ask Lady d'Harville, and I doubt not she will give her
consent."

"Then this lady is--"

"The Marchioness d'Harville."

"Oh, I shall never forget that name! It shall be my saint, my
adoration! To think that, thanks to her, my wife and children are
saved! saved!--no, not all, not all, my poor little Adele, we shall
never see her again. Alas! but it is necessary to remember that any
day we might have lost her, for she was doomed." Here the poor
lapidary brushed the tears from his eyes.

"As regards the last sad duties to be performed for this little one,"
said Rudolph, "trust to my advice; this is what must be done: I do not
yet occupy my room, which is large, wholesome, and well aired. There
is already a bed in it; we will convey thither all that is necessary
for yourself and family to be established there till Lady d'Harville
has arranged where to lodge you suitably. Your child's body will
remain in the garret, where it shall to-night, as is customary, be
attended and watched by a priest. I will go and request M. Pipelet to
undertake the management of these sad duties."

"But, sir, it is not necessary to deprive you of your room. Now that
we are in peace, and I no longer fear being taken to prison, our
humble apartment appears to me a palace, particularly if my dear
Louise remains with us, to attend to the family as formerly."

"Your Louise will not again leave you. You said not long ago it would
be a luxury to have her always with you; as some recompense for your
past sufferings, she shall never leave you again."

"Oh, sir, can it be possible? It surely cannot be a reality! My senses
seem lulled in a sweet dream. I have never thought much of religion,
but this sudden change from so much misery to so much happiness shows
the hand of an overruling Providence."

"And if a father's grief could be assuaged by promises of reward or
recompense," said Rudolph, "I should remind you, that although the
Almighty hand has removed one of your daughters from you, He has
mercifully restored another."

"True, true, sir. Henceforth we shall have our dear Louise to content
us for the loss of poor little Adele."

"You will accept my chamber, will you not? If you refuse, how can you
manage the mournful duties toward the poor child that is gone? Think
also of your wife, whose mind is already so distracted--to leave her
for four-and-twenty hours with such an afflicting spectacle before her
eyes!"

"You think of everything--of all! How kind you are, sir!"

"It is your benefactress you must thank, for her goodness inspires me.
I say to you as she would say, and I am sure she would approve of all;
so it is agreed that you will accept the offer of my room. Now tell
me, this Jacques Ferrand--"

A dark frown passed across Morel's face.

"This Jacques Ferrand," continued Rudolph, "is the same lawyer who
resides in the Rue du Sentier?"

"Yes, sir; do you know him?" Then, his fears newly awakened on the
subject of Louise, Morel exclaimed: "Since you have heard all that
passed, sir, say, say--have I not a right to hate this man? And who
knows, if my child, my Louise--"

He could not proceed; he hid his face with his hands. Rudolph
understood his fears.

"The lawyer's proceedings," said he to him, "ought to reassure you, as
he doubtless ordered your arrest to be revenged for the scorn of your
daughter; I have good reason, too, to believe that he is a dishonest
man. If he is so," resumed Rudolph, after a moment's silence, "let us
believe that Providence will punish him. If the justice of Heaven
often appears to slumber it awakens some time or other."

"He is very rich, and very hypocritical, sir."

"In your deepest despair, a guardian angel came to your assistance,
and plucked you from inevitable ruin; so, at a moment when least
expected, the Almighty Avenger may call upon the lawyer to atone for
his past crimes if he be guilty."

At this moment Miss Dimpleton came from the garret, wiping her eyes.
Rudolph said to the young girl, "Will it not, my good neighbor, be
better that M. Morel should occupy my room, with his family, until his
benefactress, whose agent I am, shall have provided a suitable
lodging?"

Miss Dimpleton regarded Rudolph with a look of unfeigned surprise.
"Oh, sir! are you really in earnest when you make so generous an
offer?"

"Yes, but on one condition, which will depend on yourself."

"Oh, depend upon all that is in my power!"

"I had some accounts required in haste, to arrange for my employers;
they will come for them soon. Now, if you will be so neighborly as to
permit me to work in your room, on a corner of your table, I should
not disturb your work in the least, and the Morel family can, with the
assistance of M. and Mrs. Pipelet, immediately be settled in my room."

"Oh, if it be only that, sir, most willingly; neighbors ought to
assist each other. You have set so good an example by what you have
done for that poor Morel, that I am at your service, sir."

"No, no, call me neighbor. If you use any ceremony toward me, I shall
not have courage to intrude on you," said Rudolph.

"Well, then, it shall be so, I will call you 'neighbor,' because you
really are so."

"Father, father!" cried one of Morel's little boys, coming out of the
garret, "mother is calling you; come directly, pray do." The lapidary
hastily entered the room.

"Now, neighbor," said Rudolph to Miss Dimpleton, "you must render me a
still further service."

"With all my heart, if it be in my power."

"You are, I am sure, an excellent little housewife. It is necessary to
purchase immediately all that is wanted for Morel's family to be
properly clothed, bedded, and settled in my room, for there is only
sufficient for myself as a bachelor, that was brought yesterday. How
can we manage to procure instantly all I wish for the Morels?"

Miss Dimpleton thought for a moment, and answered: "In a couple of
hours you can have all your want; good clothes ready-made, warm and
neat, with good clean linen for all the family: two little beds for
the children, and one for the grandmother--in short, all that is
necessary; but it will cost a great deal of money."

"You don't say so! How much?"

"Oh, at least--at the very least--five or six hundred francs."

"For everything?"

"Yes, it is a great sum of money, you see," said Miss Dimpleton
opening her large eyes, and shaking her bead.

"And we can procure all these things--"

"In two hours."

"You must be a fairy, neighbor."

"Oh, no, it is quite easy. The Temple is only two steps from here,
where you will find all of which you are in want." "The Temple?"

"Yes, the Temple."

"What place is that?"

"Don't know the Temple, neighbor?"

"No."

"It is, nevertheless, here where people like you and I furnish our
rooms, and clothe ourselves, when we would be economical. Things are
cheaper there than elsewhere, and quite as good."

"Really?"

"I assure you. Come, now, I suppose--But what did you pay for this
great-coat?"

"I do not know exactly."

"What, neighbor, can't tell how much your great-coat cost you?"

"I acknowledge to you in confidence," said Rudolph, smiling, "that I
owe for it; now do you understand that I cannot know?"

"Oh, neighbor, neighbor, I fear you are a spendthrift!"

"Alas! neighbor!"

"You must alter in that respect, if you wish us to be good friends;
and I already see that we shall be such, you appear so kind! You shall
see that you will be glad to have me for a neighbor; for on that
account we can assist each other. I will take care of your linen, and
you will help me clean my room. I rise very early, and will call you,
so that you may not be late at your shop. I'll knock at the wall until
you say to me: 'Good-morning, neighbor.'"

"It is agreed; you shall wake me, take care of my linen, and I will
clean your room."

"And you will be very neat?"

"Certainly."

"And when you wish to make any purchase, you will go to the Temple,
because here is an example; your greatcoat cost, I suppose, eighty
francs; very well, you could have had it at the Temple for thirty."

"Why, that is marvelous! Then you think that with five or six hundred
francs, these poor Morels--"

"Will be stocked with everything, first-class, for a long time to
come."

"Neighbor, an idea has just struck me."

"Well, what is it about?"

"Do you understand household affairs--are you clever at making
purchases?"

"Yes--rather so," said Miss Dimpleton, with a look of simplicity.

"Take my arm, and let us go to the Temple and buy wherewith to clothe
the Morels; will that suit you?"

"Oh, what happiness! Poor creatures!--but where's the money?"

"I have sufficient."

"Five hundred francs?"

"The benefactress of the Morels has given me _carte blanche;_
nothing is to be spared that these poor people require. Is there even
a place where better things are to be had than at the Temple?"

"You will find nowhere better; then there is everything, and all
ready-made--little frocks for the children, and dresses for their
mother."

"Then let us go at once to the Temple, neighbor."

"Oh! but--"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing; but you see, my time is everything to me; and I am already a
little behindhand, in occasionally nursing the poor woman Morel; and
you may imagine that an hour in one way and an hour in another makes
in time a day; a day brings thirty sous, and if we earn nothing one
must still live all the same. But, pshaw! never mind; I must spare
from my nights; and then, again, parties of pleasure are rare, and I
will make this a joyful day; it will seem to me that I am rich, and
that it is with my own money I am buying such good things for these
poor Morels. Very well, as soon as I have put on my shawl and cap, I
shall be at your service, neighbor."

"Suppose, during the time, I bring my papers to your room?"

"Willingly, and then you will see my apartment," said Miss Dimpleton,
with pride; "for it is already put in order, and that will prove to
you that I am an early riser, and that if you are sleepy and idle so
much the worse for you, for I shall be a troublesome neighbor."

So saying, light as a bird, she flew down the stairs, followed by
Rudolph, who went to his room to brush off the dust he had carried
away from Pipelet's loft. We will hereafter disclose to the reader how
Rudolph was not yet informed of the abduction of Fleur-de-Marie from
Bouqueval farm, and why he had not visited the Morels the day after
the conversation with Lady d'Harville.

Rudolph, for the sake of appearances, furnished himself with a large
roll of papers, which he carried into Miss Dimpleton's room.

Miss Dimpleton was nearly of the same age as Goualeuse, her former
prison-friend. There was between these girls the same difference that
exists between laughter and tears; between joyful carelessness and
melancholy reverie; between daring improvidence and serious, incessant
anticipation of the future: between a nature exquisitely delicate,
elevated, poetic, morbidly sensitive, incurably wounded by remorse,
and a disposition gay, lively, happy, unreflective, although good and
compassionate; for, far from being selfish, Miss Dimpleton only cared
for the griefs of others; with them she sympathized entirely, devoting
herself, soul and body, to those who suffered; but, to use a common
expression, her _back turned_ on them, she thought no more about
them. Often she interrupted a lively laugh to weep passionately, and
checked her tears to laugh again. A real child of Paris, Miss
Dimpleton preferred tumult to quiet, bustle to repose, the sharp,
ringing harmony of the orchestra at the balls of the _Chartreuse_
and the _Colysee_, to the soft murmur of wind, water, and trees;
the deafening tumult of the streets of Paris, to the silence of the
country; the dazzling of the fireworks, the glittering of the flowers,
the crash of the rockets, to the serenity of a lovely night--starlit,
clear, and still. Alas! yes, this good girl preferred the black mud of
the streets of the capital to the verdure of its flowery meadows; its
pavements miry or tortuous, to the fresh and velvet moss of the paths
in the woods, perfumed by violets; the suffocating dust at the City
gates, or the Boulevards, to the waving of the golden ears of corn,
enameled by the scarlet of the wild poppy and the azure of the
bluebell.

Miss Dimpleton never left home but on Sundays, and every morning laid
in her provisions of chick-weed, bread, hempseed, and milk for her
birds and herself, as Mrs. Pipelet observed. But she lived in Paris
for the sake of Paris; she would have been miserable elsewhere than in
the capital.

After a few words upon the personal appearance of the grisette, we
will introduce Rudolph into his neighbor's apartment.

Miss Dimpleton had scarcely attained her eighteenth year; rather below
the middle size, her figure was so gracefully formed and voluptuously
rounded, harmonizing so well with a sprightly and elastic step, that
an inch more in height would have spoiled the graceful symmetry that
distinguished her. The movement of her pretty little feet, incased in
faultless boots of black cloth, with a rather stout sole, reminded you
of the quick, pretty, and cautious tread of the quail or wagtail. She
did not seem to walk, but to pass over the pavement as if she were
gliding over its surface. This step, so peculiar to _grisettes_,
at once nimble, attractive, and as if somewhat alarmed, may be
attributed to three causes; their desire to be thought pretty, their
fear of a too-plainly expressed admiration, and the desire they always
have not to lose a minute in their peregrinations.

Rudolph had never seen Miss Dimpleton but by the somber light in
Morel's garret, or on the landing, equally obscure; he was therefore
dazzled by the brilliant freshness of the girl, when he entered
silently her room, lit by two large windows. He remained for an
instant motionless, struck by the charming picture before him.
Standing before a glass, placed over the chimney-piece, Miss Dimpleton
had just finished tying under her chin the strings of a small cap of
bordered tulle, trimmed with cherry-colored ribbons. The cap, which
fitted tightly, was placed far back on her head, and thus revealed two
large thick braids of glossy hair, shining like jet, and falling very
low in front. Her eyebrows, well-defined, seemed as if traced in ink,
and were arched above large black eyes, full of vivacity and
expression; her firm and downy cheeks were tinted with a lovely bloom,
like a ripe peach sprinkled with the dew of morning. Her small,
upturned, and saucy nose would have made the fortune of a Lisette or
Marton; her mouth, rather large, with rosy lips and small white teeth,
was full of laughter and sport; her cheeks were dimpled and also her
chin, not far from which was a little speck of beauty, a dark mole,
_killingly_ placed at the corner of her mouth. Between a very low
worked collar and the border of the little cap, gathered in by a
cherry-colored ribbon, was seen beautiful hair, so carefully twisted
and turned up, that its roots were as clear and as black as if they
had been painted on the ivory of that tempting neck. A plum-colored
merino dress, with a plain back and tight sleeves, skillfully made by
herself, covered a bust so dainty and supple, that the young girl
never wore a corset--for economy's sake. An ease and unusual freedom
in the smallest action of the shoulders and body, resembling the
facile, undulating motions of a cat, evinced this peculiarity. Imagine
a gown fitting tightly to a form rounded and polished as marble, and
we must agree that Miss Dimpleton could easily dispense with the
accessory to the dress of which we have spoken. The band of a small
apron of dark green levantine formed a girdle round a waist which
might have been spanned with your two hands.

[Illustration: THE ROTUNDA]

Supposing herself to be quite alone (for Rudolph still remained at the
door motionless and unperceived), Miss Dimpleton, after having
smoothed the bands of her hair with her small white hand, placed her
little foot upon a chair, and stooped down to tighten her boot-lace.
This attitude disclosed to Rudolph a snow-white cotton stocking, and
half of a beautifully formed leg.

After this detailed account we may conclude that Miss Dimpleton had
put on her prettiest cap and apron, to do honor to her neighbor on
their visit to the Temple. The person of the pretended merchant's
clerk was quite to her taste: his face, benevolent, proud, and noble,
pleased her greatly: and then he had shown so much compassion toward
the poor Morels, in giving up his room to them, that, thanks to his
kindness of heart, and perhaps also to his good looks, Rudolph had
made great steps in the confidence of the grisette, who, according to
her ideas of the necessity of reciprocal obligations imposed on
neighbors, esteemed herself fortunate that Rudolph had succeeded the
commission-traveler, Cabrion, and Francois Germain; for she had begun
to feel that the next room had been too long empty, and she feared,
above all, that it would not be _agreeably_ occupied.

Rudolph took advantage of his being unperceived, to throw a curious
look around this room, which he found deserved more praise than Mrs.
Pipelet had given to the extreme neatness of Miss Dimpleton's humble
home. Nothing could be gayer or better arranged than this little room.
A gray paper, with green flowers, covered the walls; the red-waxed
floor shone like a mirror; a saucepan of white earthenware was on the
hob, where was also arranged a small quantity of wood, cut so fine and
small that you could well compare each piece to a large match. Upon
the stone mantelpiece, representing gray marble, were placed for
ornament two common flower-pots, painted an emerald green; a little
wooden stand held a silver watch, which served in lieu of a clock. On
one side shone a brass candle-stick, bright as gold, ornamented with
an end of wax candle; on the other side, was one of those lamps formed
of a cylinder, with a tin reflector, mounted upon a steel stem, with a
leaden stand. A tolerably large glass, in a frame of black wood,
surmounted the mantel.

Curtains of green and gray chintz, bordered with worsted galloon, cut
out and arranged by Miss Dimpleton, and placed on slight rods of black
iron, draperied the windows; and the bed was covered with a quilt of
the same make and material. Two glass-fronted cupboards, painted white
and varnished, were placed each side of the recess; no doubt
containing the household utensils--the portable stove, the broom,
etc., etc.; for none of these necessaries destroyed the harmonious
arrangement of the room.

A walnut chest of drawers, beautifully grained and well polished, four
chairs of the same wood, a large table with one of those green cloth
covers sometimes seen in country cottages, a straw-bottom armchair,
with a footstool--such was the unpretending furniture. There was, too,
in the recess in one of the windows, the cage of the two canaries,
faithful companions of Miss Dimpleton. By one of those notable
inventions which arise only in the minds of poor people, the cage was
set in the middle of a large chest, a foot in depth, upon the table:
this chest, which Miss Dimpleton called the garden of her birds, was
filled with earth, covered with moss during the winter, and in the
spring with turf and flowers. Rudolph gazed into this apartment with
interest and curiosity; he perfectly comprehended the joyous humor of
this young girl; he pictured the silence disturbed by the warbling
birds, and the singing of Miss Dimpleton. In the summer, doubtless,
she worked near the open window, half hidden by a verdant curtain of
sweet pea, nasturtium, and blue and white morning-glories; in the
winter, she sat by the side of the stove, enlivened by the soft light
of her lamp.

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Rudolph was thus far in these reflections, when, looking mechanically
at the door, he noticed a strong bolt--a bolt that would not have been
out of place on the door of a prison. This bolt caused him to reflect.
It had two meanings, two distinct uses: to shut the door _upon_
lovers within--to shut the door _against_ lovers without. One of
these uses would utterly contradict the assertions of Mrs. Pipelet--
the other would confirm them. Rudolph had just arrived at these
conclusions, when Miss Dimpleton, turning her head, perceived him,
and, without changing her position, said: "What, neighbor! there you
are then!" Instantly the pretty leg disappeared under the ample skirt
of the currant-colored gown, and Miss Dimpleton added: "Caught you,
Cunning!"

"I am here, admiring in silence."

"And what do you admire, neighbor?"

"This pretty little room, for you are lodged like a queen."

"Nay, you see, this is my enjoyment. I seldom go out; so at least I
may please myself at home."

"But I do not find fault. What tasteful curtains! and the drawers--as
good as mahogany. You must have spent heaps of money here."

"Oh, pray don't remind me of it! I had four hundred and twenty-six
francs when I left prison, and almost all is gone."

"When you left prison?"

"Yes; it is quite a story. But you do not, I hope, think I was in
prison for any crime?"

"Certainly not; but how was it?"

"After the cholera, I found myself alone in the world; I was then, I
believe, about ten years of age."

"Until that time, who had taken care of you?"

"Oh, very good people; but they died of the cholera (here the large
black eyes became tearful); the little they left was sold to discharge
two or three small debts, and I found that no one would shelter me.
Not knowing what to do I went to the guard-house, opposite where I had
resided, and said to the sentinel: 'Soldier, my parents are dead, and
I do not know where to go. What must I do?' The sub-officer came and
took me to the magistrate, who sent me to prison as a vagabond, which
I was allowed to quit at sixteen years of age."

"But your parents?"

"I do not know who was my father; I was six years old when I lost my
mother, who had taken me from the Foundling Hospital, where she had
been compelled at first to place me. The kind people of whom I have
spoken lived in our house; they had no children, and seeing me an
orphan, took care of me."

"And how did they live? What was their condition in life?"

"Papa Cretu, so I always called him, was a house-painter, and the
female who lived with him worked at her needle."

"Then they were tolerably well off?"

"Oh, as well off as most people in their station. Though not married,
they called each other husband and wife. They had their ups and downs;
to-day in abundance, if there was plenty of work; to-morrow
straitened, if there was not any; but that did not prevent them from
being contented and gay (at this remembrance Miss Dimpleton's face
brightened). There was nowhere near a house like it--always cheerful,
always singing; and with all that, good and kind beyond belief! What
was theirs, was for others also. Mamma Cretu was a plump body of
thirty, clean as a new penny, lively as an eel, merry as a finch. Her
husband was a regular jolly old King Cole; he had a large nose, a
large mouth, always a paper cap on his head, and a face so droll--oh,
so droll, that you could not look at him without laughing! When he
returned home after work he did nothing but sing, make faces, and
gambol like a child. He made me dance, and jump upon his knees; he
played with me as if he were my own age, and his wife entirely spoilt
me. Both required of me but one thing--to be good-humored; and in
that, thank God! I never disappointed them; so they baptized me,
Dimpleton (not Simpleton, neighbor!) and the cap fitted. As to gayety,
they set me the example: never did I see them sad. If they uttered
reproaches at all, it was the wife said to her husband: 'Stop, Cretu,
you make me laugh too much!' or he said to her 'Hold your tongue,
Ramonette (I do not know why he called her Ramonette), you will make
me ill, you are so funny!' And as for me, I laughed to see them laugh.
That's how I was brought up, and how my character was formed; I trust
I have profited by it!"

"To perfection, neighbor! Then they never quarreled?"

"Never; oh, the biggest kind of never! Sunday, Monday, sometimes
Tuesday, they had, as they called it, an outing, and took me always
with them. Papa Cretu was a very good workman; when employed, he could
earn what he pleased, and so could his wife too. As soon as they had
sufficient for the Sunday and Monday, and could live till then, well
or ill, they were satisfied. After that if they were on short
allowance, they were still contented. I remember that when we had only
bread and water, Papa Cretu used to take out of his library--"

"He had a library?"

"So he called a little chest, where he put his collections of new
songs: for he bought all the new songs, and knew them all. When there
was nothing in the house but bread, he would take from his library an
old cookery-book, and say to us: 'Let us see what we will have to eat
today--this or that?' and he would read to us a list of many good
things. Each chose their dish. Papa Cretu would then take an empty
stewpan, and with the drollest manner, and the funniest jests in the
world, pretend to put in all the ingredients necessary to make a good
stew, and seemed to pour it into a plate, also empty, which he would
place on the table, always with grimaces that made us hold our sides,
then taking his book again, he would read, for example, the receipt
for a good fricassee of chicken that we had chosen, and that made our
mouths water; we then eat our bread (while he read) laughing like so
many mad things."

"And were they in debt?"

"Not at all! As long as they had money they feasted: when they had
none they dined on _water-color_ as Papa Cretu called it."

"And did they not think of the future?"

"Oh, yes, they thought of it; but then our present and future were
like Sunday and Monday--summer we spent gayly and happily outside the
City, the winter we got over at home."

"Since these poor people agreed so well together, why did they not
marry?"

"One of their friends once asked the same question, before me."

"Well?"

"They answered: 'If we should ever have children, we will marry; but
we are very well as we are. What is the good of compelling us to do
that which we now do willingly? Besides, it is expensive, and we have
no money to spare.' But see how I am gossiping! as I always do on the
subject of those good people, who were so kind to me, for I never tire
of speaking of them. Here, neighbor, be civil enough to take my shawl,
which is on the bed, and fasten it under the collar of my dress with
this large pin, and we will then go, for we shall be some time
selecting all you wish to purchase for the Morels."

Rudolph hastened to obey the instructions; he took from the bed a
large plaid shawl, and carefully arranged it on his neighbor's lovely
shoulders.

"Now then, lift up the collar a little, press the dress and shawl
close together and stick in the pin. Above all, take care not to prick
me."

The prince executed the given instructions with zealous nicety; then
he observed, smilingly, to the grisette, "Oh, Miss Dimpleton, I must
not be your _femme de chambre_--there is danger in it!"

"Yes, yes," answer Miss Dimpleton, gayly, "there is great danger of my
having a pin run into me! But now," added she, after they had left the
room and locked the door after them; "here, neighbor, take the key; it
is so very heavy, that I always fear it will tear my pocket. It is
quite a pistol for size!" And then she laughed merrily.

Rudolph accordingly took possession of an enormous key--such a one as
is sometimes seen in those allegorical representations where the
vanquished offer the keys of their cities to the conquerors. Although
Rudolph believed himself sufficiently changed by years not to be
recognized by Polidori, he yet pulled up the collar of his coat before
passing the door of the quack Bradamanti.

"Neighbor, don't forget to tell M. Pipelet that some goods will be
brought here, which must be taken to your room," said Miss Dimpleton.

"You are right, neighbor; we will step into the lodge as we pass by."

Pipelet, his everlasting immense hat, as usual, on his head, dressed
in his green coat, was sitting gravely before a table, on which were
spread pieces of leather and fragments of old shoes; he was occupied
in putting a new sole to a boot, which he did with that serious and
meditative air which characterized all his doings. Anastasia was
absent from the lodge.

"Well, M. Pipelet," said Miss Dimpleton, "I trust things will be
better now! Thanks to my neighbor, the poor Morels were rescued from
trouble just as those heartless bailiffs were about to drag the
unhappy man to prison."

"Oh! these bailiffs are really without hearts, or manners either,
mademoiselle," added Pipelet, in an angry voice, flourishing the boot
he was repairing, in which he had thrust his left hand and arm.

"No! I do not fear to repeat, in the face of heaven and man, that they
are without manners; they took advantage of the darkness of the
staircase to make rude remarks on my wife's very person. On hearing
the cries of her offended modesty, in spite of myself, I yielded to
the impulse of my temper. I do not disguise it, my first movement was
to remain perfectly motionless."

"But afterward you followed them, I hope, M. Pipelet?" said Miss
Dimpleton, who had some trouble to preserve a serious air.

"I thought of it," answered Pipelet, with a deep sigh; "but when those
shameless ruffians passed before my door, my blood rose, and I could
not hinder myself from putting my hand before my eyes, to hide the
monsters from my sight! But that does not surprise me; I knew
something unfortunate would happen to me to-day, for I dreamed--last
night--of Monster Cabrion!"

Miss Dimpleton smiled, as Pipelet's painful sighs were mingled with
the taps of the hammer, which he vigorously applied to the sole of the
old boot.

"You truly acted the part of a wise man, my dear M. Pipelet, that of
despising offenses, and holding it beneath you to revenge them. But
let us forget these miserable bailiffs. Will you be kind enough to do
me a favor?" asked Rudolph.

"Man is born to assist his fellow-man," replied Pipelet, in a
sententious and melancholy tone: "and more particularly so when his
fellow-man is so good a lodger as yourself."

"It will be necessary to take up to my room different things which
will be brought here presently for the Morels."

"Be assured I will take charge of them," replied Pipelet, "and
faithfully carry out your wishes."

"And afterward," said Rudolph, sadly, "you must obtain a priest to
watch by the little girl the Morels have lost in the night. Go and
register her death, and order a decent funeral. Here is money; spare
not, for Morel's benefactress, whose mere agent I am, wishes all to go
well."

"Make your mind quite easy, sir," replied Pipelet; "directly my wife
comes back, I will go to the mayor, the church, and the ham-and-beef
shop--to the church for the soul of the dead, to the cook-shop for the
body of the living," added Pipelet, philosophically and poetically.
"You may consider it done--already done, in both cases, my good sir."

At the entrance, Rudolph and Miss Dimpleton found themselves face to
face with Anastasia, who had returned from market, bearing a heavy
basket of provisions.

"Well done!" exclaimed the portress, looking at them both with a
knowing and significant air; "already arm-in-arm! That's your sort!
Young people will be young people--and where's the harm? To a pretty
lass, a handsome lad! If you don't enjoy yourselves while young, you
will find it difficult to do so when you get old! My poor dear Alfred
and I, for instance, when we were young, didn't we go the pace--But
now, oh, dear! oh, dear!--Well, never mind; go along, my dears, and
make yourselves happy while you can. Love forever!" The old woman
disappeared in the darkness of the alley, calling out, "Alfred, do not
grumble, old darling. Here is 'Stasie who brings you good things--rare
dainties!"

The young couple had left the house.

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

To the mind of Rudolph, for Miss Dimpleton was too little prone to
mournful impressions to long reflect on the matter, the troubles of
the Morels had ceased; but in the grim reality, a calamity, ten fold
severer than their direst poverty, was gathering and forming nearer
them, ready to burst upon their heads almost before the gay young
couple would return from their stroll. What this great evil was, and
what fate befalls other characters yet to be introduced, will
presently be revealed, in shadow and by sunshine.

The Slasher, the Schoolmaster, the Screech-Owl, Hoppy, and the other
wretches whose misdeeds blacken these pages, form the foil; while
Fleur-de-Marie, Clemence d'Harville, Miss Dimpleton, and Mrs. George
are the gems which will be seen to shed their luster and charm over
the no less interesting pages of the Second Division of this work,
entitled, "_Part Second:_ NOON."




PART II.

NOON.


CHAPTER I.

THE ARREST.


To the snow of the past night had succeeded a very sharp wind; so that
the pavement of the streets, usually muddy, was almost dry, as Rudolph
and Miss Dimpleton directed their steps toward the extensive and
singular bazaar called the Temple. The girl leaned without ceremony
upon the arm of her cavalier, with as little restraint as though they
had been intimate for a long time.

"Isn't Mrs. Pipelet funny," said the grisette to Rudolph, "with the
odd remarks she makes?"

"Indeed, neighbor, I think she is quite right."

"In what?"

"Why when she said: 'Young people will be young people--and where's
the harm?--Love forever!'"

"Well?"

"Well! I mean to say that I perfectly agree with her."

"Agree with her!"

"Yes, I should like nothing better than to pass my youth with you,
taking '_Love forever_!' for my motto."

"I believe it: you are not difficult to please."

"Where is the harm? We are neighbors."

"If we were not neighbors, I should not walk out with you in this
way."

"Then allow me to hope--"

"Hope what?" "That you will learn to love me."

"I love you already."

"Really?"

"To be sure I do and for a very simple reason. You are good and
lively; although poor yourself, you do all you can for those
unfortunate Morels, in interesting rich people in their behalf; you
have a face that pleases me much, and a well-turned figure, which is
agreeable and flattering to me, as I shall frequently accept your arm.
Here are, I think, many reasons that I should love you."

Then interrupting herself to enjoy a hearty laugh, Miss Dimpleton
cried: "Look! look at that fat woman, with her old furrowed shoes; one
could imagine her drawn along by two cats without tails!" And again
she laughed merrily.

"I prefer looking at you, neighbor; I am so happy in thinking you
already love me."

"I tell you so, because it is so; if you did not please me, I should
say so all the same. I cannot reproach myself with having ever
deceived or flattered any one; when people please me, I tell them so
at once."

Then, interrupting herself again, to stop before a shop-window, the
grisette exclaimed:

"Oh, look at that beautiful clock, and those two pretty vases! I have
already saved up three francs and a half toward buying some like them.
In five or six years I may be able to manage it."

"Saved up, neighbor? Then you earn--"

"At least thirty sous a day--sometimes forty, but I only reckon upon
thirty; it is more prudent, and I regulate my expenses accordingly,"
said Miss Dimpleton, with an air as important as though it related to
the transactions of a financier.

"But with thirty sous a day, how can you manage to live?"

"The reckoning is not difficult; shall I explain it to you, neighbor?
You appear rather extravagant, so it may serve you as an example."

"Let's hear it."

"Thirty sous a day will make forty-five francs a month, will it not?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, by that account I have twelve francs for lodging, and
twenty-three francs for living."

"Twenty-three francs for a month's living!"

"Yes, quite as much. I acknowledge that, for a person like myself, it
is enormous; but then, you see, I refuse myself nothing."

"Oh, you little glutton!"

"Ah, but I also include food for my birds."

"Certainly, if you reckon for three, it is less extravagant. But let
me hear the detail of your every-day management, that I may benefit by
the instruction."

"Listen then. A pound of bread, that is four sous; milk, two sous--
that makes six; four sous for vegetables in winter, or fruit and salad
in summer (I dote on salad and vegetables, because they do not soil
the hands)--there is already ten sous; three sous for butter or oil
and vinegar, as seasoning--thirteen sous; two pailfuls of water (oh,
that is my luxury!) that will make fifteen sous; add to that two sous
for chickweed and hempseed for my two birds, which usually share with
me my bread and milk--that is twenty-two or twenty-three francs a
month, neither more nor less."

"And do you never eat meat?"

"Oh, Lord! Meat indeed! that costs ten to twelve sous a pound; how can
I think of that? Besides, it smells of the kitchen, of the stewpan;
instead of which, milk, fruit, and vegetables require no cooking. I
will tell you a dish I am very fond of, not troublesome, and which I
make to perfection."

"Hold up the dish!"

"I put fine potatoes in the oven of my stove; when they are done, I
mash them with a little butter and milk, and a pinch of salt. It is a
meal for the gods! If you are well behaved I will let you taste them
some day."

"Prepared by your pretty hands, it cannot fail to be excellent. But
let us see neighbor; we have already reckoned twenty-three francs for
living, and twelve francs for lodging--that makes thirty-five francs a
month."

"Well, then, out of the forty-five or fifty francs I earn, there
remain to me ten or fifteen francs for wood and oil during winter, as
well as for my dress and washing--that is to say for soap--as,
excepting my sheets, I wash for myself: that is another luxury--a
laundress would pretty well ruin me; and as I also iron very well, I
thereby save my money. During the five winter months I burn a load and
a half of wood, and four or five sous-worth of oil in the day for my
lamp; that makes nearly eighteen francs a year for my light and fire."

"So that there remain to you more than a hundred francs for your
clothing?"

"Yes; and it is from that I have saved the three francs and a half."

"But your dresses--your shoes and stockings--this pretty cap?"

"My caps I only wear when I go out, and that does not ruin me, for I
make them myself; at home I am satisfied with my hair. As to my
dresses and boots--is there not the Temple?"--"Oh, yes, that
contentment, excellent Temple! Well, you buy there--"

"Very good and pretty dresses. You must know that rich ladies are
accustomed to give their old dresses to their waiting maids--when I
say old, I mean that maybe they have worn them in their carriages a
month or two--and their servants go and sell them to people who keep
shops at the Temple for almost nothing. Thus, you see, I have a nice
merino dress that I bought for fifteen francs, which perhaps cost
sixty; it has hardly been put on and is beautifully fine. I altered it
to fit me, and I flatter myself it does me credit."

"Indeed you do it much credit! Thanks to the resources of the Temple,
I begin to think you can manage to dress respectably with a hundred
francs a year."

"To be sure I can. Why, I can buy charming dresses for five or six
francs; and boots, the same that I have on now, and almost new, for
two or three francs. Look! would not any one say that they were made
for me?" said Miss Dimpleton, stooping and showing the tip of her
pretty little foot, very nicely set off by the well-made and well-fitting
boot.

"The foot is charming, truly; but you must find a difficulty in
fitting it. After that you will doubtless tell me that they sell
children's shoes at the Temple."

"You are a sad flatterer, neighbor; however, after what I have told
you, you will acknowledge that a girl, quite alone and well, can live
respectably on thirty sous a day? I must tell you, by-the-by, the four
hundred and fifty francs which I brought from prison assisted
materially in establishing me. When once known that I possessed
furniture, it inspired confidence and I had work intrusted to me to
take home; but it was necessary to wait a long time before I could
meet with employment. Fortunately I kept sufficient money to live upon
for three months, without earning anything."

"Spite of your gay, heedless manner, allow me to say that you possess
a great deal of good sense, neighbor."

"Nay, when one is alone in the world, and would not be under
obligation to any one, you must exercise some management to build your
nest well, and take care of it when it is built, as the saying is."

"And your nest is delightful!"

"Is it not? for, as I have said, I refuse myself nothing; I consider I
have a lodging above my station. Then, again, I have birds; in summer
always at least two pots of flowers on the mantelpiece, besides the
boxes in the windows; and then, as I told you, I had three francs or
more in my money-box, toward ornaments I hoped one day to be able to
purchase for the chimney-piece."

"And what became of these savings?"

"Why, latterly I have seen those poor Morels so unhappy, so very
unhappy, that I said to myself: 'There is no sense in having these
ugly pieces of money idling in a box, whilst poor people are perishing
of hunger beside you,' so I lent them to Morel. When I say lent, I
mean I told him I only lent them, in order to spare his feelings, for
I assure you I gave them freely."

"Yes, neighbor, but as they are no longer in want, you surely will not
refuse to allow them to repay you?"

"True, I shall not refuse it; it will be something toward the purchase
of chimney-ornaments--my dream."

"And then, again, you ought to think a little of the future."

"The future?"

"Should you fall ill, for instance."

And, at the bare idea, Miss Dimpleton burst into an immoderate fit of
laughter, so loud, that a fat man, who was walking before her,
carrying a dog under his arm, turned round quite angrily, believing
himself to be the butt. Miss Dimpleton, resuming her composure, made a
half-courtesy to the stout person, and pointing to the animal under
his arm, said: "Is your dog so very tired, sir?"

The fat man grumbled something, and continued to walk.

"Come, come, neighbor," said Rudolph; "are you losing your senses?"

"It is your fault if I am."

"My fault?"

"Yes; because you say such silly things to me."

"What, because I tell you that you may fall ill?"

"I ill?"

"Why not?"

"Am I a likely-looking person to be sick then?"

"Never have I beheld a face more rosy and fresh!"

"Very well then, why do you think I shall be ill?"

"Nay, but--"

"At eighteen years of age, leading the life I do, how can that be
possible? I rise at five o'clock, winter and summer; I go to bed at
ten or eleven; I eat to satisfy my hunger, which is not very great, it
is true; I sing like a lark all day, and at night I sleep like a
dormouse: I have a mind free, joyful, and contented, with the
certainty of plenty of work, because my employers are pleased with
what I have done. Why should I be sick! What an idea! Well, I never!"

And Miss Dimpleton again relapsed into long and hearty laughter.
Rudolph, struck with this blind, yet happy confidence in the future,
reproached himself with having attempted to shake it. He thought, with
horror, that an illness of a month could ruin this merry, peaceful
mode of existence. Miss Dimpleton's deep faith in her health and her
eighteen years, her only treasures, appeared to Rudolph something akin
to holiness; for, on the young girl's part, it was neither
carelessness nor improvidence, but an instinctive reliance on the
commiseration of Divine justice, which could not abandon an
industrious and virtuous creature, whose only error was a too
confident dependence on the youth and health she enjoyed. The birds,
as they cleave with gay and agile wings the azure skies in spring, or
skim lightly over the blooming fields, do they think of the cheerless
winter?

"Then," said Rudolph to the grisette, "you are not ambitious to
possess more than you have?"

"Nothing."

"Absolutely nothing?"

"No--that is to say, I should like to have my chimney-ornaments, and I
shall have them, though I do not know when; but I have it in my head
to possess them, and I will, if I should have to sit up to work all
night to do it."

"And besides these ornaments--"

"I want for nothing; I cannot recollect a single thing more that I
care about possessing now."

"How now?"

"Because, if you had asked me the same question yesterday, I should
have told you I was longing for a suitable neighbor; so that I could
arrange with him comfortably, as I have always done, to perform little
services for him, that he might return nice little attentions to me."

"Well, it is already agreed, my pretty neighbor, that you shall take
charge of my linen, and that I shall clean your room--without naming
your waking me early in the morning, by tapping at the wall."

"And do you think that will be all?'

"What else is there?"

"Oh, bless your heart, you have not arrived at the end of what I
expect of you. Is it not necessary that on Sundays you take me for a
walk on the Boulevards?--you know that is the only day I have for
recreation."

"To be sure. In summer we will go into the country."

"No, I detest the country. I like no place so well as Paris.
Nevertheless, I went, once upon a time, out of good nature, with a
young friend of mine, who was my companion in prison, to visit Meudon
and Saint-Germain. My friend was a very pleasant, good girl, whom they
called Sweet-throat, because she was always singing."

"And what has become of her?"

"I do not know. She spent all the money she brought from prison,
without appearing to be much amused; she was always sad, but
sympathizing and charitable. When we used to go out together, I had
not then any work; but when I succeeded in obtaining some, I did not
stir from home. I gave her my address, but as she has not been to see
me, doubtless she has also some occupation, and, like me, is too busy
to get out. I only mention this to let you know, neighbor, that I love
Paris above every other place. So whenever you can, on Sunday, you may
take me to dine at the ordinary, sometimes to the play; or, if you
have not any money, you can take me to see the fashionable shops,
which will amuse me almost as much. Rest satisfied, that in our little
excursions I shall not disgrace you. You will see how smart I shall
look in my pretty dress of blue levantine, that I only wear on
Sundays: it suits me to perfection. With that I wear a pretty little
cap, trimmed with lace and orange-colored ribbon, which does not
contrast badly with my black hair; satin boots, that I have made for
me; an elegant shawl of silk imitation Cashmere! Indeed, I expect,
neighbor, people will turn round to look after us as we pass along.
Men will say: 'Really, that is a pretty little girl, upon my word!'
And the women, on their part, will exclaim: 'Look at that tall young
man! what an elegant shape! He has an air that is truly fashionable!
and his little brown mustache becomes him exceedingly!' And I shall be
of their opinion, for I adore mustaches. Unfortunately, M. Germain did
not wear one, because of the situation he held. M. Cabrion did, but
then it was red, like his long beard, and I do not like those great
beards; besides, he made himself so ridiculously conspicuous in the
streets, and teased poor M. Pipelet so much. Now, M. Giraudeau, who
was my neighbor before M. Cabrion, dressed well, and altogether had a
very good appearance, but he squinted. At first it annoyed me very
much, because he always appeared to be looking at some one at the side
of me, and without thinking, I often turned round to see who--" And
again Miss Dimpleton laughed.

Rudolph, as he listened to this prattle, asked himself, for the third
or fourth time, what he ought to think of the _virtue_ of Miss
Dimpleton. Sometimes the frankness of the grisette, and the
remembrance of the large bolt, made him almost believe that she loved
her neighbors merely as _brothers_ or _companions_, and that
Mrs. Pipelet had caluminated her; then again he smiled at his
credulity, in thinking it probable that a girl so young, so pretty, so
solitary, should have escaped the seductions of Giraudeau, Cabrion,
and Germain. Still, for all that, Miss Dimpleton's frankness and
originality disposed him to think favorably of her.

"You delight me, neighbor, by your manner of disposing of my Sundays,"
said Rudolph, gayly; "we will have some famous treats."

"Stop a moment, Mr. Spendthrift. I warn you that I shall keep house.
In summer, we can dine very well--yes, very well--for three francs, at
the Chartreuse or at the Montmartre Hermitage, half a dozen country
dances, or valses included, with a ride upon the wooden horses:--oh, I
do so love riding on horseback! That will makeup your five francs--not
a farthing more, I assure you. Do you valse?"

"Very well."

"Oh, this pleases me! M. Cabrion always trod on my feet, and then for
fun he would throw fulminating balls on the ground, which was the
reason they would not let him go any more to the Chartreuse."

"Be assured, I will answer for my discretion wherever we go together;
and as to the fulminating balls, I will have nothing to do with them.
But in winter, what shall we do?" "In winter, we are less hungry, and
can dine luxuriously for forty sous; then we shall have three francs
left for the play, for I would not have you exceed a hundred sous--
that is indeed too much to spend in pleasure; but if alone, you would
spend much more at the wine-shop or the billiard-rooms, with low
fellows, who smell horribly of tobacco. Is it not better to pass the
day pleasantly with a young friend, very laughter-loving and discreet,
who will save you some expense, by hemming your cravats, and taking
care of your other little domestic affairs?"

"It is clearly a gaining for me, neighbor; only if my friends should
meet me with my pretty little friend on my arm, what then?"

"Well, they will look at us and say: 'He is not at all unlucky, that
rogue Rudolph!'"

"You know my name?"

"Why, to be sure I do. When I learned that the next room was let, I
asked to whom!"

"Yes, when people meet us together, no doubt, as you say, they will
remark: 'What a lucky fellow that Rudolph is!' and will envy me."

"So much the better."

"They will think me perfectly happy."

"Of course they will; and so much the better!"

"And if I should not be so happy as I seem?"

"What does that matter, provided they believe it; men require nothing
further than mere outward show."

"But your reputation?"

Miss Dimpleton burst into an immoderate fit of laughter.

"The reputation of a grisette! Would any one believe in such a
phenomenon?" answered she. "If I had father or mother, brother or
sister, for them I should be careful of what people would say: but I
am alone in the world, and it's my own look out. As long as I am
satisfied with myself, I don't care a snap for others!"

"But still I should be very uncomfortable."

"What for?"

"In being thought happy in having you for a companion, while, on the
contrary, I love you. It would be something like taking dinner with
Papa Cretu--eating dry bread, whilst a cookery book was being read to
me."

"Nonsense, nonsense! You will be very happy to live after my fashion.
I shall prove so mild, grateful, and unwearying, that you will say:
'After all, it is as well to pass my Sunday, with her as with any one
else.' If you should be disengaged in the evenings, during the week,
and it would not annoy you, you might pass them in my room, and have
the advantage of my fire and lamp, you could hire romances, and read
them aloud to me. Better than go and lose your money at billiards.
Otherwise, if you were kept late at your business, or you liked better
to go to the _cafe_, you could wish me good-night on your return,
if I were still up. But should I be in bed, at an early hour next day
I would say good-morning, by tapping at the wall to waken you. M.
Germain, my last neighbor, spent all his evenings in that manner with
me, and did not complain; he read all Walter Scott's works to me,
which were very interesting. Sometimes on Sunday, when the weather was
bad, instead of leaving home, he bought something nice, and we made a
downright banquet in my room; after which we amused ourselves with
reading, and I was almost as much pleased as if I had been at the
theater. This is to show you that it would not be difficult to live
with me, and that I will do what I can to make things pleasant and
agreeable. And then, you, who talk of illness, if ever you should be
laid up, I'll be a real Sister of Charity; only ask the Morels what
sort of a nurse I am! So, you see, you are not aware of all your
happiness; it is as good as a lucky hit in the lottery to have me for
a neighbor."

"That is true, I have always been lucky; but, speaking of M. Germain,
where is he now?"

"In Paris, I believe."

"Then you never see him now?"

"Since he left this house, he has not been to see me."

"But where does he live, and what is he doing?"

"Why do you ask those questions, neighbor?"

"Because I feel jealous of him," said Rudolph, smiling, "and I would--"

"Jealous!" exclaimed Miss Dimpleton, laughing. "There is no reason for
that, poor fellow!"

"Seriously, then, I have the greatest interest in knowing the address
of M. Germain; you know where he lives, and I may, without boasting,
add, that I am incapable of abusing the secret I ask of you; it will
be for his interest also." "Seriously, neighbor, I believe you wish
every good to M. Germain, but he made me promise not to give his
address to any one; therefore, be assured, that as I do not give it to
you, it is because I cannot. You ought not to be angry with me; if you
had intrusted a secret to me, you would be pleased to find I acted as
I am now doing."

"But--"

"Stop, neighbor! Once for all, do not speak to me any more on that
subject; I have made a promise, I intend to keep it, and, whatever you
may say to me, I shall still answer you in the same way."

In spite of her giddiness and frivolity, the girl pronounced these
last words so decisively, that Rudolph felt, to his great regret, that
he would never obtain from her the desired information about Germain;
and he felt a repugnance to employ artifice in surprising her
confidence. He paused a moment, and then resumed: "Do not let us speak
of it again, neighbor. Upon my soul, you keep so well the secrets of
others, that I am no longer surprised at your keeping your own."

"Secrets! I have secrets! I wish I had some; it must be so very
amusing."

"Do you mean to say that you have not a little secret of the heart?"

"A secret of the heart!"

"In a word, have you never loved?" said Rudolph, looking steadfastly
at Miss Dimpleton, to read the truth in her tell-tale face.

"Loved!--have I not loved M. Giraudeau, M. Cabrion, M. Germain, and
you?"

"And did you love them the same as you love me--neither more nor
less?"

"Oh, I cannot tell you that, exactly--less, perhaps; for I had to
habituate myself to the squint of M. Giraudeau, to the red beard and
disagreeable jests of M. Cabrion, and the melancholy of M. Germain,
for he was so very sad, poor young man: while you, on the contrary,
pleased me instantly."

"You will not feel angry, neighbor, if I speak to you as a friend?"

"Oh, no, don't be afraid--I am very good-natured; and then you are so
kind, that I am sure you have not the heart to say anything that would
cause me pain."

"Certainly not; but now, frankly, have you never had--a lover?"

"Lovers! Now, is that very likely? Have I time for that?"

"But what has time to do with it?"

"Everything. First of all, I should be as jealous as a tiger, and I
should be constantly worrying myself with one idea or the other. Then,
again, do I earn money enough to enable me to lose two or three hours
a day in grief and tears?--and if he deceived me, what weeping, what
sorrow! All that would throw me pretty well behindhand, you may
guess."

"But all lovers are not unfaithful, and do not cause their mistresses
to weep."

"That would be still worse. If he were very good and loving, could I
live a moment away from him? And then, as most likely he would be
obliged to stay all day, either at the desk, manufactory, or shop, I
should be like a poor restless spirit during his absence. I should
invent a thousand chimeras; imagine that others loved him, and that he
was with them. Heaven only knows what I might be tempted to do in my
despair! Certain it is, that my work would be neglected, and what
would become of me then? I can manage, quiet as I am, to live by
working twelve or fourteen hours a day; but, were I to lose two or
three days in the week by tormenting myself, how could I make up the
lost time? Impossible! I must then take a situation. Oh, no, I love my
liberty too well."

"Your liberty?"

"Yes; I could enter as forewoman to the person who now employs me; I
should receive four hundred francs a year, with board and lodging."

"And you will not accept that?"

"No, indeed. I should be dependent on others; instead of which,
however humble my home may be, it is my own. I owe no one anything; I
have courage, health and gayety: with an agreeable neighbor like
yourself, what do I want more?"

"Then you have never thought of marrying?"

"I marry! I could only expect to meet with a husband as poor as
myself; and look at the unhappy Morels--see where it ends! When you
have but yourself to look to, you can always manage somehow."

"Then you never build castles in the air--never dream?"

"Yes, I dream of my chimney-ornaments; besides them what can I
desire?"

"But suppose, now, some relation, of whom you have never heard, should
die and leave you a fortune--say twelve hundred francs a year--to you,
who live upon five hundred francs----"

"It might prove a good thing--perhaps an evil."

"An evil?"

"I am very happy as I am; I can enjoy the life I now lead, but I do
not know how I should pass my time if I were rich. After a hard day's
work, I go to bed, my lamp extinguished, and, by a few light embers
that remain in my stove, I see my room neat--curtains, drawers,
chairs, birds, watch, and my table spread with goods intrusted to me--
and then I say to myself, `All this I owe to myself.' Truly, neighbor,
these thoughts cradle me softly, and sometimes I go to sleep with
pride, always with content. But here we are at the Temple! You must
confess, now, that it is a very superb show!"

Although Rudolph did not participate in the deep veneration expressed
by Miss Dimpleton at the sight of the Temple, he was nevertheless
struck by the singular appearance of this enormous bazaar, with its
numerous divisions and passages. Toward the middle of the Rue du
Temple, not far from a fountain which was placed in the angle of a
large square, might be seen an immense parallelogram built of timber,
surmounted with a slated roof. That building is the Temple. Bounded on
the left by the Rue du Petit Thouars, on the right by the Rue Percee,
it finished in a vast rotunda, surrounded with a gallery, forming a
sort of arcade. A long opening, intersecting this parallelogram in its
length, divided it in two equal parts; these were in their turn
divided and subdivided by little lateral and transverse courts,
sheltered from the rain by the roof of the edifice. In this bazaar new
merchandise is generally prohibited; but the smallest rag of any
stuff, the smallest piece of iron, brass, or steel, there found its
buyer or seller.

There you saw dealers in scraps of cloth of all colors, ages, shades,
qualities, and fashion, to assimilate either with worn-out or ill-fitting
garments. Some of the shops presented mountains of old shoes,
some trodden down at heel, others twisted, torn, split, and in holes,
presenting a mass of nameless, formless, colorless objects, among
which were grimly visible some species of _fossil_ soles, about
an inch thick, studded with thick nails, like a prison door, and hard
as a horseshoe, the actual skeletons of shoes whose other component
parts had long since been devoured by Time. Yet all this moldy, rusty,
dried-up accumulation of decaying rubbish found a willing purchaser,
an extensive body of _merchants_ trading in this particular line.

There existed retailers of trimming, fringes, cords, ravelings of
silk, cotton, or thread, during the destruction of curtains, etc.,
rendered unfit for use. Other industrious persons occupied themselves
in the business of women's bonnets; these bonnets never came to their
shop but in the bags of the retailer, after the most singular changes,
the most extraordinary transformations, the most unheard-of
discolorations. To prevent the merchandise taking up too much room in
a shop usually of the size of a large box, they folded these bonnets
in two, after which they smoothed them and pressed them down
excessively tight--saving the salt, it is positively the same process
as is used in the preservation of herrings: thus you may imagine how
much, thanks to this method of stowage, may be contained in a space of
four square feet.

When the purchaser presents himself, they withdraw these bags from the
pressure to which they are subject; the merchant, with a careless air,
gives a slight push with his fist to the bottom of the crown, to raise
it up, smooths the front upon his knee, and presents to your eyes an
object at once whimsically fantastical, which recalls confusedly to
your memory those fabulous head-dresses favored by box-keepers, aunts
of opera dancers, or duennas of provincial theaters. Further on, at
the sign of the _Gout du jour_, under the arcades of the Rotunda,
elevated at the end of the wide opening which separates the Temple in
two parts, were hanging, like _exotics_, numerous clothes, in
color, shape, and make still more extravagant than those of the
bonnets just described. Here were seen frock-coats, flashily set off
by three rows of hussar-jacket buttons, and warmly ornamented with a
little fur collar of fox's skin. Great-coats, formerly of bottle-green,
rendered by time _invisible_, edged with a black cord, and
brightened by a lining of plaid, blue and yellow, which had a most
laughable effect. Coats, formerly styled the "swallow-tails," of a
reddish-brown, with a handsome collar of plush, ornamented with
buttons, once gilt, but now of a copper color. There were also to be
seen Polish cloaks, with collars of cat-skin, frogged, and faced with
old black cotton-velvet; not far from these were dressing-gowns,
cunningly made of watchmen's old great-coats, from which were taken
the many capes, and lined with pieces of printed cotton; the better
sort were of dead blue and dark green, patched up with sundry pieces
of variegated colors, and fastened round the waist with an old woolen
bell-rope serving for a girdle, making a finish to these elegant
_deshabilles_, so exultingly worn by Robert Macaire.

We shall briefly pass over a variety of "loud" costumes, more or less
uncouth, in the midst of which might here and there be seen some
authentic relics of royalty or greatness, dragged by the revolution of
time from palaces and noble halls, to figure on the dingy shelves of
the Rotunda.

These exhibitions of old shoes, old hats, and ridiculous old dresses,
were on the grotesque side of the bazaar--the quarter for beggars,
ostentatiously decked out and disguised; but it must be allowed, or
rather distinctly asserted, that this vast establishment was of
immense use to the humble classes, or those of limited means. There
they might purchase, at an amazing reduction in price, excellent
things, almost new, the actual depreciation in value being almost
imaginary. On one side of the Temple, set apart for bedding, there
were heaps of coverlets, sheets, mattresses, and pillows. Further on
were carpets, curtains, and all sorts of kitchen utensils, besides
clothes, shoes, and head-dresses for all classes and ages. These
objects, generally of perfect cleanliness, offered nothing repugnant
to the sight.

One could scarcely believe, before visiting the bazaar, how little
time and money were requisite to fill a cart with all that is
necessary to the complete fitting out of two or three families who
wanted everything.

Rudolph was struck by the manner, at once eager, obliging, and merry,
with which the various dealers, standing outside their shops,
solicited the custom of the passers-by; these manners, stamped with a
sort of respectful familiarity, seemed to belong to another age.
Scarcely had Miss Dimpleton and her companion appeared in the long
passage occupied by those who sold bedding, than they were surrounded
by the most seductive offers.

"Sir, come in and see my mattresses; they are better than new! I will
unsew a corner, that you may examine the stuffing; you will think it
lambs'-wool, it is so white and soft!"

"My pretty little lady, I have sheets of fine holland, finer than at
first, for their stiffness has been taken out of them; they are as
soft as a glove, strong as steel!"

"Come, my elegant new-married couple, buy of me a counterpane. See how
soft, warm, and light they are--you would imagine them of eider-down;
nearly new--have not been used twenty times. Look, my little lady;
decide for your husband; give me your custom--I will furnish very
cheaply for you--you will be satisfied--you will come again to Mother
Bouvard. You will find all you want in my shop; yesterday I made
beautiful purchases--you shall see them all. Come in, anyhow; it will
not cost anything to look."

"By my faith, neighbor," said Rudolph to Miss Dimpleton, "this good
fat woman shall have the preference. She takes us for young married
people; the supposition flatters me, and I decide for her shop."

"To the good fat woman's, then," answered Miss Dimpleton; "her face
pleases me too."

The grisette and her companion then entered Mother Bouvard's shop. By
a magnanimity perhaps unexampled anywhere but at the Temple, the
rivals of Mother Bouvard did not rebel at the preference accorded her;
one of the neighbors, indeed, had the generosity to say, "So long as
it is Mother Bouvard, and no other, who has this customer, it is very
well: she has a family, and is the oldest inhabitant of the Temple,
and an honor to it." It was, besides, impossible to have a face more
prepossessing, open, and joyous than hers.

"Here, my pretty little lady," said she to Miss Dimpleton, who
examined everything with the manner of one capable of judging, "this
is the purchase of which I spoke; two beds, completely fitted up, and
as good as new. If by chance you want a little old secretary, and not
dear, there is one," and she pointed to it, "that I had in the same
lot. Although I do not generally buy furniture, I could not refuse to
take it, as the person of whom I had all this seemed so unhappy. Poor
lady! it was the parting with that, above all, that appeared to rend
her heart; an old piece of furniture very long with the family."

At these words, while the shopkeeper and Miss Dimpleton were debating
the prices of different articles, Rudolph looked more attentively at
the piece of furniture which Mother Bouvard had pointed out. It was
one of those old secretaries of rosewood, in shape nearly triangular,
shut in by a panel in front, which, thrown back, and supported by two
long brass hinges, could be used as a writing-desk. In the middle of
the panel, inlaid with different-colored wood, Rudolph noticed a
cipher in ebony, an M. and R. interlaced, and surmounted by the
coronet of a count. He imagined its last possessor to belong to an
elevated class of society. His curiosity increased; he examined the
secretary with renewed attention; he opened mechanically the drawers,
one after the other, when, finding some difficulty in opening the
last, and seeking the cause, he discovered and drew out carefully a
sheet of paper, partly entangled between the drawer and the bottom of
the secretary. While Miss Dimpleton was finishing her purchases with
Mother Bouvard, Rudolph narrowly scrutinized the paper; from the many
erasures it was easily to be seen that it was an unfinished draught of
a letter. Rudolph, with difficulty, read as follows:

"Sir,--Be assured that misfortunes the most frightful could alone
compel me to address you. It is not from ill-placed pride I feel these
scruples, but the absolute want of any claim to the service I venture
to ask of you. The sight of my daughter, reduced, like myself, to the
most painful privation, urges me to the task. A few words will explain
the cause of the misfortunes which overwhelm me. After the death of my
husband, there remained to me a fortune of three hundred thousand
francs, placed by my brother with M. Jacques Ferrand, notary. I
received at Angers, where I had retired with my daughter, the interest
of this sum in remittances from my brother. You remember, sir, the
frightful event that put an end to his existence: ruined, as it
appeared, by secret and unfortunate speculations, he destroyed himself
eight months since. Before this melancholy event, I received from him
a few lines, written in despair, in which he said, when I read them he
should have ceased to exist; he finished by informing me that he
possessed no document relative to the sum placed in my name with M.
Jacques Ferrand, as that individual never gave a receipt, but was
honor and goodness itself, and it would only be necessary for me to
call on him for the affairs to be satisfactorily arranged. As soon as
I could possibly turn my attention to anything but the fearful death
of my brother, I came to Paris, where I knew no one but yourself, sir,
and that indirectly, by business you had had with my husband. I told
you that the sum placed with M. Jacques Ferrand comprised the whole of
my fortune, and that my brother sent me, every six months, the
interest derived from that sum. More than a year having passed since
the last payment, I consequently called on the notary, to demand that
of which I stood greatly in want. Scarcely had I made myself known,
than, without respecting my grief, he accused my brother of having
borrowed from him two thousand francs, which he had entirely lost by
his death; adding, that not only was his suicide a crime toward God
and man, but that it was still further an act of dishonesty, of which
he was the victim. This odious speech made me indignant. The upright
conduct of my brother was well known; he had, it is true, without the
knowledge of myself or his friends, lost his fortune in hazardous
speculations, but he died with his reputation unsullied, regretted by
every one, and leaving no debts, save that to his notary. I replied to
M. Ferrand that I authorized him to take instantly, from the sum he
had in his charge of mine, the two thousand francs my brother was
indebted to him. At these words he looked at me in stupefied manner,
and asked me of what money I spoke. 'The three hundred thousand francs
that my brother placed in your hands eighteen months since, sir; the
interest of which you have remitted, through him,' said I not
comprehending his question. The notary shrugged his shoulders, smiled
in pity, as though my assertion was not true, and answered me that, so
far from having placed money with him, he had borrowed two thousand
francs.

"It is impossible to explain to you my terror at this answer. 'But
what, then, has become of this sum?' asked I. 'My daughter and myself
have no other resource; if it be taken from us, there remains but the
greatest misery. What will become of us?' 'I know nothing about it,'
said the notary coolly: 'it is most likely that your brother, instead
of placing this sum with me, as he told you, made use of it in those
unfortunate speculations to which he gave himself up, without the
knowledge of any one.' 'It is false, sir!' I exclaimed; 'my brother
was honor's self. Far from despoiling myself and child, he sacrificed
himself to us. He would never marry, that he might leave all he
possessed to my child.' 'Dare you assume, then, madame, that I am
capable of denying a trust reposed in me?' asked the notary, with an
indignation so apparently honorable and sincere, that I replied, 'No,
sir; without doubt your reputation for probity is well known; but,
notwithstanding, I cannot accuse my brother of so cruel an abuse of
confidence.' 'Upon what deeds do you found this demand on me?' asked
M. Ferrand. 'None, sir; eighteen months since, my brother, who took
upon himself the management of my affairs, wrote to me, saying, 'I
have an excellent opportunity of realizing six per cent.; send me your
warrant of attorney; I will deposit three hundred thousand francs,
which I have concluded about, with M. Ferrand, the notary.' I sent the
power of attorney; and, a few days after, he informed me that he had
effected the deposit with you, and at the end of six months he sent me
the interest of that sum. 'At least you have some letters from him on
the subject, madame?' 'No, sir; as they related only to business, I
did not preserve them.' 'I, unhappily, madame, know nothing of all
this,' replied the notary; 'if my character was not above all
suspicion, all attack, I should say to you, 'The law is open to you--
proceed against me; the judges will have to choose between an
honorable man, who for thirty years has enjoyed the esteem of persons
of consideration, and the posthumous declaration of a man who, after
ruining himself in the most hazardous speculations, found refuge only
in suicide.' In short, I say to you now, attack me, madame, if you
dare, and the memory of your brother will be dishonored! But I should
think that you will nave the good sense to be resigned to a
misfortune, doubtless very great, but to which I am a stranger.' 'But,
sir, I am a mother; if my fortune is lost to me, my daughter and
myself have only the resource of some little furniture; that sold,
there remains but misery, sir, appalling misery!' 'You have,
unfortunately, been cheated; I can do nothing,' replied the notary.
'Again I tell you, madame, your brother deceived you. If you hesitate
between my word and his, proceed against me; the law is open to you--I
abide by its decision.' I left the office of the notary in the deepest
despair. What remained for me to do in this extremity. Without any
document to prove the validity of my claim, convinced of the strict
honesty of my brother, confounded by the assurance of M. Ferrand,
having no one from whom I could ask advice (you were then traveling),
knowing that money was necessary to have the opinion of counsel, and
wishing carefully to preserve the little which was left to me, I dared
not undertake the commencement of a lawsuit. It was then--"

This copy of a letter ended here, for strokes not decipherable,
covered some lines which followed: at last, at the bottom, in a corner
of the page, Rudolph read the following memorandum: "_Write to the
Duchess de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy_."

Rudolph remained thoughtful after the perusal of this fragment of a
letter, in which he had found two names whose connection struck him.
Although the additional infamy with which M. Ferrand appeared to be
accused was not proved, this man had shown himself so pitiless towards
the unfortunate Morel, so infamous to Louise, his daughter, that a
denial of the deposit, protected as he was from certain discovery, did
not appear strange, coming from such a wretch. This mother, who
claimed a fortune which had so strangely disappeared, no doubt
accustomed to the comforts of life, was ruined by a blow so sudden:
knowing no one at Paris, as the letter said, what could now be the
existence of these two females, deprived of everything, alone in the
heart of this immense city?

The prince had, as we know, promised to Lady d'Harville _some
intrigues_, which he hazarded for the purpose of occupying her
mind, and a part to perform in some future work of charity, feeling
certain of finding, before his again meeting the lady, some grief to
assuage: he trusted that perhaps chance might throw in his path some
worthy, unfortunate person, who could, agreeably to his project,
interest the heart and imagination of Lady d'Harville. The wording of
the letter that he held in his hands, a copy of which, without doubt,
had never been sent to the person from whom assistance was implored,
showed a character proud and resigned, to whom the offer of charity
would be no doubt repugnant. In that case, what precautions and
delicate deceptions would be necessary to hide the source of a
generous succor, or to make it acceptable! And then, what address to
gain introduction to this lady, so that you might judge if she really
merited the interest it seemed she ought to inspire! Rudolph foresaw a
crowd of emotions, new, curious, and touching, which ought singularly
to amuse Lady d'Harville, as he had promised her.

"Well, _husband_," said Miss Dimpleton, gayly, "what is that
scrap of paper you are reading?"

"My little _wife_," answered Rudolph, "you are very curious. I
will tell you presently. Have you concluded your purchases?"

"Certainly, and your poor friends will be established like kings.
There remains only to pay. Mother Bouvard is very accommodating, it
must be allowed."

"My little _wife_, an idea has just struck me; while I am paying,
will you go and choose clothing for Mrs. Morel and her children; I
confess my ignorance on the subject of such purchases. You can tell
them to bring the things here, as there need be but one journey, and
the poor people will have all at the same time."

"You are always right, _husband_. Wait for me, I shall not be
long; I know two shopkeepers with whom I always deal, and I shall find
there all that I want." Miss Dimpleton went out, saying, "Mother
Bouvard, I trust my _husband_ to you; do not make love to him."
And, laughing, she hastily disappeared.

"Indeed, sir," said Mother Bouvard to Rudolph, after the departure of
Miss Dimpleton, "you must allow that you possess a famous little
manager. She understands well how to buy. So pretty! Red and white,
with beautiful large black eyes, and hair to match!"

"Is she not charming? Am I not a happy husband, Mother Bouvard?"

"As happy a husband as she is a wife, I am quite sure."

"You are not mistaken there; but tell me, how much do I owe you?"

"Your little lady would not go beyond three hundred and thirty francs
for all. As there is a heaven above, I only clear fifteen francs, for
I did not buy them so cheaply as I might; I had not the heart to beat
them down, the people who sold them appeared so very unhappy!"

"Indeed! were they not the same persons of whom you bought the little
secretary?"

"Yes, sir; and its break my heart only to think of it. There came here
the day before yesterday, a lady, still young and beautiful, but so
pale and thin, that it gave you pain to see her. Although she was neat
and clean, her old threadbare, black worsted shawl, her black stuff
gown, also much worn and frayed, her straw bonnet in the month of
January, for she was in mourning, proclaimed what is termed a
_shabby genteel_ appearance, but I am sure she was of real
quality. At length she inquired, with a blush, if I would purchase two
beds complete, and an old secretary. I replied, that as I sold I must
buy, and that, if they suited me, I would have them. She then begged
me to go with her, not far from here, on the other side of the street,
to a house on the quay of the Canal Saint Martin. I left my shop in
charge of my niece, and followed the lady. We came to a shabby-looking
house, quite at the bottom of a court; we went up to the fourth story,
the lady knocked, and a young girl of fourteen opened the door; she
was also in mourning, and equally pale and thin, but in spite of this,
beautiful as the day--so beautiful, that I was enraptured!"

"Well, and this young girl?"

"Was the daughter of the lady in mourning. Although so cold she had on
nothing more than a black cotton dress with white spots, and a little
black shawl quite worn out."

"And their lodging was wretched?"

"Imagine, sir, two little rooms, very clean, but almost empty, and so
cold that I was nearly frozen; a fireplace where you could not
perceive the least appearance of ashes; there had not been a fire for
a long time. The whole of the furniture consisted of two beds, two
chairs, a chest of drawers, an old trunk, and the little secretary.
Upon the trunk was a bundle in a handkerchief. This bundle was all
that remained to the mother and daughter, when once their furniture
was sold. The landlord selected the two bedsteads, the chairs, trunk,
and table, for what they were indebted to him, as the porter said who
came up with us. When the lady begged me to put a fair value on the
mattress, sheets, curtains, and blankets, on the faith of an honest
woman, sir, although I live by buying cheap and selling dear, when I
saw the poor young lady, her eyes filled with tears, and her mother,
in spite of her calmness, appearing to weep inwardly, I estimated them
within fifteen francs of their value to sell again, I assure you; I
even consented, to oblige them, to take the little secretary, although
it is not in my line of business."

"I will buy it of you, Mother Bouvard."

"Will you though? So much the better, sir; it would have remained on
my hands a long time, and I only took it to serve the lady. I then
told her what I would give for the things, and I expected she would
ask me more than I had offered; but no, she said not a word about it.
This still more satisfied me that she was no common person; _genteel
poverty_, sir, be assured. I said, 'So much,' she answered, 'Thank
you! now let us return to your shop, and you can then pay me, as I
shall not come back again to this house.' Then, speaking to her
daughter, who was sitting on the trunk, crying, she said, 'Claire,
take the bundle.' I remember the name well. The young lady rose up,
but in passing by the side of the little secretary, she threw herself
on her knees before it, and began to sob. 'Courage, my child, they are
looking at us,' said her mother, in a low tone, but yet I heard her.
You can understand, sir, they are poor but proud people. When the lady
gave me the key of the little secretary, I noticed a tear in her eyes,
her heart seemed breaking at parting with the old piece of furniture;
but she still tried to preserve her calmness and dignity before
strangers. She then gave the porter to understand that I was to take
away all the landlord did not keep, and afterward we returned here.
The young lady gave her arm to her mother, and carried in her hand the
little bundle which contained their all. I paid them three hundred and
fifteen francs, and have not since seen them."

"But their name?"

"I do not know: the lady sold me the things in the presence of the
porter; I had not the necessity to ask her name, as what she sold
belonged to herself."

"But their new abode?"

"That, also, I do not know."

"Perhaps they can inform me at their old lodging?"

"No, sir; for when I returned to fetch away the things, the porter
said, speaking of the mother and daughter; 'They are very quiet
people, but very unhappy; some misfortunes have happened to them. They
always appeared calm; but I am sure they were in a state of despair.'
'And where are they going to lodge at this late hour?' I asked him.
'In truth, I know nothing,' answered he; 'it is, however, quite
certain they will not return here.'"

The hopes that Rudolph had entertained for a moment vanished. How
could he discover these two unhappy females, having only as a clew the
name of the young girl, Claire, and the fragment of a letter, of which
we have spoken, at the bottom of which were the words: "_Write to
Madame de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy_."

The only chance, and that was a very faint one, of tracing these
unfortunates, rested in Madame de Lucenay, who, fortunately, was on
intimate terms with Lady d'Harville.

"Here, madame, pay yourself," said Rudolph to the shopkeeper, giving
her a note for five hundred francs.

"I will give you the difference, sir."

"Where can I engage a cart to carry the things?"

"If it be not very far, a large truck will be sufficient; Father
Jerome has one, quite close by; I always employ him. What is your
address?"

"No. 17, Rue du Temple."

"Rue du Temple, No. 17. Yes, yes, I know the house."

"You have been there?"

"Many times. First, I bought some clothes of a pawnbroker who lived
there. It is true, she did not carry on a large business, but that was
no affair of mine: she sold, I bought, and we were quits. Another
time, not six months ago, I went again for the furniture of a young
man who lived on the fourth story, and who was going to remove."

"M. Francois Germain, perhaps," said Rudolph.

"The same. Do you know him?"

"Very well. Unhappily, he has not left in the Rue du Temple his
present address, and I do not know where to find him."

"If that be all, I can remove the difficulty."

"You know where he lives?"

"Not exactly; but I know where you will be sure to meet with him."

"Where is that?"--

"At a notary's, where he is employed."

"At a notary's?"

"Yes; who lives in the Rue du Sentier."

"M. Jacques Ferrand!" exclaimed Rudolph.

"The same; a worthy man; he has a crucifix and a bit of the true cross
in his office, which reminds one of a sacristy."

"But how do you know that M. Germain is with the notary?"

"Why, in this way. The young man came to me, and proposed that I
should buy all his furniture; although not in my way of business, I
agreed, and afterward retailed them here; for, as it suited the young
man, I did not like to refuse. Well, then, I bought him clean out, and
gave him a good price; he was, doubtless, satisfied with me, for at
the end of a fortnight he came to buy a bedstead and bedding. He
brought with him a truck and a porter; they packed up all; but just as
he was about to pay he found he had forgotten his purse. He appeared
such an honest young man, that I said to him: 'Take the things with
you, all the same; I will call for the money.''Very well,' he said;
'but I am seldom at home; call, therefore, tomorrow, in the Rue du
Sentier, at M. Jacques Ferrand's the notary, where I am employed, and
I will then pay you.' I went the next day, and he paid me. Only, what
I thought so odd, was, his selling me all his goods, and buying others
in a fortnight after."

Rudolph thought he could account for the cause of this singularity.
Germain, wishing that the wretches who pursued him should lose all
traces, of him, had sold his goods, thinking that if he removed them
it might give a clew to his new abode, and had preferred, to avoid
this evil, purchasing others, and taking them himself to his lodgings.
Rudolph started with joy when he thought of the happiness for Mrs.
George, who was at last about to see this son, so long and vainly
sought.

Miss Dimpleton now returned with joyful eyes and smiling lips.

"Well, did I not tell you?" she exclaimed. "I was not wrong: we have
spent, in all, six hundred and forty francs, and the Morels will be
housed like princes. See! the shopkeepers are coming: are they not
loaded? Nothing is wanted for the use of the family--even to a
gridiron, two beautiful saucepans newly tinned, and a coffee-pot. I
said to myself, since everything is to be had, it shall be so; and,
besides all that, I have spent three hours. But make haste and pay,
neighbor, and let us go. It is almost noon, and my needle must go at a
pretty rate to overtake this morning!"

Rudolph paid, and left the Temple with Miss Dimpleton. As the grisette
and her companion entered the passage of the house, they were almost
thrown down by Mrs. Pipelet, who was running out, troubled,
frightened, aghast.

"Gracious heaven!" said Miss Dimpleton, "what is the matter with you,
Mrs. Pipelet? Where are you running to in that manner?"

"Is that you, Miss Dimpleton?" exclaimed Anastasia.

"Providence has sent you. Help me! save the life of Alfred!"

"What do you say?"

"That poor old darling has fainted! Have pity upon us! run and fetch
two sous worth of absinthe--very strong; that is the remedy when he is
indisposed in the pylorus. Be kind; do not refuse me, and I can return
to Alfred. I am quite confused!"

Miss Dimpleton left Rudolph's arm, and ran off to the dram-shop.

"But what has happened, Mrs. Pipelet?" asked Rudolph, following the
portress, who returned to the lodge.

"How should I know, my worthy sir? I left home to go to the mayor's,
the church, and the cook-shop, to prevent Alfred from tiring himself.
I returned; what did I see? the dear old man with his legs and arms
all in the air! Look, M. Rudolph!" said Anastasia, opening the door of
the room, "is not that a sight to break one's heart?"

Lamentable spectacle! With his enormous hat still on his head, even
further on than usual, for the questionable _castor,_ pushed
down, no doubt, by violence, if we may judge by a transverse gap,
covered Pipelet's eyes, who was on his back on the floor, at the foot
of his bed.

The fainting was over, and Alfred was beginning to make some slight
movements with his hands, as though he wished to repulse some one or
some thing; and then he tried to remove his troublesome visor.

"He kicks! that is a good sign; he recovers!" cried the portress--and
stooping down, she bawled in his ears: "What is the matter with my
Alfred? It is his 'Stasie who is here. How are you now? They are
coming to bring you some absinthe; that will put you to rights." Then,
assuming a caressing tone of voice, she added: "Have they abused you,
killed you, my dear old darling--eh?"

Alfred sighed deeply, and with a groan uttered a fatal word:
"_Cabrion!_" His trembling hands seemed as though desirous of
repulsing a frightful vision.

"Cabrion! that devil of a painter again!" exclaimed Mrs. Pipelet.
"Alfred all night dreamed so much about him, that he kicked me
dreadfully. That monster is his nightmare! Not only has he poisoned
his days, but his nights also; he persecutes him even in his sleep--
yes, sir, as though Alfred was a malefactor, and this Cabrion, whom
may the devil confound! is his remorseless enemy."

Rudolph smiled, as he foresaw some new trick on the part of Miss
Dimpleton's former neighbor.

"Alfred, answer me; do not remain dumb--you alarm me," said Mrs.
Pipelet; "let us get you up. Why will you think on that beggarly
fellow? You know that, when you think of him, it has the same effect
on you as when you eat cabbage--it fills up your gizzard, and stifles
you!"

"Cabrion!" repeated Pipelet, lifting with difficulty his hat from his
eyes, which he rolled about with a frightened air.

Miss Dimpleton entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe.

"Thank you, mademoiselle; you are very kind," said the old woman. Then
she added: "Here, darling, pop it down; it will bring you to
yourself."

And Anastasia, presenting the vial quickly to Pipelet's lips, insisted
on his swallowing the contents. Alfred in vain struggled courageously:
his wife, profiting by the weakness of her victim, held his head with
a firm grasp in one hand, and with the other introduced the neck of
the vial between his teeth, and forced him to drink the absinthe;
after which she cried triumphantly: "Well done! you are again on your
pins, my cherished one!"

Alfred, having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, opened his
eyes, stood up, and asked in a trembling voice: "Have you seen him?"

"Who?"

"Is he gone?"

"Alfred, whom do you mean?"

"Cabrion!"

"Has he dared--" cried the portress.

Pipelet, as dumb as the statue of the Commander in _Don
Giovanni,_ bowed his head twice in the affirmative.

"M. Cabrion, has he been here?" asked Miss Dimpleton, restraining with
difficulty an inclination to laugh.

"That monster! has he been let loose upon Alfred?" cried Mrs. Pipelet.
"Oh, if I had been here with my broom, he should have eaten it up, to
the very handle! But speak, Alfred; relate to us this horrible
affair."

Pipelet made a sign with his hand that he was about to speak, and they
listened to the man of the immense hat in religious silence. Pie
expressed himself in these terms, with a voice deeply agitated: "My
wife had just left me to complete the orders given by you, sir (bowing
to Rudolph), to call at the mayor's and the cook-shop."

"The dear old man had the nightmare all night, and I wished him to
rest," said Anastasia.

"This nightmare was sent me as a warning from above," said the porter,
solemnly. "I had dreamed of Cabrion--I was to suffer by Cabrion. Here
was I sitting quietly before the table, thinking of an alteration that
I wished to make in this boot confided to me, when I heard a noise, a
rustling at the window of my lodge--was it a presentiment--a warning
from above? My heart beat; I raised my head, and through the window I
saw--saw--"

"Cabrion!" cried Anastasia, clasping her hands.

"Cabrion!" replied Pipelet, in a hollow tone. "His hideous face was
there, close to the window, looking at me with his cat's eyes--what do
I say? tiger's eyes! just as in my dream. I tried to speak, but my
tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth: I would have risen--I was glued
to my seat; the boot fell from my hands, and, as in every critical and
important event of my life, I remained completely motionless. Then the
key turned in the lock; the door opened, and Cabrion entered!"

"He entered? what effrontery!" said Mrs. Pipelet, as much astonished
as her husband at such audacity.

"Cabrion advanced slowly, his looks fixed on me, as a serpent glares
on the bird, like a phantom--on, on, chilling, lowering!"

"I'm goose-flesh all over!" groaned Anastasia.

"He came quite close to me; I could no longer endure his revolting
aspect; it was too much, I could hold out no longer. I shut my eyes,
and I then felt that he dared to put his hands on my hat, took it
slowly off my head, and left it naked! I was seized with giddiness--my
breathing was suspended--a ringing came in my ears--I was more than
ever glued to my seat--I shut my eyes more firmly. Then Cabrion
stooped, took my bald head between his hands, cold as death, and upon
my forehead, bathed in sweat, imprinted a lascivious kiss!"

Anastasia lifted her arms toward heaven.

"My most inveterate enemy kissed my forehead! A monstrosity so
unparalleled overcame and paralyzed me. Cabrion profited by my stupor
to replace my hat on my head: then, with a blow on the crown, bonneted
me as you saw. The last outrage quite overpowered me--the measure was
full; everything about me turned round, and I fainted at the moment
when I saw him, from under the rim of my hat, leave the room as
quietly and slowly as he had entered."

Then, as though this recital had exhausted his strength, Pipelet fell
back on his chair, raising his hands to heaven in the attitude of mute
imprecation. Miss Dimpleton left the room suddenly; her desire to
laugh almost stifled her, and she could no longer restrain herself.
Rudolph himself had with difficulty preserved his gravity.

Suddenly a confused murmur, such as announces the assembling of a
multitude, was heard in the street; a tumult arose at the end of the
passage, and then musket-butts sounded on the door-step.

"Good heaven, M. Rudolph!" cried Miss Dimpleton, running back, pale
and trembling; "here are a commissary of police and the guard!"

"Divine justice watches over me!" said Pipelet, in a burst of
religious gratitude; "they come to arrest Cabrion! Unhappily, it is
too late!"

A commissary of police, known by a scarf worn under his black coat,
entered the lodge. His countenance was grave, dignified, and severe.

"M. le Commissaire, you are too late; the malefactor has fled!" said
Pipelet, sadly; "but I can give you his description. Villainous smile,
impudent manners--"

"Of whom do you speak?" asked the officer.

"Of Cabrion, M. le Commissaire, and if you make all haste, there may
be yet time to get hold of him," answered Pipelet.

"I do not know who this Cabrion is," said the officer, impatiently.
"Does Jerome Morel, working lapidary, live in this house?"

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Pipelet, standing at the salute.

"Conduct me to his apartment."'

"Morel, the lapidary!" resumed the portress, quite surprised; "he is
as gentle as a lamb, and incapable of--"

"Does Jerome Morel live here or not?"

"He does live here, sir, with his family, in the attic."

"Show me, then, to this garret."

Then, addressing a man who accompanied him, the magistrate said: "Let
the two municipal guards wait below, and not leave the alley. Send
Justin for a coach." The man left to execute these orders.

"Now," said the magistrate, addressing Pipelet, "conduct me to Morel."

"If it be all the same to you, sir, I will go instead of Alfred, who
is indisposed from the persecution of Cabrion; who, just as cabbage
does, troubles his gizzard."

"You, or your husband, it matters little which--go on." Preceded by
Mrs. Pipelet, he began to ascend the stairs; but he soon stopped,
perceiving that he was followed by Rudolph and Miss Dimpleton.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" demanded he.

"They are the two fourth-floors," said Mrs. Pipelet.

"Pardon me, sir, I did not know that you belonged to the house," said
he, to Rudolph; who, auguring well from the politeness of the
magistrate, said, "You will find a family in great distress, sir. I do
not know what new misfortune menaces the unhappy artisan, but he has
been cruelly tried last night; one of his children, worn out by
illness, is dead beneath his eyes--dead from cold and misery."

"Is it possible?"

"It is the truth," said Mrs. Pipelet. "If it had not been for the
gentleman who now speaks to you, and who is a king of lodgers, for he
has saved, by his goodness, poor Morel from prison, the whole family
of the lapidary must have died from hunger."

The commissary looked at Rudolph with as much interest as surprise.

"Nothing is more simple, sir," said the latter. "A person who is very
charitable, knowing that Morel, to whose worth I pledge my honor, was
in a position as deplorable as it was unmerited, instructed me to pay
a bill of exchange, for which the bailiffs were about to drag to
prison this poor man, the sole support of a large family."

Struck in his turn by the noble appearance of Rudolph, and the dignity
of his manner, the magistrate replied, "I do not doubt the probity of
Morel; I only regret being compelled to fulfill a painful duty before
you, sir, who have shown so lively an interest in this family."

"What can you mean, sir?"

"After the services you have rendered the Morels, and from your
language, I know that you are a worthy man. Having, besides, no reason
to conceal the object of the mandate I am about to execute, I will
acknowledge that I am about to arrest Louise Morel, the lapidary's
daughter."

The rouleau of gold that she had offered to the bailiffs came to the
mind of Rudolph.

"Of what is she accused?"

"She is accused of infanticide."

"She, she! Oh, her poor father!"

"From what you have told me, sir, I conceive that, under the
circumstances in which the artisan is placed, this new blow will be
terrible for him. Unfortunately I must obey my orders."

"But it is only a simple accusation!" cried Rudolph. "The proofs are
wanting, without doubt?"

"I cannot explain myself further on this subject. The authorities have
been informed of this crime, or rather, the presumption, by the
declarations of a man in every way respectable--the master of Louise
Morel."

"Jacques Ferrand, the notary," said Rudolph indignantly.

"Yes, sir. But why this vivacity?"

"M. Jacques Ferrand, the notary, is a scoundrel, sir!"

"I see with pain that you do not know of whom you speak. M. Jacques
Ferrand is the most honorable man in the world; of most exemplary
piety, and known probity."

"I repeat to you, sir, that the notary is a scoundrel. He wished to
imprison Morel, because his daughter repulsed his infamous
propositions. If Louise is only accused on the testimony of such a
man--acknowledge, sir, that it merits but little belief."

"It does not belong to me, sir, and it does not become me, to discuss
the value of the testimony of M. Ferrand," said the officer coldly.
"Justice has taken cognizance of the affair; the tribunals will
decide. As to me, I have orders to arrest Louise Morel, and I shall do
it."

"You are right, sir. I regret that a movement of indignation, perhaps
legitimate, has made me forget that this is neither the time nor place
for such a discussion. One word alone: the body of the child he has
lost is in the garret. I have offered my room to this family, to spare
them the sad sight of the corpse; hence it is, probably, in my chamber
you will find the artisan and his daughter. I conjure you, sir, in the
name of humanity, do not arrest Louise suddenly in the midst of these
misfortunes. Morel has gone through so many shocks this night, that
his reason will give way: his wife is also dangerously sick--such a
blow will kill her. If you will permit me, I'll ask you a favor. This
is what I propose. The young girl who follows us with the door-keeper
occupies a room adjoining mine; I do not doubt but that she will place
it at your disposal. You can at first send for Louise; then, if it
must be, for Morel, that his daughter may bid him farewell. You will
at least spare a poor, sick, and infirm mother a heart-rending scene.

"If this can be arranged so, sir, willingly."

The conversation had taken place in an undertone, while Rigolette and
Mrs. Pipelet held themselves discreetly at some distance off.

Rudolph descended, and said to the former: "My poor neighbor, I must
ask another favor; you must let me have your room at my disposal for
an hour."

"As long as you please, M. Rudolph. You have my key. But, what is the
matter?"

"I will tell you directly. This is not all: you must be kind enough to
return to the Temple to tell them to delay sending home our purchases
for an hour." "Willingly, M. Rudolph; but is there a new misfortune
happened to the Morels?"

"Alas! yes; you will know it only too soon."

"Come, neighbor, I fly to the Temple. I, thanks to you, thought them
out of trouble," said the grisette, descending rapidly the stairs.

Rudolph wished to spare Rigolette the sad spectacle of the arrest of
Louise. "Officer," said Mrs. Pipelet, "since my prince of lodgers
accompanies you, I can go and find Alfred. He alarms me: he has hardly
recovered from his attack of--Cabrion."

"Go--go!" said the magistrate; who remained alone with Rudolph. Both
arrived on the landing place of the fourth, opposite the door of the
room where the artisan and his family were temporarily placed.

Suddenly this door was opened. Louise, pale and weeping, came out
quickly. "Adieu, adieu! father," cried she; "I will return--I must go
now."

"Louise, my child, listen to me, then," answered Morel, following his
daughter, and trying to detain her.

At the sight of Rudolph and the magistrate they remained immovable.

"Ah, sir! you, our savior," said the artisan, recognizing Rudolph;
"aid me to prevent Louise from going. I do not know what is the matter
with her, she makes me afraid; she wishes to go away. Is it not so,
sir, that she must not return any more to her master? Did you not say,
'Louise shall quit you no more--this shall be your recompense'? Oh! at
this delightful promise, I avow it, for a moment I have forgotten the
death of my poor little Adele; but to be separated from you, Louise,
never, never!"

Rudolph felt himself overcome; be had not strength to utter a word.

The officer said severely to Louise, "Are you Louise Morel?"

"Yes, sir!" answered the young girl, amazed. Rudolph had opened the
chamber of Rigolette.

"You are Jerome Morel, her father?" added the magistrate addressing
the artisan.

"Yes, sir! but--"

"Enter there with your daughter." And the magistrate pointed to the
chamber of Rigolette, where Rudolph already was. Reassured by his
presence, the artisan and Louise, astonished and troubled, obeyed; the
officer shut the door, and said to Morel, with emotion, "I know your
honesty and misfortunes; it is, then, with regret I inform you that,
in the name of the law, I come to arrest your daughter."

"All is discovered--I am lost!" cried Louise, throwing herself in the
arms of her father.

"What do you say? what do you say?" said Morel, stupefied. "Are you
mad? why lost? arrest you! why arrest you? who will arrest you?"

"I--in the name of the law!" and the officer showed his scarf.

"Oh, unfortunate! unfortunate that I am!" cried Louise, falling on her
knees.

"How, in the name of the law?" said the artisan, whose mind began to
wander; "why arrest my daughter in the name of the law? I answer for
Louise, I--she is my daughter, my worthy daughter--is it not true,
Louise? How arrest you, when our guardian angel restores you to us, to
console us for the death of my little Adele? Come now! it cannot be!
And besides, sir, speaking with respect, only criminals are arrested,
do you understand--and Louise, my daughter, is not a criminal. Very
sure, do you see, my child, this gentleman is mistaken. My name is
Morel; there are more Morels than me. You are Louise--but there are
more of the same name. That's it, you see, sir; there is a mistake!"

"Unfortunately, there is no mistake! Louise Morel, say farewell to
your father."

"You carry away my daughter, will you?" cried the workman, furious
from grief, and advancing toward the magistrate with a threatening
air.

Rudolph seized him by the arm, and said, "Calm yourself, and hope;
your daughter shall be returned to you--her innocence shall be proved;
she is doubtless not culpable."

"Of what? she can be culpable of nothing. I would place my hand in the
fire that"--then recollecting the gold that Louise had brought to pay
the note, Morel cried, "But that money, that money, Louise?" and he
cast on his daughter a terrible look.

Louise understood it. "I steal!" cried she, and the cheeks colored
with generous indignation. Her tone of voice, her gesture, satisfied
her father.

"I knew it!" he cried. "Do you see, sir--she denies it--and never in
her life has she lied, I swear to you. Ask every one who knows her,
and they will say the same. She lie? she is too proud for that.
Besides, the bill was paid by our benefactor. She don't want gold; she
was going to return it to the person who lent it, wasn't you, Louise?"

"Your daughter is not accused of theft," said the magistrate.

"But of what is she accused, then? I, her father, swear that, whatever
she is accused of, she is innocent; and all my life I have never
lied."

"What good will it do to know what she is accused of?" said Rudolph to
him; "her innocence shall be proven--the person who interests herself
so much in you will protect your daughter. Come, come. This time,
again, Providence will not fail you. Embrace your daughter--you will
soon see her again."

"M. le Commissaire," cried Morel, without listening to Rudolph, "a
daughter is not taken away from a father without at least telling him
of what she is accused! I wish to know all! Louise, will you speak?"

"Your daughter is accused--of infanticide," said the magistrate.

"I--I--do not comprehend--I--you--"

"Your daughter is accused of having killed her child," said the
officer, much overcome at this scene.

"But it is not yet proved that she has committed this crime."

"Oh, no, it is not so, sir, it is not so," cried Louise, with force,
and raising herself up: "I swear to you it was dead. It breathed no
more; it was frozen; I lost all consciousness; that is my crime. But
kill my child, oh, never!"

"Your child, wretch!" cried Morel, raising his hands to Louise, as if
he wished to annihilate her with this gesture and terrible
imprecation.

"Pardon, father, pardon!" cried she.

After a moment of frightful silence, Morel went on with a calmness
still more frightful.

"Sir, take away this creature; she is not my child."

He wished to go out; Louise threw herself at his knees, which she
embraced with both arms, and, with face upward, frantic and
supplicating, she cried, "Father, listen to me, only listen to me."

"Officer, take her away, I abandon her to you," said the artisan,
making every effort to disengage himself from the embraces of Louise.

"Listen to her," said Rudolph, stopping him; "do not be now without
pity."

"She, she!" repeated Morel, burying his face in his hands, "she
dishonored! oh! infamous, infamous!"

"Is she dishonored to save you?" whispered Rudolph.

These words made a startling impression on Morel; he looked at his
weeping child, still kneeling at his feet, then, interrogating her
with a look impossible to describe, he cried in a hollow voice, his
teeth grinding with rage, "The notary!"

An answer came to the lips of Louise. She was about to speak, but, on
reflection, she stopped, bent her head, and remained silent.

"But no--he wished to imprison me this morning," continued Morel; "it
is not he? oh, so much the better! so much the better. She has no
excuse for her fault; I can curse her without remorse."

"No, no! do not curse me, my father; to you I will tell all; to you
alone; and you will see--you will see if I do not deserve your
pardon."

"Listen to her for the sake of pity," said Rudolph.

"What can she tell me? her infamy? it will soon be public; I will
wait."

"Sir!" cried Louise to the magistrate, "in mercy let me say a few
words to my father before leaving him, perhaps forever. And before you
also, our savior, I will speak, but only before you and my father."

"I consent," said the magistrate.

"Will you, then, be insensible? will you refuse this last consolation
to your child?" asked Rudolph. "If you think you owe me some return
for the favors I have directed toward you, grant the prayer of your
daughter."

After a moment of mournful silence, Morel answered, "Let us go."

"But where shall we go?" asked Rudolph; "your family is in the next
room."

"Where shall we go?" cried the artisan, with bitter irony, "where
shall we go? up there--up there, in the garret, alongside of the body
of my child. The place is well chosen for this confession--is it not?
Come--we will see if Louise will dare to lie in the sight of her
sister. Come!" Morel went out precipitately, with a wild stare,
without looking at Louise."

"Sir," whispered the officer to Rudolph, "do not prolong this
interview. You said truly, his reason will not sustain it; just now
his look was that of a madman."

"Alas! sir, I fear, like you, a terrible and new misfortune: I will
shorten as much as possible the touching adieus." And Rudolph rejoined
the artisan and his daughter.




CHAPTER II.

CONFESSION.


Dark and gloomy spectacle.

In the garret reposed, on the couch of the idiot, the corpse of the
little child. An old piece of sheet covered it. Rudolph standing with
his back to the wall, was painfully affected. Morel, seated on his
work-bench, his head down, hands hanging; his looks, fixed, wild, were
constantly bent on the bed where reposed the remains of the little
Adele.

At this sight, the anger, the indignation of the artisan became
weaker, and changed into a sadness of inexpressible bitterness; his
energy abandoned him--he sunk under this new blow. Louise, of a mortal
paleness, felt her strength fail her. The revelation that she was
about to make frightened her. Yet she took tremblingly the hand of her
father--that poor, thin hand, deformed by excess of labor.

He did not withdraw it. Then his daughter, bursting into tears,
covered it with kisses, and soon felt it press lightly against her
lips.

The anger of Morel had ceased; his tears, for a long time retained,
flowed at last. "My father, if you knew--if you knew how much I am to
be pitied."

"Oh! stop; you see, this will be the grief of all my life, Louise--of
all my life," answered the artisan, weeping. "You in prison--in the
dock--you, so proud-when you had the right to be so. No," continued
he, in a new access of desperate grief, "no, I should prefer to seeing
you under the winding-sheet, alongside your poor little sister."

"And I, also, wish it were so," answered Louise.

"Hush, unfortunate child, you give me pain. I was wrong to say that; I
went too far. Come, speak, but tell the truth. However frightful it
may be, tell me all. If I hear it from you, it will appear less cruel
to me. Speak; alas! our moments are counted; you are waited for. Oh!
the sad, sad parting."

"My father, I will tell you all," said Louise, resolutely; "but
promise me, and you, our benefactor, promise also, not to repeat this
to any one. If he knew that I had spoken, do you see--oh! you would be
lost--lost like me; for you do not know the power and ferocity of this
man."

"Of what man?"

"My master."

"The notary?"

"Yes," said Louise, in a low tone, and looking around her, as if she
were afraid of being overheard.

"Compose yourself," answered Rudolph. "This man is cruel and powerful,
but no matter; we will face him. Besides, if I reveal what you are
about to tell us, it will be only in your interest or in that of your
father."

"And, Louise, if I speak, it will be to try to save you. But what has
this wicked man done?"

"This is not all," said Louise, after a moment's reflection; "this sad
tale concerns some one who has rendered me a great service--who has
been for my father and family full of kindness--this person was
employed at M. Ferrand's when I went; I have sworn not to mention the
name."

"If you mean Francois Germain, be easy; his secret will be kept by
your father and myself," said Rudolph.

Louise looked at Rudolph with surprise.

"You know him?" said she.

"The good and excellent young man who lived here for three months, and
was employed at the notary's when you went there?" said Morel. "The
first time you saw him here you appeared not to know him."

"That was agreed upon between us. He had grave reasons to conceal that
he worked for M. Ferrand. It was I who told him of the chamber on the
fourth story, knowing he would be a good neighbor for you."

"But," said Rudolph, "who placed your daughter with the notary?"

"When my wife was taken sick, I had said to Madame Burette, the
pawnbroker, who lives in this house, that Louise wished to go to
service to aid us. Madame Burette knew the housekeeper of the notary;
she gave me a letter to her, in which she strongly recommended Louise.
Cursed--cursed be that letter; it has caused all our misfortunes. So,
sir, this is the way my daughter went there."

"Although I am informed of some of the facts which have caused the
hatred of M. Ferrand toward your father," said Rudolph to Louise, "I
beg you will relate to me in a few words what passed between you and
the notary since you entered his service. This may serve to defend
you."

"During the first months of my stay at M. Ferrand's I had no reason to
complain of him. I had much work to do; the housekeeper was often very
rough toward me; the house was gloomy; but I endured all with
patience; servitude is servitude, otherwise I should have had other
disagreements. M. Ferrand had a stern look. He went to mass; he often
received priests. I did not mistrust him. At first he hardly looked at
me. He spoke very cross to me; above all, in the presence of
strangers.

"Except the porter who lodged on the street, in the building where the
office is, I was the only domestic with Mrs. Seraphin, the
housekeeper. The building we occupied was an old isolated ruin,
between the court and garden. My chamber was quite up to the top. Very
often I was afraid to remain alone all the evening, either in the
kitchen, which was underground, or in my chamber. In the night, I
sometimes thought I heard extraordinary noises in the room under mine,
which no one occupied, and where M. Germain alone often came to work
during the day. Two of the windows of this story were walled up, and
one of the doors, very thick, was strengthened with bars of iron. The
housekeeper told me afterward that M. Ferrand kept his strong box
there.

"One night I had sat up very late to finish some mending, which was
very urgent; I was about to go to bed, when I heard some one walking
very softly in the corridor at the end of which was my chamber: they
stopped at my door; at first I thought it was the housekeeper, but as
she did not come in, it made me afraid; I dared not stir; I listened,
no one stirred; I was, however, sure there was some one behind the
door; I asked twice who was there--no one answered. More and more
alarmed, I pushed my chest of drawers against the door, which had
neither lock nor bolt. I still listened--nothing stirred; at the end
of half-an-hour, which appeared very long, I threw myself on my bed;
the night passed tranquilly. The next morning I asked the housekeeper
for permission to put a bolt on my door, as there was no lock,
relating to her my fears of the last night; she answered that I had
dreamed, that I must speak to M. Ferrand about it; at my demand he
shrugged his shoulders, and told me I was a fool. I did not dare to
say anything more.

"Some time after this happened the affair of the diamond. My father,
almost desperate, knew not what to do. I related his trouble to Mrs.
Seraphin; she answered, 'M. Ferrand is so charitable that perhaps he
will do something for your father.' The same evening I waited on
table; M. Ferrand said to me, bluntly, 'Your father has need of
thirteen hundred francs; go this night and tell him to come to my
office to-morrow; he shall have the money. He is an honest man, and
deserves that one should interest himself for him.' At this act of
kindness I burst into tears; I did not know how to thank my master. He
said to me, in his ordinary rough manner, 'It is well, it is well;
what I have done is very simple." In the evening I came to tell the
good news to my father, and the next day----"

"I had the money, against a bill at three months' date, accepted in
blank by me," said Morel. "I did like Louise; I wept with gratitude: I
called him my benefactor. Oh! he must needs have been wicked indeed to
destroy the gratitude and veneration I vowed to him."

"This precaution to make you sign a bill in blank, at such a date that
you could not pay it, did not awaken your suspicions?" asked Rudolph.

[Illustration: THE ARRIVAL OF THE SOLDIERS]

"No, sir, I thought that the notary only took it for security;
besides, he told me I need not think of paying it under two years;
every three months it should be renewed for the sake of being regular;
yet, at the end of the first term, it was presented, and not being
paid, he obtained a judgment against me under another name; but he
told me not to be troubled, that it was an error of his clerk."

"He wished thus to have you in his power," said Rudolph.

"Alas! yes, sir; for it was from the date of his judgment he began to--but
continue, Louise, continue: I do not know where I am. My head
turns. I shall become mad; it is too much--too much!"

Rudolph soothed him, and Louise continued: "I redoubled my zeal to
show my gratitude. The housekeeper then held me in great aversion; she
often placed me in the wrong by not repeating the orders that M.
Ferrand gave her for me; I suffered from this, and would have
preferred another place, but the obligation of my father to my master
prevented my leaving. It was now three months since he had lent the
money; he continued to scold me before Mrs. Seraphin, yet he looked at
me sometimes behind her back in such a manner as to embarrass me, and
he smiled in seeing me blush."

"You comprehend, sir, he was then about to obtain a judgment against
me."

"One day," continued Louise, "the housekeeper went out after dinner,
as was her custom; the clerks had left the office; they lodged
elsewhere. M. Ferrand sent the porter on an errand; I remained in the
house alone with my master; I was working in the ante-chamber; he rang
for me. I entered his room; he was standing before the fireplace; I
drew near; he turned quickly, and took me by the arm. I was alarmed. I
ran into the ante-chamber, and shut the door, holding it with all my
strength; the key was on his side."

"You understand, sir. You hear," said Morel to Rudolph, "the conduct
of this worthy benefactor."

"At the end of a few moments the door yielded to his efforts,"
continued Louise. "I blew out the light--he called me. I made no
answer. He then said, in a voice trembling with rage, 'If you resist,
I will send your father to prison for the money he owes and cannot
pay.' I begged him to have pity on me; promised to do everything I
could to serve him, and show my gratitude, but I declared nothing
could induce me to degrade myself."

"Yes; this is the language of Louise," said Morel, "of my Louise, when
she had the right to be proud. But now? Continue--continue."

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

"The next morning after this scene, in spite of the threats of my
master, I came here and told my father all. He wished to make me leave
the house at once--but there was the prison. The little that I earned
was indispensable to the family, since the illness of my mother; and
the bad character which M. Ferrand threatened to give me would prevent
my seeking or obtaining another place for a long time, perhaps."

"Yes," said Morel, with great bitterness, "we had the cowardice, the
selfishness, to let our child return there. Oh! poverty, poverty! how
many crimes it causes to be committed!"

"Alas! father! did you not try all means to obtain the money? That
being impossible, we had to submit."

"Go on, go on, continue. Your parents have been your executioners; we
are guiltier than you are," said the artisan, concealing his face in
his hands.

"When I saw my master again," said Louise, "he acted toward me as
usual, cross and harshly; he said not a word of the past; the
housekeeper continued to torment me; she hardly gave me enough to eat,
locked up the bread; sometimes, out of wickedness, she would defile
the remains of the dinner before my eyes, for she always ate with
Ferrand. At night I hardly slept. I feared at each moment to see the
notary enter my room! He had taken away the drawers with which I had
barricaded my door; there only remained a chair, a little table, and
my trunk; I always retired to bed dressed. For some time he left me
tranquil; he did not even look at me. I began to be at ease, thinking
that he thought no more of me. One Sunday he allowed me to go out; I
came to announce this good news to my parents. We were all very happy!
It is up to this moment you have known all. What remains to tell," and
the voice of Louise trembled, "is frightful! I have always concealed
it from you."

"Oh, I was very sure of it--very sure that you concealed a secret from
me," cried Morel, with a kind of wandering, and a singular volubility
of expression which astonished Rudolph. "Your pallor and expression
should have enlightened me. A hundred times I have spoken to your
mother; but she always repelled me. Look at us well! look at us! To
escape a prison, we leave our daughter at this monster's. And where
does our child go to? To the dock! Because one is poor--yes--but the
others--the others." Then, stopping as if to collect his thoughts,
Morel struck himself on the forehead, and cried, "Stop, I do not know
what I say. My head pains dreadfully. It seems to me I am drunk." And
he concealed his face in his hands.

Rudolph, not wishing to let Louise see how much he was alarmed at the
incoherent language of her father, said, gravely, "You are not just,
Morel; it was not for herself alone, but for her mother, for her
children, for yourself, that your poor wife feared the consequences of
Louise leaving the notary. Accuse no one. Let all the maledictions,
all your hatred, fall on one man--this monster of hypocrisy, who
placed a girl between dishonor and ruin; the death, perhaps, of her
father and his family; on this master, who abused in an infamous
manner his power as a master. But, patience; I have told you
Providence often reserves for great crimes a surprising and frightful
vengeance."

The words of Rudolph were stamped with such force and conviction, in
speaking of this providential vengeance, that Louise looked at him
with surprise, almost with fear.

"Continue, my child," said he: "conceal nothing; this is more
important than you think."

"I began, then, to feel some security," said Louise, "when one night
Ferrand and his housekeeper both went out, each their own way. They
did not dine at home; I remained alone. As usual, they left me some
bread and water, and wine. My work finished, I dined; and then,
fearing to remain alone in the apartments, I went up to my own room,
after having lighted M. Ferrand's lamp. When he went out at night no
one waited for him. I began to sew, and, what was very unusual, by
degrees, sleep overpowered me. Oh, father," cried Louise, "you will
not believe me--you will accuse me of falsehood; and yet, on the
corpse of my little sister, I swear I tell you the truth."

"Explain yourself," said Rudolph.

"Alas! sir, for seven months I sought in vain to explain to myself
this frightful night. I have almost lost my reason in trying to
explore this mystery."

"Oh!" cried the artisan, "what is she going to say?"

"Contrary to my custom, I fell asleep on my chair," continued Louise.
"That is the last thing I recollect. Before--before--oh, father,
pardon! I swear to you I am not culpable."

"I believe you, I believe you; but speak!"

"I do not know how long I slept; when I awoke I was still in my
chamber, but--"

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh! the wretch, the wretch," cried Rudolph. "Do you know, Morel, what
he gave her to drink?" The artisan looked at Rudolph, but made no
reply. "The housekeeper, his accomplice, had put in the drink of
Louise a soporific--opium, without doubt; the strength, the senses of
your child have been paralyzed for some hours; when she awoke from
this lethargic sleep, the crime was committed."

"Ah! now," cried Louise, "my misfortune is explained; you see, father,
I am less guilty than I appear. Father, father! answer me!"

The look of the artisan was of a frightful vagueness.

Such horrible perversity could not be understood by so honest and
simple-hearted a man. He could hardly comprehend the dreadful
revelation. And, besides, it must be said, that for some moments his
reason had deserted him; at each moment his ideas became more obscure;
then he fell into that vacuity of thought which is to the mind what
night is to the sight: formidable symptoms of mental alienation. Yet
Morel answered, in a quick, dull, and a mournful tone, "Oh! yes, it is
very wicked, very wicked, wicked."

And he fell back into his apathy. Rudolph looked at him with anxiety:
he thought that the intensity of indignation began to be exhausted
with him; the same as after violent griefs tears are often wanting.
Wishing to terminate as soon as possible this sad conversation,
Rudolph said to Louise:

"Courage, my child; finish unveiling this tissue of horrors."

"Alas! sir, what you have heard is nothing as yet."

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

"Ah! all precautions were taken to conceal his enormity!" said
Rudolph.

"Yes, sir, and I was ruined. To all that he said to me I could find no
answer. Ignorant what drink I had taken, I could not explain my long
sleep. Appearances were against me. If I complained, every one would
condemn me; it must be so, for to me all was an impenetrable mystery."




CHAPTER III

THE CRIME


Rudolph remained confounded at the detestable villainy of Ferrand.
"Then," said he to Louise, "you did not dare to complain to your
father of the odious conduct of the notary?"

"No, sir; I feared he would have thought me the accomplice instead of
the victim; and besides, I feared that, in his anger, my father would
forget that his liberty, the existence of his family, depended
entirely upon my master."

"And was his conduct less brutal toward you afterward?"

"No, sir. To drive away suspicion, when by chance he had the Cure of
Bonne Nouvelle and his vicar to dinner, my master addressed me before
them with severe reproaches; he prayed the Cure to admonish me; he
said that sooner or later I should be lost; that my manners were too
free with his clerks; that I was idle; that he kept me out of charity
for my father, an honest man with a family, whom he had served. All
this was false. I never saw the clerks; they were in a separate
building from us."

"And when you found yourself alone with M. Ferrand, how did he explain
his conduct toward you before the Cure?

"He assured me that he joked. But the Cure took these accusations for
serious; he told me severely that one must be doubly vicious to act
thus in a holy house, where I had religious examples continually under
my eyes. To that I did not know what to answer; I held down my head,
blushing. My silence, my confusion, turned still more against me; my
life was such a burden that several times I was on the point of
destroying myself; but I thought of my father, my mother, my brothers
and sisters, whom I helped to support. I resigned myself; in the midst
of my degradation I found a consolation--at least my father was saved
from prison. A new misfortune overwhelmed me--I was _enceinte;_ I
saw myself altogether lost. I do not know why, I had a presentiment
that M. Ferrand, in learning an event which should have rendered him
less cruel toward me, would increase his bad treatment; I was,
however, far from supposing what would happen."

Morel recovered from his momentary aberration, looked around him with
astonishment, passed his hand over his face, collected his thoughts,
and said to his daughter, "It seems to me I have forgotten myself for
a moment--fatigue--sorrow. What did you say?"

"When M. Ferrand was informed of my situation--"

The artisan made a movement of despair. Rudolph calmed him with a
look.

"Go on; I will listen to the end," said Morel. "Go on, go on."

Louise resumed:--"I asked M. Ferrand by what means I could conceal my
shame. Interrupting me with indignation, and a feigned surprise, he
pretended not to understand me; he asked me if I were mad; frightened,
I cried, 'But, my God, what do you wish to become of me now? If you
have no pity on me, have at least some pity on your child!' 'What a
horror!' cried he, raising his hands toward heaven. 'How, wretch! You
have the audacity to accuse me of being corrupt enough to descend to a
girl of your class! you have effrontery enough to accuse me!--I, who
have a hundred times repeated before the most respectable witnesses
that you would be ruined, vile wanton. Leave my house this moment--I
thrust you from my door.'"

Rudolph and Morel remained horror-struck; such atrocity overpowered
them.

"Oh! I confess," said Rudolph, "this passes all conception."

Morel said nothing; his eyes became enlarged in a fearful manner: a
convulsive spasm contracted his features; he descended from the bench
where he was seated, opened quickly a drawer, and took out a strong,
very sharp, file, with a wooden handle, and rushed toward the door.

Rudolph, divining his thoughts, seized him by the arm and stopped him.

"Morel, where are you going? You will ruin yourself, unfortunate man."

"Take care!" cried the artisan, furiously struggling; "I shall commit
two crimes instead of one!" and the madman threatened Rudolph.

"Father, it is our savior!" cried Louise.

"He is mocking us! bah, bah! he wishes to save the notary!" answered
Morel, completely wild, and contending with Rudolph. At the end of a
second, he succeeded in disarming him, opened the door, and threw the
instrument on the staircase.

Louise ran to the artisan, held him in her arms, and said, "Father, he
is our benefactor; you have raised your hand on him; come to
yourself."

These words recalled Morel to himself; he covered his face with his
hands, and, without saying a word, he fell at Rudolph's feet.

"Rise, unfortunate father!" said Rudolph kindly. "Patience, patience;
I understand your fury, I partake of your hatred; but, in the name
even of your vengeance, do not compromise it."

"Good heavens!" cried the artisan, raising himself up. "What can
justice--law--do in such a case? Poor as we are, when we go and accuse
the powerful, rich, and respected man, they will laugh in our face--
ah, ah, ah!" and he laughed convulsively. "And they will be right.
Where are our proofs--yes, our proofs? They will not believe us.
Therefore, I tell you," cried he, in another storm of madness, "I tell
you I have no confidence but in the impartiality of the knife!"

"Silence, Morel; grief makes you wander," said Rudolph suddenly. "Let
your daughter speak; moments are precious--the magistrate waits; I
must know all--I tell you, all. Continue, my child."

"It is useless, sir," said Louise, "to speak to you of my tears, my
prayers. I was disregarded. This took place at ten o'clock in the
morning, in the cabinet of M. Ferrand. The priest was to breakfast
with him that morning; he entered at the moment my master was loading
me with reproaches and outrages. He appeared much vexed at the sight
of the priest."

"And what did he say then?"

"He soon made up his mind what course to pursue; he cried, pointing to
me, 'Well, reverend sir, I said truly that this creature would be
ruined. She is lost--lost forever; she has just acknowledged to me her
fault and her shame, begging me to save her. And to think that I,
through pity, have received such a wretch into my house.' 'How,' said
the priest to me, with indignation, 'in spite of the salutary counsels
which your master has given you so often before me, you have thus
degraded yourself? Oh, this is unpardonable. My friend, after the
kindness you have shown her and her family, pity would be a weakness.
Be inexorable,' said the priest, a dupe, like everybody else, of the
hypocrisy of M. Ferrand."

"And you did not at once unmask the scoundrel?" said Rudolph.

"I was terrified, my head turned; I dared not, I could not pronounce a
word, yet I wished to speak, to defend myself. 'But, sir'--I cried.
'Not a word more, unworthy creature!' said M. Ferrand, interrupting
me. 'You have heard the worthy priest: pity would be weakness. In an
hour, you leave my house!' Then, without giving me time to answer, he
led the priest into another room.

"After the departure of M. Ferrand," continued Louise, "I was for a
moment, as it were, delirious. I saw myself driven from his house, not
able to get another place, on account of my situation and the bad
character my master would give me. I did not doubt but that in his
anger he would imprison my father; I did not know what would become of
me. I went for refuge and to weep, to my chamber. At the end of two
hours M. Ferrand appeared. 'Is your trunk ready?' said he. 'Have
mercy!' I cried, falling at his feet 'Do not send me away in the state
in which I am; what will become of me? I can find no other place.' 'So
much the better; God will thus punish your conduct and your lies.' 'You
dare to say that I lie!' cried I indignantly; 'you dare to say you
are not the cause of my ruin?' 'Leave my house at once, you infamous
creature, since you persist in your calumnies!' cried he, in a
terrible voice. 'And to punish you, to-morrow I will imprison your
father.' 'Well--no, no!' said I, aghast; 'I will accuse you no longer,
sir--I promise it; but do not drive me away--have pity on my father;
the little that I earn here supports my family. Keep me here--I will
say nothing--I will conceal everything as long as I can, and then--you
can send me away.'

"After renewed supplications, M. Ferrand consented to my prayers: I
regarded it as a great favor, so frightful was my condition. Yet, for
the five months which followed this cruel scene, I was very unhappy,
very cruelly treated. Sometimes only M. Germain, whom I saw but
seldom, interrogated me with kindness on the subject of my sorrows;
but shame forbade my confession."

"Is it not about this time that he came to live here?"

"Yes, sir. He wished for a room near the Temple or the Arsenal; there
was one to be let here, it suited him."

"And you never thought of confiding your sorrows to M. Germain?" asked
Rudolph.

"No, sir; he was also a dupe of M. Ferrand's; he said he was hard and
exacting, but he thought him the most honest man in the world. I
passed these five months in tears, in continual agony. With care, I
had concealed my situation from all eyes, but I could hope to do so no
longer. The future was for me most dreadful; M. Ferrand had declared
he would not keep me any longer with him. I was thus about to be
deprived of the small resource that aided our family to live. Cursed,
driven away by my father--for, after the falsehoods that I had told
him to dissipate his suspicions, he would not believe me to be the
victim of M. Ferrand--what was to become of me? where was I to fly?
where to find a refuge? I had then a very wicked idea. I confess this,
sir, because I wish to conceal nothing, even that which may cast
suspicion on me, and also to show you to what an extremity I was
reduced by the cruelty of M. Ferrand. If I had yielded to a fatal
thought, would he not have been an accomplice of my crime?"

After a moment's silence, Louise resumed, with an effort, and in a
trembling voice, "I had heard from the portress that a quack lived in
the house--and--" She could not finish.

Rudolph remembered that at his first call on Mrs. Pipelet he had
received from the postman, in her absence, a letter written on coarse
paper, in a disguised hand, and on which he had remarked the traces of
tears. "And you did write him, unhappy child, three days since? On
this letter you have wept; your writing was disguised."

Louise looked at Rudolph with affright. "How do you know, sir?"

"Calm yourself. I was alone in the lodge of Mrs. Pipelet when this
letter was handed in, and it was my chance to receive it."

"Yes, sir; in this letter, without signature, I wrote to M.
Bradamanti, that, not daring to come to him, I begged he would meet me
that evening near the Château dead. I was half crazy. I wished to ask
his fearful advice. I left my master's house to meet him; but my
reason returned. I regained the house; I did not see him. Thus the
scene took place, from the consequences of which I am now suffering--
M. Ferrand believing me gone out for two hours, while after a very
short time I returned."

"In pacing before the little door of the garden, to my great
astonishment I saw it open. I entered that way, and I carried the key
to the cabinet of M. Ferrand, where it was ordinarily kept. This was,
next to his bed-chamber, the most retired place in the house: it was
there he gave his secret audiences. You will see, sir, why I give you
these details. Knowing all the ways of the house very well, after
having crossed the dining-room, which was lighted, I entered into the
saloon in the dark, then to the cabinet, as I said before. The door of
his chamber opened at the moment I placed the key on the table. Hardly
had my master perceived me by the light which was burning in his
chamber, than he closed the door quickly on a person whom I could not
see. Then he threw himself on me, seized me by the throat as if he
wished to strangle me, and said to me in a low tone, at once furious
and alarmed, 'You were spying; you listened at the door; what did you
hear? Answer, answer! or I'll strangle you.' But changing his mind,
without giving me time to say a word, he pushed me backward into the
dining-room. The office was open; he threw me into it brutally, and
locked the door."

"And you heard nothing of his conversation?"

"Nothing, sir: if I had known he had anybody in the room, I should
have taken care not to have entered the cabinet; he forbade even Mrs.
Seraphin to do so."

"And when you came out of the office, what did he say to you?"

"It was the housekeeper who came to conduct me, and I did not see him
again that night. The alarm I had experienced had made me very ill.
The next morning, as I came downstairs, I met M. Ferrand. I shuddered
in thinking of his threats of the evening previous; what was my
surprise when he said to me, almost calmly, 'You know I forbid any one
to come into my cabinet when I have some one in my chamber; but for
the short time that you have to remain here, it is useless to scold
any more,' and he passed into his office. This moderation surprised
me, after the violence of the previous evening. I went on with my
usual duties; I went to put in order his sleeping apartment. In
arranging some clothes in a dark closet near the alcove, I was
suddenly taken very ill; I felt that I was about to faint. In falling,
I grasped at a cloak which was hanging against the wall. I dragged it
along with me; it covered me completely as I lay upon the floor. When
I came to myself, the glass door of this closet was shut. I heard the
voice of M. Ferrand. He spoke very loud. Recollecting the scene of the
previous evening, I thought myself killed if I stirred. I supposed
that, concealed under the mantle which had fallen on me, my master, in
shutting the door, had not perceived me. If he discovered me, how
could I make him believe that my presence was accidental? I held my
breath, and, in spite of myself, I heard the end of this conversation,
which doubtless had been commenced for some time."

"Who was the person who was talking with him?" asked Rudolph.

"I am ignorant, sir; I did not know the voice."

"And what did they say?"

"The conversation had lasted for some time, doubtless, for this is all
I heard. 'Nothing can be plainer,' said this unknown voice. 'A queer
fish, called Bras-Rouge (Red-Arm), a determined smuggler, has brought
me, for the affair I have just spoken about, in connection with a
family of fresh-water pirates, who are established at the point of a
little island near Aspires. They are the greatest bandits in the land;
the father and grandfather have both been guillotined, two of the sons
are to the galleys for life; but the mother, three sons, and two
daughters are left, all as great villains one as the other. It is said
that at night, to rob on both sides of the Seine, they come down in
their boats sometimes as far as Barky. They are folks who will kill
the first comer for a crown; but we have no need of them; it suffices
if they will give hospitality to your country lady. The Martial (the
name of my pirates) will pass in her eyes for an honest family of
fishermen. I will go on your account, and make two or three visits to
your young lady; I will order her certain potions, and at the end of
eight days she will make acquaintance with Aspires Cemetery. In the
villages, a death passes like a letter through the post-office, while
at Paris they scrutinize too closely. But when will you send your
country girl to the island, so that I can advise the Martial what part
they have to play?' 'She will arrive to-morrow, and the day after she
will be there,' answered Ferrand; 'and I will inform her that the
Doctor Vincent will take care of her on my account.' 'Agreed for the
name of Vincent,' said the voice; 'I like that as well as any other.'"

"What is this new mystery of crime and infamy?" said Rudolph, more and
more surprised.

"New? no, sir; you will see that it has reference to a crime that you
do know," answered Louise; and she continued, "I heard the movement of
chairs; the conversation was at an end. 'I do not ask you to be
secret,' said M. Ferrand; 'you hold me as I hold you.' 'That proves
that we can serve, but never injure one another,' answered the voice;
'see my zeal. I received your letter last night at ten o'clock; this
morning I am here. Farewell, accomplice; do not forget the Island of
Asnieres, the fisher Martial, and Dr. Vincent. Thanks to these three
magical words, your country girl has only eight days left.' 'Stop,'
said M. Ferrand, 'while I go and unbolt the door of my cabinet, and
see if there is any one in the ante-chamber, that you may go out by
the garden, as you came in.' M. Ferrand went out a moment, and then
returned, and finally I heard him go off with the unknown person. You
may imagine my alarm, sir, during this conversation, and my horror at
knowing such a secret. Two hours after this conversation, Mrs.
Seraphin came to seek me in my chamber, where I had gone more
trembling and sick than I had yet been. 'M. Ferrand wants you,' said
she; 'you have more good luck than you deserve; come, descend. You are
very pale; what you are going to learn will give you more color.'

"I followed Mrs. Seraphin; M. Ferrand was in his cabinet. At seeing
him, I shuddered in spite of myself; yet he had a less wicked look
than usual; he looked at me fixedly for a long time, as if he wished
to read my thoughts. I cast down my eyes. 'You appear very ill,' said
he. 'Yes, sir,' I answered, astonished that he did not address me
familiarly as usual. 'It is very plain,' added he, 'it is in
consequence of your situation; but notwithstanding your lies, your bad
conduct, and your indiscretion of yesterday,' added he, in a softened
tone, 'I have pity on you. Although I have treated you as you deserved
before the cure of the parish, such an affair as this will be a
scandal to my house; and, moreover, your family will be in despair. I
consent, under these circumstances to come to your assistance.' 'Ah,
sir,' I cried, 'these words of kindness on your part make me forget
all.' 'Forget what?' asked he sharply. 'Nothing, nothing; pardon me,
sir,' answered I, fearing to irritate him, and believing in his
professions of pity. 'Listen to me,' said he; 'you will go to see your
father to-day; you will announce to him that I am going to send you
for two or three months in the country to take charge of a house I
have just bought; during your absence I will send him your wages.
To-morrow you will leave Paris; I will give you a letter of
recommendation for Mrs. Martial, the mother of a family of honest
fishermen who live near Asnieres. You will require to say you came
from the country, nothing more. Later you will know the object of this
letter, all for your interest. Mrs. Martial will treat you as her
child; a physician, a friend of mine, Dr. Vincent, will take you under
his charge. You see how good I am for you!'"

"What a horrible plot!" cried Rudolph. "Now I comprehend all.
Believing that the evening previous you had become possessed of a
secret of great importance to him, he wished to get rid of you. He had
probably some interest in deceiving his accomplice, in representing
you as a girl from the country. What must have been your affright at
this proposition!"

"It was a great blow. I was completely bewildered; I knew not what to
answer; I looked at M. Ferrand with affright; my mind wandered. I was
about, perhaps, to risk my life in telling him that I had overheard
his projects in the morning, when, happily, I recollected the new
dangers to which this would expose me. 'You do not comprehend me,
then?' asked he, with impatience. 'Yes, sir, but,' said I, trembling,
'I prefer not to go to the country.' 'Why not? You will be perfectly
well taken care of where I shall send you. 'No, no, I will not go; I
prefer to remain in Paris, near my family; I had rather confess all,
die with shame, if it is necessary.' 'You refuse me!' said M. Ferrand,
restraining his anger, and looking at me with attention. 'Why have you
changed your mind so quickly? Just now you accepted.' I saw that if he
suspected me I was lost; I answered that I did not think that he meant
me to leave Paris and my family. 'But you will dishonor your family,
wretch,' cried he; and not being able any longer to contain himself,
he seized me by the arm, and pushed me so violently that I fell. 'I
give you until after to-morrow,' cried he; 'to-morrow you shall leave
this to go to the Martials, or to tell your father I have sent you
away, and that he goes the same day to prison.' I remained alone,
stretched on the earth; I had not the strength to get up. Mrs.
Seraphin came, and with her assistance I regained my chamber. I threw
myself on my bed; I remained there until night."

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

"Amid the horrors of this frightful, solitary night, I had a moment of
bitter joy: it was when I pressed my child in my arms." And the voice
of Louise was suffocated with her tears.

Morel had listened to the story of his daughter with an apathy and
indifference which alarmed Rudolph. Yet, seeing her in tears, he
looked fixedly at her and said: "She weeps--she weeps; why, then, does
she weep? Oh, yes; I know, I know--the notary. Continue, my poor
Louise; you are my child. I love you still--just now I did not know
you; my tears obscured my sight. Oh, my head--my head--it gives me
great pain."

"You see I am not culpable; is it not so, father?"

"Yes, yes."

"It is a great sorrow--but I feared the notary so much!"

"The notary? Oh! I believe you--he is so bad--so wicked!"

"You pardon me now?"

"Yes."

"Truly?"

"Yes, truly. Oh, I love you still--go--although--I cannot--say--do you
see--because--oh! my head! my bead!"

Louise looked at Rudolph with alarm.

"He suffers; let him compose himself. Continue."

"I pressed my child to my heart. I was astonished not to hear it
breathe, but I said to myself, the respiration of so young a child can
hardly be heard; and yet it seemed to me that it was very cold. I had
no light. I waited until dawn, trying to warm it as well as I could,
At daylight I found it was stiff--icy. I placed my hand on its heart;
it did not beat--it was dead."

And Louise burst into bitter sobs.

"Oh! at this moment," continued she, "thoughts passed impossible to
describe, I remember it confusedly as a dream; it was at once despair,
terror, anger, and, above all, I was seized with another alarm; I no
longer dreaded that Ferrand would strangle me, but I feared that if my
child was found dead at my side I should be accused of having killed
it. Then I had but one thought, that of concealing it from all eyes;
in that way my dishonor would not be known; I would no longer have to
dread the anger of my father; I should escape the vengeance of
Ferrand; then I could leave his house, procure another place, and
continue to earn something toward the support of my family. Alas! sir,
such are the reasons which induced me to acknowledge nothing, to
conceal the body of my child from all eyes. It was wrong, certainly;
but the position I was in, overwhelmed on all sides, crushed by long
sufferings, almost delirious, I did not reflect to what I exposed
myself if I was discovered."

"What tortures! what tortures!" said Rudolph, overcome.

"Daylight increased," continued Louise, "in a short time every one
would be awake in the house. I hesitated no longer. I wrapped up my
child as well as I could; I descended very softly; I went to the end
of the garden to make a hole in the ground to bury it, but it had
frozen all night--the earth was too hard. Then I hid the body at the
bottom of a kind of cellar where no one entered in winter. I covered
it with an empty flower-box, and I returned to my room without seeing
any one. Of all I tell you, sir, I have but a confused idea. Feeble as
I was, I can as yet hardly comprehend how I had the nerve to do all
this. At nine o'clock, Mrs. Seraphin came to know why I was not yet
up. I said that I was so ill, that I begged her to let me remain in
bed all day; the next day I would quit the house, since M. Ferrand
sent me away. At the end of one hour he came himself. 'You are worse;
this is the consequence of your self-will,' said he. 'If you had
profited by my offers, to-day you would have been established with
kind people, who would have taken every care of you; however, I will
not be so inhuman as to let you suffer; to-night Dr. Vincent will come
to see you.' At this threat I shuddered with fear. I answered that I
was wrong the night before to refuse his offers; that I accepted them;
but that, as yet being too ill to leave, I would go the next day but
one to the Martials; and that it was useless to send for Dr. Vincent.
I only wished to gain time; I was decided to leave the house, and to
go to my father. I hoped in this manner he would be ignorant of all.
But, deceived by my promise, M. Ferrand was almost affectionate toward
me, and recommended me, for the first time in his life, to the care of
Mrs. Seraphin.

"I passed the day in mental agony, trembling at each moment that
chance would cause a discovery of the body of my child. I only desired
one thing--that the cold might cease, so that I might be able to dig a
grave. It snowed--that gave me hopes. I remained all day in bed. The
night being come, I waited until every one was asleep. I had strength
to get up to go to the wood pile to look for a hatchet to cut some
wood to make a hole in the frozen ground. After infinite trouble I at
last succeeded; then I took the body, I wept over it again, and I
buried it as I could in the little flower-box. I did not know the
prayer for the dead; I said a pater and an ave, praying God to receive
it. I thought my courage would have failed me when I covered it with
the earth. A mother interring her child! At length I succeeded. Oh!
what it cost me! I placed the snow over the grave, so that nothing
should be seen. The moon gave me light. When all was finished, I could
not make up my mind to come away. Poor little thing! in the frozen
ground--under the snow. Although it was dead, it seemed to me that it
must feel the cold. At length I returned to my chamber. I went to my
bed with a violent fever. In the morning M. Ferrand sent to know how I
was. I answered that I felt rather better, and that I should certainly
be ready to leave for the country the next day. I remained all this
day still in bed, in order to gain strength. In the evening I arose. I
went to the kitchen to warm myself. I remained late, all alone. I went
to the garden to say a last prayer. At the moment I ascended toward my
chamber, I met M. Germain on the landing-place of the cabinet, where
he sometimes worked; he was very pale. He said to me, quickly, placing
a rouleau in my hand, 'Your father will be arrested early to-morrow
morning; here is the money; as soon as it is day run to his house. It
is only to-day I have found out Ferrand; he is a bad man; I will
unmask him. Do not, above all, say that you have this money from me.'
And M. Germain, not giving me time to thank him, descended the stairs
quickly."




CHAPTER IV.

MADNESS.


Louise continued: "This morning, before any one was up, I came here
with the money, but it was not sufficient; and, without your
generosity, he would not have escaped the bailiffs. Probably, after my
departure, some one had gone to my room and discovered some traces
which had led to this discovery. A last service I ask of you, sir,"
said Louise, drawing out the rouleau of gold from her pocket; "will
you hand this money to M. Germain? I promised him not to tell any one
that he was employed at Ferrand's; but since you know it, I have not
been indiscreet. Now, sir, I repeat, before God, who hears me, and
before you, I have not said a word that is not true. I have not sought
to "--but, interrupting herself suddenly, Louise, much alarmed, cried,
"Oh, sir! look at my father! look at him! What is the matter with
him?"

Morel had listened to the last part of this narrative with somber
indifference, which Rudolph had explained to himself by attributing it
to the overwhelming grief of this unhappy man. After so many violent
shocks, so oft repeated, his tears were dried up, his sensibility
blunted--he has not even strength enough left to vent his indignation,
thought Rudolph.

He was mistaken. Like the flickering light of a lamp about to expire,
the reason of Morel, already strongly shaken, vacillated for some
time, showed forth now and then some last rays of intelligence, and
then suddenly became obscured.

Absolutely a stranger to what was said, to what passed around him, for
some moments the artisan had become mad!

Although his wheel was placed the other side of his work-table, and he
had in his hands neither diamonds nor tools, the artisan, attentively
occupied, imitated his ordinary occupations. He accompanied this
pantomime with a clacking noise with his tongue, like the wheel when
in operation.

"Oh, sir!" said Louise, with increased alarm; "look at my father!"
Then, approaching him, she said, "Father! father!"

Morel looked at his daughter with that vacant stare peculiar to
lunatics. Without ceasing for a moment his imaginary occupation, he
answered, in a soft and mournful voice, "I owe thirteen hundred francs
to the notary, the price of Louise's blood. I must work, work, work!
Oh! I will pay, pay, pay!"

"This is not possible! This cannot last! He is not altogether mad is
he?" cried Louise, in a heart-rending tone, "He will come to himself--
it is only momentary----"

"Morel, my friend," said Rudolph, "we are here. Your daughter is
alongside of you; she is innocent."

"Thirteen hundred francs," said the artisan, without looking at
Rudolph, and continuing his imaginary occupation.

"Father," cried Louise, throwing herself at his feet, and taking hold
of his hands, "it is I, Louise!"

"Thirteen hundred francs," repeated he, endeavoring to disengage
himself from Louise; "thirteen hundred francs, or else," added he, in
a low and confidential tone, "or else Louise is guillotined," and he
began to turn his wheel.

Louise uttered a piercing cry. "He is mad," cried she, "he is mad! and
it is I--I--who am the cause. Oh, yet it Is not my fault; I did not
wish to do wrong; it is this monster!"

"Come, poor child, courage!" said Rudolph, "let us hope. This madness
will be but momentary. Your father has suffered too much, his reason
has become weakened, he will get better."

"But my mother--my grandmother--my brothers and sister! what will
become of them?" cried Louise. "See, they are deprived of both my
father and myself. They will die with hunger, with poverty, and
despair!"

"Am I not here? Be calm, they shall want for nothing. Courage, I pray
you: your revelation will cause the punishment of a great criminal.
You have convinced me of your innocence; it shall certainly be known
and acknowledged."

"Oh, sir, you see dishonor--madness--death; these are the evils he has
caused--this man; nothing can be done to him--nothing. Ah, this
thought completes all my troubles!"

"Far from that; let a contrary thought aid you in supporting them."

"What do you say, sir?"

"Carry with you the certainty that you shall be avenged."

"Avenged!"

"Yes, I swear to you," answered Rudolph, with solemnity, that, his
crimes proved, this man shall severely expiate the dishonor, madness,
and death he has caused. If the laws are powerless, if his cunning and
address equal his misdeeds, to his cunning shall be opposed cunning--
to his misdeeds, misdeeds--but which shall be to them what the just
and avenging punishment, inflicted on the culpable by an inexorable
hand, is to the cowardly and concealed murder."

"Ah, sir, may God hear you! It is not myself I wish to revenge, it is
my crazy father; it is"--then, turning to her father, she cried,
"Father, farewell. They take me to prison--I shall never see you more;
it is your Louise who bids you farewell--father, father, father!"

At this touching appeal nothing responded; nothing responded in this
poor annihilated mind--nothing. The paternal cords, always the last
broken, vibrated no more.

The garret door opened, and the officer entered.

"My time is up, sir," said he to Rudolph. "I declare to you, with
regret, that it is impossible for me to wait any longer."

"The conversation is terminated, sir," answered Rudolph bitterly,
pointing to the artisan. "Louise has nothing more to say to her
father; he has nothing more to hear from his daughter--he is mad."

"Good God! just what I feared. Ah, it is frightful," cried the
magistrate; and approaching quickly to the artisan, after a moment's
examination he was convinced of the sad reality. "Ah, sir," said he,
sadly, to Rudolph, "I have already made sincere wishes that the
innocence of this young girl may be proved; but now I will not confine
myself to wishes--no, no, I will tell of this last dreadful blow; and,
do not doubt it, the judges will have a motive the more to find her
innocent."

"Well, well, sir," said Rudolph, "in acting thus, it is not only your
duty you fulfill, but you are performing a worthy part."

"Believe me, sir, some of our missions are so painful, that it is with
happiness, with gratitude, that we interest ourselves in what is good
and virtuous."

"One word more, sir. The revelations of Louise Morel have evidently
proved to me her innocence. Can you inform me how her pretended crime
has been discovered, or rather denounced?"

"This morning," said the magistrate, "a woman in the employ of M.
Ferrand, notary, came and declared to me that, after the precipitate
flight of Louise Morel, who she knew was _enceinte_, she had gone
up into the chamber of this young girl, and that she had there found
traces of a clandestine accouchement; after some investigations, some
footsteps in the snow had led to the discovery of a newborn child
interred in the garden. On the relation of this woman, I went to the
Rue du Sentier. I found M. Jacques Ferrand very indignant that such a
thing should have occurred in his house. The priest of Bonne Nouvelle
Church, whom he had sent for, also declared to me that the girl Morel
had acknowledged her fault before him one day; that she had implored
the pity and indulgence of her master, and that, still more, he had
often heard M. Ferrand give Louise Morel the most severe reprimands,
predicting that, sooner or later, she would be ruined. 'A prediction
which had just been realized so unfortunately,' added the priest. The
indignation of M. Ferrand," continued the magistrate, "appeared to me
so real, that I partook of it. He told me that, without doubt, Louise
Morel had taken refuge at her father's. I came here at once; the crime
being flagrant, I had the right to proceed to an immediate arrest."

Rudolph restrained himself in hearing the indignation of M. Ferrand
spoken of. He said to the magistrate, "I thank you a thousand times,
sir, for your kindness and for the assistance you tender Louise. I
shall conduct this unfortunate man to a lunatic hospital, as well as
the mother of his wife." Then, addressing Louise, who yet kneeled
before her father, trying in vain to restore him to reason, "Be
resigned, my child, to go without embracing your mother; spare her
this touching farewell. Be assured as to her welfare--nothing shall
henceforth be wanting. I will find a woman who will take care of your
mother, and your brothers and sisters, under the superintendence of
your good neighbor, Miss Dimpleton. As to your father, nothing shall
be spared, that his cure shall be rapid and complete. Courage, then;
believe me, virtuous people are often harshly tried by misfortunes,
but they always come out of these struggles purer, stronger, and more
respected."

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Two hours after the arrest of Louise, the artisan and the old idiot
were, by the orders of Rudolph, conducted to Charenton; they were to
have chamber treatment, and receive particular care and attention.
Morel left the house without assistance; indifferent, he went where
they took him; his madness was inoffensive and sad. The grand mother
had hunger; they showed her food; she followed this food.

The diamonds and rubies confided to the wife of the artisan were the
same day given to Mrs. Mathieu, the broker, who came to get them.
Unfortunately, this woman was watched and followed by Tortillard, who
knew the value of the pretended false jewels, from a conversation he
had overheard when Morel was arrested by the bailiffs. The son of
Bras-Rouge (Red Arm) ascertained that she lived at No. 11 Boulevard
Saint Denis.

Miss Dimpleton informed Mrs. Morel, with much tact, of the lunacy of
her husband and the imprisonment of Louise. At first she wept much,
uttering sorrowful cries. Then, the first spasms of grief over, the
poor creature, weak and unsettled, consoled herself by degrees in
seeing herself and children surrounded by comforts which they owed to
the generosity of their benefactor.

Rudolph's thoughts were bitter in thinking of the revelations of
Louise.




CHAPTER V.

JACQUES FERRAND.


At the time when the events passed which we relate, at one of the
extremities of the Rue du Sentier could have been seen a long wall,
much cracked, and covered with a coating of plaster, the top protected
with pieces of broken glass. This wall, forming the boundary on this
side of the garden of Jacques Ferrand, the notary, extended to a
building situated on the street, of only one story and a garret. Two
large brass plates, the sign of the notary's office, flanked the
worm-eaten gate, the primitive appearance of which was no longer to be
distinguished under the mud which covered it. This door led to a
covered passage; on the right was the lodge of an old porter, half
deaf, who was to the fraternity of tailors what Pipelet was to the
boot-maker; on the left a stable, which served the purposes of a
cellar, wash-house, wood-house, and of a growing colony of rabbits,
lodged in a manger by the porter, who consoled himself from the pangs
of a recent bereavement, in the death of his wife, by raising these
domestic animals.

Alongside the lodge was the crooked, narrow, and obscure staircase,
leading to the office, as the clients were informed by a hand painted
black, the forefinger pointing to these words on the wall "Office--
Second Floor." On one side of a large paved court, overgrown with
grass, were to be seen the unoccupied carriage-houses, on the other, a
rusty iron railing, which inclosed the garden; at the end the
pavillion, where the notary alone dwelt.

A flight of eight or ten steps of tottering, disjointed stones,
covered with moss and worn by time, led to this house, composed of a
kitchen, and other offices under ground, two floors and an attic,
where Louise had slept.

This pavilion appeared also in a great state of decay; immense cracks
were to be seen in the walls; the windows and blinds, once painted
gray, had become with age almost black; the six windows of the first
story, looking upon the court, had no curtains; the glasses were
almost incrusted with dirt; on the ground floor they were rather
cleaner, and were hung with faded yellow curtains, red-flowered. On
the side toward the garden the pavilion had but four windows; two were
walled up.

This garden, overgrown with wild briers, seemed abandoned; not a
single border, not a bed; a cluster of elms, five or six large trees,
some acacias and alders, a yellow grass-plot, walks encumbered with
brambles, and bounded by a high wall. Such was the sad aspect of the
garden and habitation.

To this appearance, or rather to this reality, Ferrand attached great
importance. To vulgar eyes, a carelessness of comfort and prosperity
passes almost always for disinterestedness; uncleanliness for
austerity.

Comparing the grand financial luxury of some notaries, or the reported
toilets of their wives, to the gloomy mansion of M. Ferrand, so
contemptuous of elegance and splendor, the clients felt a kind of
respect, or, rather, of blind confidence for this man, who, from the
number of his employers and the fortune he was supposed to possess,
could have said, like many of his brethren, "My equipage, my
country-house, my opera-box," etc., and who, far from that, lived with
great economy; thus deposits, legacies on trust, investments, all those
affairs in fine which depend upon the most tried integrity, or the
most perfect good faith, flowed into the hands of Ferrand. In living
as he did, the notary consulted his taste. He detested society, pomp,
pleasures dearly bought; had it been otherwise, he would have, without
hesitation, sacrificed his most lively wishes to the appearances which
it was important to give himself. Some words on the character of this
man. He was a son of the grand family of misers. Avarice is, above
all, a negative, passive passion. Yet Jacques Ferrand risked, and
risked much.

He counted on his cunning--it was extreme; on his hypocrisy--it was
profound; on his understanding--it was fertile and pliable; on his
audacity--it was infernal--to assure impunity to his crimes, and they
were already numerous.

One single passion, or rather appetite, but most disgraceful, ignoble,
shameful, but almost ferocious, raised him often to frenzy--lust.

Save this weakness, Jacques Ferrand loved but gold He loved gold for
the sake of gold.

Not for the enjoyments it procured; he was stoical.

Notwithstanding his great cunning, this man had committed two or three
errors which the most crafty criminals hardly ever escape from.

Forced by circumstances, it is true, he had two accomplices: this
great fault, as he said himself, had been repaired in part; neither of
his accomplices could betray him without betraying themselves; nor
could any advantage be derived from their denouncing the notary and
themselves to public vindictiveness. He was therefore on this head
quite at rest.

Some words now on the personal appearance of Ferrand, and we will
introduce the reader into the notary's study, where he will find out
the principal personages. Ferrand had passed his fiftieth year. He did
not appear more than forty; he was of medium size, round-shouldered,
square-built, strong, thick-set, red-haired, shaggy as a bear. His
hair lay smooth on his temples, the top of his head was bald, his
eyebrows hardly to be perceived; his bilious-looking skin was covered
with large freckles; but when any lively emotion agitated it, this
yellow, clayey visage filled with blood, and became a livid red.

His face was as flat as a death's-head, his nose crushed down, his
lips so thin, so imperceptible, that his mouth seemed cut in his face;
when he smiled in a wicked and sinister manner, the ends of his teeth
could be seen, black and decayed. Closely shaved to his temples, this
man's countenance had an expression austere, sanctified, impassible,
rigid, cold and reflecting; his little black eyes--quick, piercing,
restless,--were hidden by large green spectacles.

Jacques Ferrand had excellent sight, but under the shelter of his
spectacles he had great advantages, observing without being observed;
he knew how much a glance of the eye is often and involuntarily
significant. In spite of his imperturbable audacity, he had
encountered, two or three times in his life, certain powerful looks,
before which he had been forced to quail. Now, in some circumstances,
it is fatal to cast down your eye before the man who interrogates,
accuses, or judges you. The large spectacles of Ferrand were therefore
a kind of covered breastwork, from whence he could attentively examine
the maneuvers of the enemy; for many such he had to encounter, because
many found themselves more or less his dupes.

He affected in his dress a negligence which reached to uncleanliness,
or, rather, it was naturally rusty and mean. His face, shaved but once
in two or three days, his dirty bald head, his black nails, old
snuff-colored-coats, greasy hats, threadbare cravats, black woolen hose,
and coarse shoes, recommended him singularly to his clients, by giving him
an air of detachment from the world, and a perfume of practical
philosophy, which charmed them. "To what pleasures--what passions--
could the notary," said they, "sacrifice the confidence which was
shown him? He gained, perhaps, sixty thousand francs a year, and his
household was composed of a servant and an old housekeeper; his sole
pleasure was to go every Sunday to mass and vespers; he knew no opera
comparable to the solemn sounds of the organ, no company which could
equal an evening passed at his fireside with the parish priest, after
a frugal dinner. Finally, he placed his delight in his probity, his
pride in his honor, his happiness in his religion."

Such was the opinion of many concerning Jacques Ferrand, this good and
excellent man.




CHAPTER VI.

THE OFFICE.


His office resembled all offices, his clerks all other clerks. It was
reached by an ante-chamber, furnished with four old chairs. In the
office, properly so called, surrounded by shelves furnished with paper
boxes, containing documents belonging to the clients of the notary,
five young men, bending over desks of black wood, laughed, talked, or
scribbled incessantly. An adjoining room, in which usually remained
the head clerk, then an empty room, which, for the sake of secrecy,
separated the notary's sanctum from the other offices, such was this
laboratory of all kinds and sorts. Two o'clock had just struck by an
old cuckoo clock, placed between the two windows of the office;
agitation seemed to reign among the clerks, which some fragments of
their conversation will explain.

"Certainly, if any one had told me that Francois Germain was a thief,"
said one of the young men, "I should have answered, `You are a liar!'"

"And I!"

"And I also!"

"I! It produced such an effect on me to see him arrested and taken
away by the guard that I could not eat my breakfast. I was
recompensed, however, for it spared me from eating the daily mess of
Mother Seraphin."

"Seventeen thousand francs--it is a sum!"

"A famous sum!"

"And to think that for seventeen months, since he has been cashier, he
never has been wanting a centime in his cash account!"

"As for me, I think master was wrong to arrest Germain, since the poor
fellow swore that he had only taken thirteen hundred francs in gold."

"Yes. And so much the more, that he brought back the amount this
morning at the moment the master had sent for the guard!"

"That is the consequence of being of such a rigid probity as master.
Such people are always without pity."

"Never mind; one ought always to think twice before ruining a poor
young man who always conducted himself well until now."

"M. Ferrand would reply to that, 'It was for the sake of example.'"

"Example of what? It is of no use to those who are honest; and those
who are not, know well enough that they are likely to be discovered if
they steal."

"This house is, however, a good customer for the officer."

"How?"

"Why, this morning poor Louise; just now Germain."

"As for me, the affair of Germain don't appear too clear."

"But he has acknowledged it!"

"He confessed that he had taken thirteen hundred francs--yes; but he
maintained that he had not taken the remaining fifteen thousand francs
in bank bills, and the remaining seven hundred francs that were
missing."

"Exactly; since he acknowledged one thing, why not the other?"

"It is true, one is as much punished for five hundred as for fifteen
thousand francs.".

"Yes; but one keeps the fifteen thousand francs, and on coming out of
prison, that makes a nice little establishment, a rogue would say."

"Not so bad."

"One may well say there is something in that."

"And Germain, who always defended master when we called him a Jesuit!"

"It is nevertheless true. 'Why hasn't master a right to go to mass?'
he would say: 'you have the right to stay away.'"

"Stop, here is Chalomel; now he will be astonished!"

"About what! what! My good fellow, is there anything new concerning
poor Louise?"

"You would have known, lazybones, if you hadn't been absent so long."

"Hold; you think it is only a hop, skip, and a jump from here to the
Rue de Chaillot."

"Well; this famous Viscount de Saint Remy?"

"Has he not come yet?"

"No."

"His carriage was all ready, and his valet told me that he would come
at once; but he did not appear pleased, the domestic said. Oh! that is
a fine hotel; one might say it had belonged to the lords of the olden
time, as are spoken of in Faublas. Oh! Faublas! he is my hero, my
model!" said Chalomel, putting away his umbrella and taking off his
overshoes.

"I believe that this viscount is in debt, and there are writs out
against him."

"A writ for thirty-four thousand francs, which has been sent here,
since it is here he must come to pay it; the creditor prefers it, why,
I know not."

"He must be able to pay it now, because he returned last night from
the country, where he has been concealed for three days to escape the
bailiffs."

"But why did they not levy on his furniture?"

"He is not such an ass! The house is not his; the furniture is in the
name of his valet, who is looked upon as hiring him furnished
lodgings, in the same way that his horses and carriages are in the
name of his coachman, who says he lets them out to the viscount at so
much per month. Oh! he is cunning, this Viscount de Saint Remy. But
what is that you were talking about? Has anything new happened here?"

"Just imagine--about two hours since, master came in here like a
madman: 'Germain is not here?' cried he. 'No, sir.' 'Well! the
scoundrel has robbed me, last night, of seventeen thousand francs!'
continued the governor."

"Germain steal! Come, come, draw it mild."

"You shall see. 'How sir! are you sure? It is not possible!' we all
cried.

"'I tell you, gentlemen, that I put yesterday in the desk where he
works fifteen notes of a thousand francs, besides two thousand francs
in gold in a small box; all has disappeared.' At this moment Marriton,
the porter, came in and said, 'The guard is coming.'"

"And Germain?"

"Stop a moment. The governor said to the porter. 'As soon as Germain
comes, send him here, without telling him anything. I wish to confound
him before you, gentlemen,' continued the governor. At the end of
fifteen minutes poor Germain arrived, as if nothing was the matter.
Mother Seraphin came to bring us our breakfast; she saluted the
governor, and said good-day to us very tranquilly. 'Germain, do you
not breakfast?' said M. Ferrand. 'No, sir, I am not hungry, I thank
you.' 'You come very late!' 'Yes, sir, I have been to Belleville this
morning.' 'To conceal, doubtless the money you have stolen from me,'
cried M. Ferrand with a terrible voice."

"And Germain?"

"Oh! the poor boy became as pale as death, stammering, 'Sir, I beg
you, do not ruin me."

"He had stolen?"

"Now, do wait, Chalomel. 'Do not ruin me,' said he to the governor.
'You acknowledge then, wretch?' 'Yes, sir; but here is the money that
is wanting. I thought I should be able to return it this morning
before you were up; unfortunately, a friend, who had a small sum of
mine, and whom I thought to find at home last night, had been at
Belleville for two days. I was obliged to go there this morning, which
has caused my delay. Pardon me, sir, do not ruin me! In taking this
money, I knew I could return it this morning. Here are the thirteen
hundred francs in gold.' 'You have robbed me of fifteen notes of one
thousand francs each, that were in a green book, and two thousand
francs in gold!' 'I! never!' cried poor Germain. 'I took the thirteen
hundred francs, but not one penny more. I have seen no pocket-book in
the drawer; there was only two thousand francs in gold in a box.' 'Oh!
the infamous liar!' cried the master. 'You have stolen thirteen
hundred francs, you could well steal more; justice will decide. Oh! I
shall be without pity for such a frightful breach of confidence. It
will be an example.' Finally, the guard arrived with an officer to
make out a commitment; they carried him off, and that's all!"

"Can it be possible? Germain, the cream of honest people!"

"It has appeared to us quite as singular."

"After all, it must be confessed, Germain was reserved; he never would
tell where he lived."

"That is true."

"He always had a mysterious air"

"That's no reason why he should steal the money."

"Doubtless. It is a remark I make."

"Ah! well, this is news! It is as if some one had given me a stunner
on the head--Germain--who looked so honest; who would have died
without confession!"

"One would have said that he had a presentiment of his misfortune."

"Why?"

"For some time past he looked as if something troubled him."

"It was, perhaps, concerning Louise."

"Louise?"

"Oh! I only repeat what Mother Seraphin said this morning,"

"What?"

"That he was the lover of Louise, and the--"

"Oh! the cunning fellow."

"Stop, stop, stop!"

"Bah!"

"It is not true!"

"How do you know that, Chalomel?"

"It is not two weeks since, that Germain told me, in confidence, that
he was dead in love with a little sewing girl, whom he had known in
the house where he lived; he had tears in his eyes when he spoke to me
about her."

"Oh!"

"He says that Faublas is his hero, and yet he is simple enough, stupid
enough, not to comprehend that one can be in love with one and the
love of another."

"I tell you that Germain spoke seriously."

At this moment the chief clerk entered the office.

"Well," said he. "Chalomel, have you finished all your errands?"

"Yes, M. Dubois, I have been to M. de Saint Remy: he will be here
shortly to pay."

"And to Countess M'Gregor?"

"Likewise; here is the answer."

"And to Countess d'Orbigny?"

"She is much obliged; she arrived yesterday from Normandy, she did not
expect an answer so soon; here is her letter. I have also been to the
Marquis d'Harville's steward, as he required, for the charges of the
contract I signed the other day at the hotel."

"You told him that it was not pressing?"

"Yes, but he would pay it. There is the money. Ah! I forgot that this
card was here, below, at the porter's; the words in pencil written
underneath by the porter; this gentleman asked for M. Ferrand; he left
this."

"'WALTER MURPHY,'" read the chief clerk; and then in pencil, "'_Will
return at three o'clock on important business_.' I do not know this
name."

"Oh! I forgot," continued Chalomel; "M. Badinot said it was all right,
that M. Ferrand should do as he pleased; that would be always right."

"He did not give a written answer?"

"No, sir, he said he hadn't time."

"Very well."

"M. Charles Robert will also come in the course of the day to speak to
the governor; it appears he fought a duel yesterday with the Duke of
Lucenay."

"Is he wounded?"

"I believe not, or they would have told me of it at his house."

"Look! here is a carriage stopping."

"Oh! the fine horses, are they not mettlesome."

"And the fat English coachman, with his white wig and brown livery,
with silver lace and epaulets like a colonel!"

"An embassador, surely."

"And the chasseur, has not he enough silver lace?"

"And grand mustachios."

"Hold!" said Chalomel, "it is the carriage of the Viscount de Saint
Remy."

"Ain't it stylish? Whew!"

Soon afterward Saint Remy entered the office. We have described the
charming face, the exquisite elegance, the ravishing bearing of Saint
Remy, arrived the previous evening from Arnouville Farm, belonging to
the Duchess Lucenay, where he had found a refuge from the bailiffs.

Saint Remy entered the office hastily, his hat on, his manner haughty
and proud, his eyes half closed, asking, in a very impertinent way,
without looking at any one, "The notary? where is he?"

"M. Ferrand is busy in his private office," answered the head clerk;
"if you will wait a moment, sir, he will receive you."

"I wait?"

"But, sir----"

"There are no 'but, sirs'; go and tell him that M. de Saint Remy is
here. I find it very singular that this notary makes me wait in his
antechamber; it smells of the stove."

"Please to pass into the next room, sir," said the clerk; "I will go
at once and inform M. Ferrand."

Saint Remy shrugged his shoulders, and followed the head clerk. At the
end of a quarter of an hour, which seemed to him very long, and
changed his contempt into rage, Saint Remy was introduced into the
cabinet of the notary. Nothing could be more curious than the contrast
of these two men, both profound physiognomists, and generally
accustomed to judge at a first glance with whom they had to deal.

Saint Remy saw Jacques Ferrand for the first time. He was struck with
the characteristics of this wan, rigid, impassible face; the
expression concealed by the large green spectacles, the head
half-hidden in an old black silk cap.

The notary was seated before his desk in a leathern arm-chair, beside
a broken-down fireplace, filled with ashes, in which were smoking two
black stumps. Curtains of green muslin, almost in tatters, suspended
from iron rods, concealed the lower part of the windows, and cast into
this cabinet, already dark enough, a dull and disagreeable light.
Shelves of black wood, filled with labeled boxes; some chairs of
cherry wood, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet; a mahogany clock; a
yellow, moist, and slippery floor; a ceiling filled with cracks, and,
ornamented with garlands of spider-webs; such was the sanctum
sanctorum of Jacques Ferrand.

The viscount had not advanced two steps, had not said a single word,
before the notary who knew him by reputation, hated him already. In
the first place, he saw in him, so to speak, a rival in knavery; and,
although Ferrand was of a mean and ignoble appearance himself, he did
not the less detest in others elegance, grace, and youth; above all
when an air deeply insolent accompanied these advantages.

The notary ordinarily affected a sort of rudeness, almost gross,
toward his clients, who only felt more esteem for him for these
boorish manners. He promised himself to redouble this brutality toward
the viscount.

He, knowing M. Ferrand only by reputation, expected to find in him a
kind of scrivener, good-natured or ridiculous, the viscount figuring
to himself always that men of proverbial probity must be simpletons.
Far from this, the other's looks imposed on the viscount an
undefinable feeling, half fear, half hatred, although he had no
serious reason to fear or hate him. Thus, in consequence of his
resolute character, Saint Remy increased his insolence and habitual
foppery of manner. The notary kept his cap upon his head; the viscount
retained his hat, and cried from the door in a loud, sharp voice:

"It is, by Jove! very strange, that you give me the trouble to come
here, instead of sending to me for the money for the bills I have
indorsed for this Badinot, for which the fellow has sued me. You
should not expose me to wait a quarter of an hour in your antechamber;
that is not so polite as it might be."

Ferrand, without paying the least attention, finished a calculation he
was making, wiped his pen methodically on the sponge which lay near
his ink-stand, and raised toward the viscount his cold, unearthly,
flattened face, encumbered with the green spectacles.

It looked like a death's head, whose eyes had been replaced by great,
fixed, glassy sockets. After having looked at him for a moment in
silence, he said to the viscount, in a rough, short tone, "Where is
the money?"

Such coolness exasperated Saint Remy.

He-he! the idol of the women, the envy of men, the paragon of the best
company in Paris, the renowned duelist, not to produce more effect on
a miserable notary! It was odious; although he was _tete-a-tete_
with Jacques Ferrand, his self-pride revolted.

"Where are the bills?"

With the ends of his fingers, hard as iron, and covered with red hair,
the notary, without answering, struck on a large portfolio of leather
placed near him.

Decided to be equally laconic, although bursting with rage, the
viscount took from the pocket of his coat a small book of Russian
leather, clasped with golden hasps, drew out forty-one thousand franc
notes and showed them to the notary.

"How much?" asked he.

"Forty thousand francs."

"Give them to me."

"Here, and let us finish quickly, sir; do your business, pay yourself,
hand me back the papers," said the viscount, throwing the packet
impatiently on the table.

The notary took them, arose and examined them near the window, turning
them over one by one with an attention so scrupulous and so insulting
to Saint Remy, that he grew pale with rage.

The notary, as if he had suspected the thoughts which agitated the
viscount, shook his head, half turned toward him, and said, in an
undefinable tone, "There are such things as--"

For a moment astonished, Saint Remy replied, dryly, "What?"

"Counterfeits," answered the notary, continuing to examine those he
held closely.

"For what purpose do you make this remark to me, Sir?"

Jacques Ferrand stopped a moment, looked steadily at the viscount
through his glasses; then, shrugging his shoulders, he turned again to
counting and examining the bills.

"By George, Master Notary, you must know, when I ask a question, I am
always answered!" cried Saint Remy, irritated beyond measure at the
calmness of Jacques Ferrand.

"_These_ are good," said the notary, turning toward his bureau,
whence he took a bundle of stamped papers, to which were annexed two
bills of exchange; he afterward placed one of the notes for a thousand
francs and three rouleaux of one hundred francs on the back of the
papers; then he said to Saint Remy, pointing his finger to the money
and bills, "There is what is to come to you from the forty thousand
francs; my client has ordered me to collect the bill of costs."

The viscount had with great difficulty contained himself while Jacques
Ferrand arranged his accounts. Instead of answering him and taking the
money, he cried, in a voice trembling with anger, "I ask you, sir, why
you said to me, respecting the bank bills that I have just given you,
_that there were such things as forged notes?_"

"Why?"

"Yes."

"Because I have sent for you here concerning a forgery." The notary
turned his green glasses full on the viscount.

"How does this forgery affect me?"

After a moment's pause Ferrand said, with a severe tone, "Are you
acquainted, sir, with the duties of a notary?"

"The duties are perfectly clear to me, sir. I had just now forty
thousand francs; I have now remaining but thirteen hundred."

"You are very jocose, sir. I will tell you, that a notary is to
temporal affairs what a confessor is to spiritual ones; from his
profession he often knows ignoble secrets."

"What next, sir?"

"He is often obliged to be in relations with rogues."

"What after this, sir?"

"He ought, as much as in his power, to prevent an honorable name from
being dragged in the mire."

"What have I in common with all this?"

"Your father has left you a respected name, which you dishoner, sir!"

"What do you dare to say?"

"But for the interest that this name inspires to all honest people,
instead of being cited here before me, you would have been at this
moment before the police."

"I do not comprehend you."

"About two months since, you discounted, through the agency of a
broker, a bill for fifty-eight thousand francs, drawn by the house of
Meulaert and Co., of Hamburgh, in favor of one William Smith, and
payable in three months, at Grimaldi's, banker, in Paris."

"Well!"

"That bill is a forgery."

"That is not true."

"This bill is a forgery! the house of Meulaert has never contracted
any engagement with William Smith; they do not know him."

"Can it be true!" cried Saint Remy, with as much surprise as
indignation, "but then I have been horribly deceived, sir, for I
received this bill as ready money."

"From whom?"

"From William Smith himself; the house of Meulaert is so well known, I
knew so well myself the probity of Smith, that I accepted this bill in
payment of a debt he owed me."

"William Smith has never existed; it is an imaginary person."

"Sir, you insult me!"

"His signature is as false as the others."

"I tell you, sir, that William Smith does exist; but I have, without
doubt, been the dupe of a horrible breach of confidence."

"Poor young man!"

"Explain yourself!" cried Saint Remy, whose anxiety and humiliation
were increased by this ironical pity.

"In a word, the actual holder of the bill is convinced that you have
committed the forgery."

"Sir!"

"He pretends to have the proof; two days ago he came to me to beg me
to send for you here, and to propose to return you this forged note,
under an arrangement. So far, all was right; this is not; and I only
tell you for information. He asks one hundred thousand francs. Today
even, or to-morrow at noon, the forgery will be made known to the
public prosecutor."

"This is indignity!"

"And what is more, absurdity. You are ruined. You were prosecuted for
a sum that you have just paid me, from some resource I do not know of:
this is what I told to this third party. He answered, 'That a certain
great lady, who is very rich, would not leave you in this
embarrassment.'"

"Enough, sir, enough!"

"Another indignity! another absurdity! we agree."

"In short, sir, what do they want?"

"Unworthily to take advantage of an unworthy action. I have consented
to make this proposition known to you, in branding it as an honest man
ought to brand it. Now it is your affair. If you are guilty, choose
between the court of assize or the terms proposed. My part is
altogether professional. I will have nothing more to do with so dirty
a business. The third party's name is M. Petit Jean, oil merchant; he
lives on the banks of the Seine, No. 10, Quai de Billy. Settle with
him. You are worthy of each other, if you are a forger, as he
affirms."

Saint Remy had entered the notary's with an insolent voice and lofty
head. Although he had committed in his life some disgraceful actions,
there remained in him still a certain pride of lineage--a natural
courage which had never failed him. At the commencement of this
conversation, regarding the notary as an adversary quite unworthy of
him, he treated him with contempt.

When Jacques Ferrand spoke of forgery, the viscount felt himself
crushed. He found the notary had the advantage in his turn. Except for
his great self-command, he could not have concealed the great
impression made upon him by this unexpected accusation, for the
consequences might be most fatal to him, of which even the notary had
no idea.

After a moment's reflection and silence, he determined--though so
proud, so irritable, so vain of his bravery--to throw himself on the
mercy of this vulgar man, who had so roughly spoken the austere
language of probity. "Sir, you give me a proof of interest for which I
thank you; I regret the harshness of my opening words," said Saint
Remy, in a cordial manner.

"I do not interest myself in you at all," answered the notary,
brutally. "Your father was honor itself; I did not wish to see his
name in the court of assizes, that's all."

"I repeat to yon, sir, that I am incapable of the infamy of which I am
accused."

"You can tell that to M. Petit Jean."

"But I avow that the absence of Mr. Smith, who has so unworthily taken
advantage of my good faith--"

"Infamous Smith!"

"The absence of Mr. Smith places me in a cruel position; I am
innocent; let them accuse me, I will prove it, but such an accusation
always injures a gallant man."

"What next?"

"Be generous enough to use the sum I have just paid you to quiet, in
part, this third person."

"This money belongs to my client--it is sacred."

"But in two or three days I will repay you."

"You cannot do it."

"I have resources."

"None available, at least. Your furniture, your horses, no longer
belong to you, as you may say; which to me has the appearance of
fraud."

"You are very hard, sir. But admitting this, will I not turn
everything into money, in a situation so desperate? Only as it is
impossible for me to procure between this and to-morrow one hundred
thousand francs, I conjure you, employ this money to withdraw this
unhappy draught. Or you, who are so rich, make me an advance; do not
leave me in such a position."

"I make myself responsible for a hundred thousand francs for you!
Really, are you a fool?"

"Sir, I supplicate you, in the name of my father, of whom you have
spoken, be so kind as to--"

"I am kind for those who deserve it," said the notary, rudely; "an
honest man; I hate sharpers; and I should not be sorry to see one of
you fine gentlemen, who are without law or gospel, impious and
debauched, some fine day, standing in the pillory as an example for
others. But, I hear, your horses are very restless, sir viscount,"
said the notary, smiling, and showing his black teeth.

At this moment some one knocked at the door. "Who is it?" asked
Jacques Ferrand.

"Her ladyship the Countess d'Orbigny," said the clerk.

"Beg her to wait a moment."

"It is the step-mother of the Marquise d'Harville," cried Saint Remy.

"Yes, sir. She has an appointment with me; so, good-morning."

"Not a word of this, sir," said Saint Remy, in a threatening tone.

"I have told you, sir, that a notary was as discreet as a confessor."

Jacques Ferrand rang the bell, and the clerk appeared.

"Show in her ladyship." Then, addressing the viscount, he added, "Take
these thirteen hundred francs, sir; it will be so much on account with
M. Petit Jean."

Lady d'Orbigny (formerly Madame Roland) entered as the viscount went
out, his features contracted with rage for having uselessly humiliated
himself before the notary.

"Oh, good-morning, Saint Remy!" said the countess; "it is a long time
since I have seen you."

"Yes, madame; since the marriage of D'Harville, of which I was a
witness, I have not had the honor to meet you," said Saint Remy,
bowing, and suddenly assuming a most smiling and affable expression.
"Since then, you have always remained in Normandy?"

"Dear me! yes. M. d'Orbigny cannot live now but in the country; and
where he lives, I live. Thus you see in me a true 'county lady.' I
have not been to Paris since the marriage of my dear step-daughter
with excellent D'Harville. Do you see him often?"

"D'Harville has become very savage and very morose. I meet him very
seldom in society," said Saint Remy, with a shade of impatience; for
this conversation was insupportable, both from its inopportuneness,
and because the notary seemed to be much amused. But the stepmother of
Madame d'Harville, enchanted at this meeting with a beau of society,
was not the woman to let her prey escape so easily.

"And my dear step-daughter," continued she, "is not, I hope, as savage
as her husband?"

"Madame d'Harville is very fashionable, and always much sought after,
as a pretty woman should be; but I fear, madame, I trespass on your
time, and--"

"Not at all, I assure you. I am quite fortunate to meet the 'mold of
form, the glass of fashion;' in ten minutes I shall know all about
Paris, as if I had never left it. And your dear friend, De Lucenay,
who was with you a witness of D'Harville's marriage?"

"More of an original than ever; he set out for the East, and he
returned just in time to receive yesterday morning a thrust from a
sword; of no great harm, however."

"The poor duke! and his wife, still beautiful and ravishing?"

"You know, madame, that I have the honor to be one of her best
friends; my testimony on this subject would be suspected. Will you,
madame, on your return to Aubiers, do me the honor to remember me to
M. d'Orbigny?"

"He will be very sensible of your kind recollections, I assure you,
for he often asks after you and your success. He says you remind him
of the Duke de Lauzun."

"This comparison alone is quite an eulogium; but, unfortunately for
me, it is much more kind than true. Adieu, madame; for I dare not hope
that you will do me the honor to receive me before your departure."

"I should be distressed if you should take the trouble to call upon
me. I am for a few days at furnished lodgings; but if, this summer or
fall, you pass our way to some of the fashionable country-seats, grant
us a few days only by way of contrast, and to rest yourself with some
poor country-folks from the giddy round of the chateau life, so
elegant and so extravagant; for it is always holidays where you go."

"Madame----"

"I need not tell you how happy D'Orbigny and myself would be to
receive you; but adieu, sir: I fear that the benevolent humorist,"
pointing to the notary, "will become tired of our talk."

"Just the contrary, madame, just the contrary," said Ferrand, in an
accent which redoubled the restrained rage of the viscount.

"Acknowledge that M. Ferrand is a terrible man," continued Madame
d'Orbigny; "but take care, since he is, fortunately for you, charged
with your affairs, he will scold you furiously; he is without pity.
But what do I say? A man like you to have M. Ferrand for notary--it is
a sign of amendment: for every one knows he never lets his clients
commit any follies without informing them of it. Oh! he does not wish
to be the notary of every one." Then, addressing Jacques Ferrand, she
said, "Do you know, Mr. Puritan, that this is a superb conversion you
have made here--to render wise and prudent the king of fashion!"

"It is exactly a conversion, madame; M. le Vicomte leaves ray cabinet
altogether different from what he entered it."

"When I say you perform miracles, it is not astonishing: you are a
saint."

"Oh, madame, you flatter me," said Jacques Ferrand.

Saint Remy profoundly saluted Madame d'Orbigny; and at the moment of
leaving the notary, wishing to try a last effort to soften him, he
said, in a careless manner, which nevertheless disclosed profound
anxiety:

"Decidedly, my dear M. Ferrand, you will not grant me what I ask?"

"Some folly, without doubt! Be inexorable, my dear Puritan," cried
Madame d'Orbigny, laughing. "You hear, sir; I cannot act contrary to
the advice of so handsome a lady."

"My dear M. Ferrand, let us speak seriously of serious things, and you
know that this is so. You refuse decidedly?" asked the viscount, with
anguish he could not conceal.

The notary was cruel enough to appear to hesitate; Saint Remy had a
moment of hope.

"How, man of iron, you relent?" said the step-mother of Madame
d'Harville, laughing; "you submit also to the charms of the
irresistible?"

"Faith, madame, I was on the point of yielding, as you say, but you
make me blush for my weakness," said Ferrand; then turning to the
viscount, with an expression of which he comprehended all the
signification, he continued, "There, seriously, it is impossible; I
will not suffer that, through caprice, you should commit such an
absurdity. M. le Vicomte, I regard myself as the mentor of my clients;
I have no other family, and I should regard myself as an accomplice of
any errors I should allow them to commit."

"Oh! the Puritan, the Puritan!" cried Madame d'Orbigny.

"Yet, see M. Petit Jean; he will think, I am sure, as I do; and, like
me, he will refuse."

Saint Remy left in a state of desperation. After a moment's thought,
he said, "It must be!" Then, addressing his footman, who held open the
door of the carriage, "To Lucenay House." While Saint Remy is on his
way to the duchess, we will be present with the reader at the
interview between Ferrand and the stepmother of Madame d'Harville.




CHAPTER VII.

THE WILL.


Madame D'Orbigny was a slender blonde, with eyebrows nearly white, and
pale blue eyes, almost round; her speech honeyed, her look
hypocritical, her manners insinuating and insidious.

"What a charming young man is the Viscount de Saint Remy!" said she to
Jacques Ferrand, when the viscount had gone.

"Charming; but, madame, let us talk of business. You wrote me from
Normandy that you wished to consult me on some grave affairs."

"Have you not always been my adviser since good Dr. Polidori referred
me to you? Apropos, have you heard from him?" asked Madame d'Orbigny,
in a careless manner.

"Since his departure from Paris he has not written me once," answered
the notary, no less indifferently. We must inform the reader that
these two personages lied most boldly to each other. The notary had
seen Polidori recently (one of his two accomplices), and had proposed
to him to go to Asnieres, to the Martials, the freshwater pirates (of
whom we shall speak presently), under the name of Dr. Vincent, to
poison Louise Morel. The stepmother of Madame d'Harville came to Paris
expressly to have a conference with this scoundrel, who now went by
the name of Caesar Bradamanti.

"But it is not concerning the good doctor," said Madame d'Orbigny,
"you see me much troubled; my husband is sick--he grows worse daily.
Without causing me serious fears, his condition troubles me, or,
rather, troubles him," continued she, wiping her tearless eyes.

"What is the matter?"

"He continually speaks of his final arrangements--of his will." Here
Madame d'Orbigny hid her face in her handkerchief for some moments.

"That is sad, doubtless," said the notary; "but this precaution is not
alarming. What are his intentions, madame?"

"How can I tell? You know well, when he touches on this subject I
change it."

"But has he said nothing positive?"

"I believe," said Madaine d'Orbigny, in a most disinterested manner,
"I believe he wishes not only to give me all the law allows--but--oh!
hold, I beg you, let us not speak of this!"

"What shall we speak of?"

"Alas! you are right, relentless man; we must return to the sad
subject which brought me here. Well, D'Orbigny carries his kindness so
far as to wish to convert a part of his fortune, and give me a
considerable sum."

"But his daughter--his daughter?" cried Ferrand, with severity. "I
ought to tell you that, for a year past, M. d'Harville has given me
charge of his affairs. I have lately bought for him a magnificent
property. You know my roughness in business. It imports little to me
that M. d'Harville is my client; that which I plead is the cause of
justice. If your husband takes toward his daughter, Madame d'Harville,
a determination which seems to me not proper, I tell you plainly he
must not count on me. Straightforward! such has always been my line of
conduct."

"And mine also. Thus I repeat to my husband always just as you have
said: 'Your daughter has treated you badly; so be it; but that is no
reason to disinherit her.'"

"Very well--all right; and what did he answer?"

"He answered, 'I will leave my daughter twenty-five thousand francs a
year. She had more than a million from her mother; her husband has an
enormous income. Can I not leave the rest to you, my tender friend,
the sole support, the sole consolation of my old age, my guardian
angel?' I repeat these too flattering words," said Madame d'Orbigny,
with a modest sigh, "to show you his goodness toward me; yet I have
always refused his offers; seeing which, he decided to beg me to come
and find you."

"But I do not know M. d'Orbigny."

"But he, like every one else, knows your probity."

"But how did he address you to me?"

"To silence my scruples. He said, 'I do not ask you to consult my
notary, you will think him too much under my orders; but I will leave
it to the decision of a man whose honesty is proverbial, M. Ferrand.
If he finds your delicacy compromised by your acceptance of my offer,
we will talk no more about it; if not, you acquiesce.' 'I consent,'
said I, and in this way you have become our arbitrator. 'If he
approves,' added my husband, 'I will send him a power of attorney to
realize, in my name, my real estate and bank stock; he will keep this
sum on deposit, and, after my death, you will at least have an income
worthy of you."

Never, perhaps, had Ferrand felt more the value of his spectacles than
at this moment. Without them, Madame d'Orbigny would have seen how his
eyes sparkled at the word "deposit."

He answered, however, in a morose tone, "This is troublesome; this is
for the tenth or twelfth time that I have been chosen an arbiter,
always under pretext of my probity; that is the only word in their
mouths--my probity! my probity! Great advantage; it only gives me
trouble and--"

"My good M. Ferrand, come, don't scold; you will write to M.
d'Orbigny; he awaits your letter, to send you his full power to
realize the sum."

"How much is it?"

"He said, I believe, that it was about four or five hundred thousand
francs."

"The amount is not so large as I thought. After all, you have devoted
yourself to M. d'Orbigny. His daughter is very rich--you have nothing;
I can approve of this. It appears to me you might accept."

"Really, you think so?" said Madame d'Orbigny, dupe, like every one
else, of the proverbial honesty of the notary, and not undeceived in
this respect by Polidori.

"You may accept," said he.

"I shall accept then," said Madame d'Orbigny, with a sigh.

The clerk knocked at the door. "Who is it?" demanded Ferrand.

"Her ladyship, the Countess M'Gregor."

"Let her wait a moment."

"I leave you, then, my dear M. Ferrand," said Madame d'Orbigny; "you
will write to my husband, since he desires it, and he will send you
full powers tomorrow."

"I will write."

"Adieu, my worthy and good counselor."

"Ah! you people of the world do not know how disagreeable it is to
take charge of such deposits--the responsibility which bears on us. I
tell you there is nothing more detestable than this fine reputation
for probity which brings one nothing but drudgery."

"And the admiration of good people."

"Praise the Lord! I place otherwise than here below the recompense I
seek for," said Ferrand, in a sanctified tone.

To Madame d'Orbigny succeeded Countess Sarah M'Gregor.

Sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her habitual coolness and
assurance. Jacques Ferrand did not know her; he was ignorant of the
object of her visit. He observed her very closely, in the hope to make
a new dupe; and, notwithstanding the impassibility of the marble face,
he remarked a slight tremor, which appeared to him to betray concealed
embarrassment.

The notary arose from his chair, and handed a seat to the countess,
saying, "You asked for a meeting, madame, yesterday. I was so much
occupied that I could not send you an answer until this morning; I
make you a thousand excuses."

"I desired to see you, sir, on business of the greatest importance.
Your reputation has made me hope my business with you will be
successful."

The notary bowed in his chair. "I know, sir, that your discretion is
well tried."

"It is my duty, madame."

"You are, sir, a rigid and incorruptible man."

"Granted, madame."

"Yet, if one should say to you, sir, it depends on you to restore
life--more than life--reason to an unhappy mother, would you have the
courage to refuse?"

"State facts, madame, I will answer."

"About fourteen years since, in December, 1824, a young man, dressed
in mourning, came to propose to you to take, for an annuity, the sum
of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, for a child of three years,
whose parents desired to remain unknown."

"Continue, madame," said the notary, avoiding a direct answer.

"You consented to receive this amount, and to assure the child an
income of eight thousand francs. The one-half of this amount was to be
added to the capital until its majority; the other half was to be paid
by you to the person who should take charge of this little girl."

"Continue, madame."

"At the end of two years," said Sarah, without being able to conquer a
slight emotion, "the 28th November, 1827, this child died."

"Before continuing this conversation, madame, I shall ask you what
interest you have in this affair?"

"The mother of this little girl is my _sister_, sir; I have here,
for proof of what I advance, the publication of the death of this poor
little thing, the letters from the person who had care of her, the
receipt of one of your clients, with whom you placed the fifty
thousand crowns."

"Let me see these papers, madame."

Quite astonished not to be believed at her word, Sarah drew from a
portfolio several papers, which the notary closely examined.

"Ah, well, madame, what do you want? The notice of the death is quite
correct; the fifty thousand crowns became the property of M. Petit
Jean, my client, by the death of the child; as to the interests, they
were always punctually paid by me until its decease."

"Nothing can be more correct than your conduct in this affair; sir, I
am pleased to acknowledge it. The woman to whom the child was confided
has also a right to our gratitude; she has taken the greatest care of
my poor little niece."

"That is true, madame; I was so much pleased with her conduct, that,
after the death of the child, I took her in my service; she is still
there."

"Mrs. Seraphin is in your service, sir?"

"For fourteen years, as housekeeper."

"Since it is thus, sir, she can be of great assistance, if you will
grant a demand which will appear strange, perhaps, even culpable at
first; but, when you shall know with what intention--"

"A culpable demand, madame; I do not think you are any more capable of
making than I am of hearing it."

"I know, sir, that you are the last person to whom one should address
such a request; but I place all my hopes--my sole hope--in your pity.
In every case I rely on your discretion."

"Yes, madame."

"I continue, then. The death of this poor little girl has cast her
mother into such a state, her grief is as poignant at the present day
as it was fourteen years since; and, after having feared for her life,
to-day we fear for her reason."

"Poor mother!" said Ferrand, with a sigh.

"Oh! yes, very unfortunate mother, sir; for she could only blush at
the birth of her daughter, at the time she lost her; while now
circumstances are such, that my sister, if her child still lived,
could own her, be proud of her, never leave her. Thus, this incessant
regret, joined to other griefs, makes us fear for her reason."

"Unfortunately, nothing can be done for her."

"Oh, yes."

"How, madame?"

"Suppose some one should come and say to the poor mother. 'Your child
was supposed to be dead; she is not; the woman who had care of her
infancy can affirm it.'"

"Such a falsehood would be cruel, madame. Why cause vain hopes to this
poor mother?"

"But if this was not a falsehood, sir; or, rather, if this supposition
could be realized?"

"By a miracle! If it only needed, to obtain it, my prayers joined to
yours, I would pray from the bottom of my heart. Alas! there can be no
doubt of her death."

"I know it, alas! sir, the child is dead: and yet, if you wish it, the
evil is not irreparable."

"It is an enigma, madame."

"I will speak, then, more plainly. If my sister finds to-morrow her
child, not only will she be restored to health, but, what is more, she
is sure to marry the father of this child, now as free as she is. My
niece died at six years. Separated from her parents at this tender
age, they have no recollection of her. Suppose that a young girl of
seventeen could be found; that my sister should be told, 'Here is your
child; you have been deceived; certain interests required that she
should be thought dead. The woman who had charge of her, a respectable
notary will affirm, will prove to you that it is she--'"

Jacques Ferrand, after having allowed the countess to speak without
interrupting her, rose suddenly, and cried, in an indigant manner,
"Enough, enough, madame. Oh! this is infamous."

"Sir!"

"To dare to propose to me--to me--to palm off a child--a criminal
action! It is the first time in my life that I have received such an
outrage, and I have not deserved it--heaven knows."

"But, who is wronged by it? My sister and the person she desires to
marry are single; both regret bitterly the child they have lost; to
deceive them is to restore to them happiness--life; it is to assure
some forsaken young girl a most happy lot: thus it is a noble,
generous action, and not a crime."

"Truly," cried the notary, with increasing indignation, "I see how the
most execrable projects can be colored with--"

"But reflect."

"I repeat to you, madame, that it is infamous. It is a shame to see a
woman of your rank contriving such abominations, to which your sister,
I hope, is a stranger."

"Sir!"

"Enough, madame, enough! I am not a gallant, not I. I tell you the
naked truth."

Sarah cast on the notary one of her dark looks, and said coldly, "You
refuse?"

"No new insult, madame!"

"Take care!"

"Threats?"

"Threats! and to prove to you that they will not be in vain, learn, in
the first place, that I have no sister."

"What, madame?"

"I am the mother of this child."

"You?"

"I invented this fable to interest you. You are without pity: I raise
the mask. You want war! well, war be it."

"War! because I refuse to lend myself to a criminal act? what
audacity!"

"Listen to me, sir; your reputation as an honest man is great--known
far and near."

"Because it is merited. You must have lost your reason before you
would have dared to make such a proposition?"

"Better than any one, I know, sir, how much one ought to suspect these
reputations of such strict virtue, which often conceal the gallantries
of women and the scoundrelism of men."

"You dare to say this, madame?"

"Since the commencement of our conversation, I do not know wherefore,
I doubted that you deserve the consideration and esteem which you
enjoy."

"Truly, madame, this doubt does honor to your perspicacity."

"Does it not so? for this doubt is founded on nothing--on mere
instinct--on inexplicable presentiments; but rarely has this boding
deceived me."

"Let us finish this conversation, madame."

"Before we do so, know my determination. I begin by telling you, that
I am convinced of the death of my poor child; but, no matter, I will
pretend she is not dead; the most unlikely events are often brought
about. You are at this moment in such a position that you must have
many envious rivals; they will regard it as a piece of good fortune to
attack you. I will furnish means to them."

"You!"

"I, in attacking you under an absurd pretext, on an irregularity in
the registry of death, let us say--no matter, I will maintain my child
is not dead. As I have the greatest interest in having it believed
that she still lives, although lost, this process will serve me in
giving much notoriety to this affair; a mother who reclaims her child
is always interesting; I shall have on my side those who are envious
of you, your enemies, and all those who are feeling and romantic."

"This is as foolish as wicked. Why should I? For what interest should
I say your child is dead, if she were not?"

"That is true, the motive is sufficiently embarrassing to find.
Happily, lawyers are plenty. But a thought! ah! an excellent one:
wishing to divide with your client the sum paid for the annuity, you
have caused the child to be carried off."

The notary, without moving a muscle of his face, shrugged his
shoulders. "If I had been criminal enough to do that, instead of
sending her off, I would have killed her!"

[Illustration: THE DUEL]

Sarah shuddered with surprise, remained silent for a moment, then
resumed with bitterness: "For a holy man, that is a thought of crime
profoundly deep! Have I touched to the quick in shooting at random?
This sets me thinking. One last word: you see what kind of a woman I
am--I crush without pity all who cross my path. Reflect well; to-morrow
you must decide! you can do with impunity what you are asked.
In his joy, the father of my child would not discuss the probability
of such a resurrection, if our falsehoods, which will render him so
happy, are adroitly combined. He has, besides, no other proofs of the
death of our child, than what I wrote to him fourteen years since; it
will be easy for me to persuade him that I deceived him on this
subject; for then I had just cause of complaint against him. I will
tell him that in my anger I wished to break, in his eyes, the last
link which still held us together. You cannot therefore in any way be
compromised; affirm only, irreproachable man, affirm that all has been
concerted between you and me and Mrs. Seraphin, and you will be
believed. As to the money placed with you, that concerns me alone; it
shall remain with your client, who must be ignorant of all this;
finally, you shall name your own recompense."

Jacques Ferrand preserved all his coolness, notwithstanding his
position, so strange and dangerous for him. The countess, believing
really in the death of her child, came to ask him to represent as
living this child, whom he had himself _passed for dead_ fourteen
years before. He was too cunning, and knew too well the perils of his
situation, not to comprehend the bearing of Sarah's threats. Although
admirably constructed, the edifice of the notary's reputation was
built on sand. The public as easily detach as they attach themselves,
and are pleased with the right to trample under foot those whom they
once had exalted to the skies. How foresee the consequences of the
first attack on the reputation of Jacques Ferrand? However ridiculous
this attack might be, its boldness alone might awaken suspicion.

The pertinacity of Sarah, and her obduracy, alarmed the notary. This
mother had not shown for a moment any feeling in speaking of her
child; she had only seemed to consider her death as the loss of a
means of action. Such dispositions are implacable in their objects,
and in their vengeance. Wishing to give himself time to seek some
means to avoid the dangerous blow, Ferrand said coldly to Sarah, "You
have asked until noon to-morrow. It is I, madame, who give you until
the next day to renounce a project, of which you know not the gravity.
If, meanwhile, I do not receive a letter from you in which you
announce that you have abandoned this foolish and criminal
undertaking, you will learn to your cost that justice knows how to
protect honest people who refuse to lend themselves to culpable acts."

"That is to say, sir, that you demand one day more to reflect on my
proposition? That is a good sign; I grant it to you. The day after
to-morrow, at this hour, I will return here, and it shall be between us
peace or war; I repeat it to you, a war to the knife, without mercy or
pity;" and Sarah disappeared.

"All goes well," said she to herself. "This miserable young girl, for
whom Rudolph was so much interested--thanks to old One Eye, who has
delivered me from her, is no longer to be feared. The skill of Rudolph
has saved Madame d'Harville from the snare I placed for her, but it is
impossible she can escape from the new plot I have contrived; she will
then be forever lost to him. Then, sad, discouraged, isolated from all
ties, will he not be in such a disposition of mind, that he will not
desire anything better than to be the dupe of a falsehood, to which,
with the aid of the notary, I can give every appearance of truth? And
the notary will assist me for I have alarmed him. I can easily find a
young orphan girl, interesting and poor who, instructed by me, will
fill the part of our child, so bitterly regretted by Rudolph. I know
the grandeur and generosity of his heart. Yes, to give a name and rank
to her whom he believes to be his daughter, until then unhappy and
abandoned, he will renew those ties which I had thought indissoluble.
The predictions of my nurse will at length be realized, and I shall
have this time surely attained the constant aim of my life--a crown."
Hardly had Sarah left the mansion of the notary, than Charles Robert
entered it, descending from an elegant cabriolet: he turned toward the
private cabinet, as one having free admission.




CHAPTER VIII.

CHARLES ROBERT.


The new-comer entered without any ceremony the notary's office, who
was in a very thoughtful and splenetic mood, and who said to him very
roughly, "I reserve the afternoon for my clients; when you wish to
speak to me, come in the morning."

"My dear scribbler" (this was one of the pleasantries of M. Robert),
"it is concerning an important affair, in the first place, and then I
wish to assure you myself concerning the fears that you might have."

"What fears?"

"Do you not know?"

"What?"

"My duel with the Duke de Lucenay. Are you ignorant of it?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Why this duel?"

"Something very serious, which required blood. Just imagine that, in
the face of the whole embassy, M. de Lucenay allowed himself to say to
me, to my face, that I had a cough, a complaint that must be very
ridiculous."

"You fought for this?"

"And what the devil would you have one to fight for? Do you think that
one could, in cold blood, hear one's self accused of having a cough?
and before a charming woman, too; what is more, before a little
marchioness, who, in brief--it could not be overlooked."

"Certainly."

"We soldiers, you understand, we are always on the look out. My
seconds, the day before yesterday, had an interview with those of the
duke. I had the question placed very plainly; a duel or a retraction."

"A retraction of what?"

"Of the cough, by Jove, which he allowed himself to attribute to me."
The notary shrugged his shoulders.

"On their side the duke's seconds said, 'We render justice to the
honorable character of M. Charles Robert; but his grace of Lucenay
cannot, ought not, will not retract.' 'Then, gentlemen,' responded my
seconds, 'M. de Lucenay still continues to insist that M. Charles
Robert has a cough?' 'Yes, gentlemen; but he does not intend it as an
attack upon M. Robert's reputation.' 'Then let him retract.' 'No,
gentlemen; M. de Lucenay recognizes M. Robert for a gallant man, but
he insists that he has a cough.' You see there was no way of arranging
so serious an affair."

"None. You were insulted in that which a man holds to be most
respectable."

"So they agreed on the day and hour of meeting, and yesterday morning
at Vincennes, all passed in the most honorable manner. I touched the
duke slightly in the arm with my sword; the seconds declared my honor
satisfied. Then the duke said, in a loud voice, 'I never retract
before an affair; afterward, it is different: it is therefore my duty
to proclaim that I falsely accused M. Charles Robert of having a
cough. Gentlemen, I confess, not only that my loyal adversary has no
cough, but I affirm that he is incapable of ever having it.' Then the
duke extended his hand to me cordially, saying, 'Are you content?
Henceforth we are friends in life until death.' I answered, that I
owed him as much. The duke has done everything that was right. He
might have said nothing at all, or contented himself with saying that
I had not the cough; but to affirm that I never could have one was a
very delicate proceeding on his part."

"This is what I call courage well employed. But what do you mean?"

"My dear banker" (another pleasantry of M. Robert), "it concerns
something of great importance to me. You know that in our agreement,
when I advanced you 350,000 francs, in order that you might finish the
purchase of your notariat, it was stipulated that, by giving you three
months' notice, I could withdraw from you this amount for which you
now pay interest."

"What next?"

"Well!" said M. Robert, with hesitation, "I; no, but--"

"What?"

"You perceive it is pure caprice; an idea to become a landed
proprietor, my dear law-writer."

"Explain yourself; you annoy me."

"In a word, I have been offered a territorial acquisition, and, if it
is not disagreeable to you I should wish, that is to say, I should
desire, to withdraw my funds from you; and I come to give you notice,
according to our agreement."

"Humph!"

"It does not make you angry, I hope!"

"Why should it?"

"Because you might think--"

"I may think?"

"That I am the echo of rumors."

"What rumors?"

"No, nothing; absurdities."

"But, tell me then?"

"It is no reason because there _are_ reports in circulation about
you----"

"About me?"

"There is not a word of truth in it--that you have been doing some bad
business; pure scandal, no doubt, like when we speculated on the
'Change together. That report soon fell to the ground; for I wish that
you and I might become----"

"Then you think your money is no longer safe with me?"

"Not so; but I prefer to have it in my hands."

"Wait a minute."

Ferrand shut the drawer of his bureau, and rose.

"Where are you going to, my dear banker?"

"To look for something to convince you of the truth of the rumors
concerning me," said the notary, ironically. And opening a little
private staircase which led to the pavilion, without going through the
office, he disappeared.

Hardly had he gone when the clerk knocked at the door. "Come in," said
Charles Robert.

"Is not M. Ferrand here?"

"No, my worthy blue-baggist."

"A veiled lady wishes to speak to master instantly, on very pressing
business."

"Worthy fellow, your master will return directly; I will tell him. Is
she pretty?"

"One must be a wizard to find this out; she wears a black veil, so
thick that her face cannot be seen."

"Good, good! I'll take a look at her when I go out."

The clerk left the room.

"Where the devil is he gone to?" said Charles to himself. "If these
reports are absurd, so much the better. Never mind, I prefer to have
my money. I will buy the chateau they have spoken to me of, with
Gothic towers of the time of Louis XIV.; that will give me a noble
appearance. It will not be like my affair with this prude of a Madame
d'Harville--fine game! Oh, no; I have not made my expenses, as the
stupid old portress in the Rue du Temple said, with her fantastic
periwig. This pleasantry has cost meat least a thousand crowns. It is
true, the furniture remains; and I can compromise the marquise. But
here is the scrivener."

Ferrand returned, holding in his hand some papers, which he gave to
Robert.

"Here," said he to him, "are three hundred and fifty thousand francs
in Treasury notes. In a few days we will regulate the interest. Write
me a receipt."

"Eh!" cried Charles, stupefied. "Oh! now don't think, at least, that
I--"

"I think nothing."

"But--"

"This receipt!"

"Dear sir."

"Write; and tell the people who speak to you of my embarrassments how
I answer such suspicions."

"The fact is, as soon as this is known, your credit will only be the
more solid. But, really, take the money; I cannot use it now; I said
in three months."

"M. Charles Robert, no one shall suspect me twice."

"You are angry?"

"The receipt."

"Oh, obstinacy!" said Charles Robert; then he added, writing the
receipt, "There is a lady closely veiled, who wishes to speak to you
on some very pressing business. I shall take a good look at her when I
pass. Here is your receipt; is it right?"

"Very well; now go away by the little staircase."

"But the lady?"

"It is just to prevent your seeing her."

The notary rang for the clerk, saying to him, "Show the lady in.
Adieu, M. Robert."

"Well, I must renounce seeing her. No ill-feeling, eh! scrivener?"

"Believe as much."

"Well, well! adieu."

The notary shut the door on Charles Robert.

After a few moments the clerk introduced the Duchess de Lucenay, very
modestly dressed, wrapped in a large shawl, her face completely
concealed by a thick veil of black lace, which covered her moire hat
of the same color.




CHAPTER IX.

THE DUCHESS DE LUCENAY.


Madame de Lucenay slowly approached the desk, in an agitated manner;
he advanced to meet her.

"Who are you, madame, and what do you want with me?" said the notary,
roughly, whose temper, already fretted by the threat of Sarah, was
exasperated at the suspicions of Robert. Besides, the duchess was so
modestly dressed, that the notary saw no reason why he should be civil
to her. As she hesitated to speak, he said, even more harshly, "Will
you explain yourself, madame?"

"Sir," said she, in a trembling voice, trying to conceal her face
under the folds of her veil, "Sir, can one confide a secret to you of
the highest importance?"

"Anything can be confided to me, madame, but I must see and know to
whom I speak."

"That, perhaps, is not necessary. I know that you are honor and
loyalty itself."

"Just so, madame, just so; there is some one there waiting. Who are
you?"

"My name is of no importance, sir. One of my friends--of my relations--
has just left you."

"His name?"

"M. Floreston de Saint Remy."

"Ah!" said the notary, casting on the duchess an inquisitive and
searching glance; then he resumed: "Well, madame!"

"M. de Saint Remy has told me everything, sir."

"What did he tell you?"

"All!"

"But what did he say?"

"You know well."

"I know many things about M. de Saint Remy."

"Alas! sir, a terrible thing."

"I know a great many terrible things about M. de Saint Remy."

"Ah! sir, he told me truly--you are without pity."

"For cheats and forgers like him, yes, I am without pity. Is Saint
Remy your relation? Instead of confessing it, you ought to blush. Do
you come here to weep, to soften me? It is useless; without saying
that you are performing a wretched part for an honest woman, if you
are one."

This brutal insolence was revolting to the pride and patrician blood
of the duchess. She drew herself up, threw her veil back, and with a
proud look, and a firm, imperious voice, she said, "Sir, I am the
Duchess of Lucenay."

This woman assumed so haughty an air, her appearance became so
imposing, that the notary, overcome, charmed, fell back astonished;
took off, mechanically, his black silk cap, and saluted her
profoundly.

Nothing could be, indeed, more graceful and more majestic than the
face and bearing of Madame de Lucenay; yet she was then over thirty
years of age, with a pale face, appearing slightly fatigued; but she
had large sparkling brown eyes, splendid black hair, a fine arched
nose, a proud and ruby lip, dazzling complexion, very white teeth,
tall and slender figure, a form like a "goddess on the clouds," as the
immortal St. Simon says.

She had entered the notary's as a timid woman; all at once she showed
herself a grand, proud, and irritated lady. Never had Jacques Ferrand
in his life met with a woman of so much insolent beauty, at once so
bold and so noble. Although old, ugly, mean, and sordid, Jacques
Ferrand was as capable as any one else of appreciating the style of
beauty of Madame de Lucenay. His hatred and his rage against Saint
Remy augmented with his admiration of the charming duchess. He thought
to himself that this gentleman forger, who had almost kneeled before
him, inspired such love in this grand lady, that she risked a step
which might ruin her. At these thoughts the notary felt his audacity,
which for a moment was paralyzed, restored. Hatred, envy, a kind of
burning, savage resentment kindled in his looks, on his forehead, and
his cheeks--the most shameful and wicked passions. Seeing Madame de
Lucenay on the point of commencing a conversation so delicate, he
expected on her part some turnings, expedients. What was his surprise!
She spoke to him with as much assurance and pride as if it was
concerning the most natural thing in the world, and as if before a man
of his species, she had no thought of the reserve and fitness which
she had certainly shown to her equals. In fact, the gross insolence of
the notary, in wounding her to the quick, had forced Madame de
Lucenay, to quit the humble and imploring part that she had at first
assumed with much trouble; returned to her own dignity, she believed
it to be beneath her to descend to the least concealment with this
scribbler of deeds.

"Sir notary," said the duchess, resolutely, to Jacques Ferrand, "M. de
Saint Remy is one of my friends; he has confided to me the
embarrassing situation in which he finds himself, from the
inconvenience of a double piece of villainy of which he is the victim.
Everything can be managed with money. How much is necessary to
terminate these miserable, shuffling tricks?"

Jacques Ferrand was completely astounded with this cavalier and
deliberate manner of opening the business.

"They ask a hundred thousand francs," answered he, as soon as he had
recovered from his astonishment.

"You shall have your hundred thousand francs; and you will send at
once the bad papers to M. de Saint Remy."

"Where are the hundred thousand francs, your grace?"

"Did I not tell you that you should have them, sir?"

"They must be had to-morrow, before noon, madame; otherwise a
complaint of forgery will be made."

"Well, give this amount; I will be accountable for it; as for you I
will pay you well."

"But, madame, it is impossible."

"You will not tell me, I hope, that a notary like you cannot procure a
hundred thousand francs any day?"

"On what security, madame?"

"What does that mean? Explain yourself."

"Who is to be answerable for this amount?" "I."

"But, madame--"

"Is it necessary for me to tell you that I have property yielding
eighty thousand livres rent, at four leagues from Paris? That will
suffice, I believe, for that which you call guarantee?"

"Yes, madame, by means of a mortgage."

"What does that mean again? Some formality, doubtless. Make it, sir,
make it."

"Such a deed cannot be drawn up under two weeks, and it needs the
consent of your husband, madame."

"But this is my property, mine--mine alone," said the duchess,
impatiently.

"No matter, madame; you are in the power of your husband, and a deed
of mortgage is very long and very minute."

"But once more, sir, you cannot make me believe that it so difficult
to procure one hundred thousand francs in two hours."

"Then, madame, apply to your own notary, to your steward; with me, it
is impossible."

"I have reasons, sir, to keep this a secret," said Madame de Lucenay,
heartily. "You know the rogues who wish to rob M. de Saint Remy; it is
on this account I address myself to you."

"Your confidence infinitely honors me, madame; but I cannot do what
you ask."

"You have not this amount?"

"I have much more than this sum in bank bills, or in gold--here--here,
in my safe."

"Oh, what a waste of words! Is it my signature you wish? I give it
you; let us finish."

"In admitting, madame, that you are the Duchess of Lucenay."

"Come in an hour's time to the Hôtel de Lucenay, sir: I will sign at
home what is necessary to be signed."

"Will his grace sign also?"

"I do not understand you, sir."

"Your signature alone is of no value to me, madame."

Jacques Ferrand enjoyed with cruel delight the impatience of the
duchess, who, under the appearance of _sang froid_ and disdain,
concealed the most painful anguish. She was for a moment at the end of
her resources. The evening previous, her jeweler had advanced her a
considerable sum on her diamonds, some of which were confided to
Morel, the artisan. This sum had served to pay the bills of Saint
Remy, and disarm other creditors; Dubreul, the farmer at Arnouville,
was more than a year in advance, and besides, time was wanting;
unfortunately for Madame de Lucenay, two of her friends, to whom she
could have had recourse in an extreme situation, were then absent from
Paris. In her eyes, the viscount was innocent; he had told her, and
she believed it, that he was the dupe of two rogues; but her situation
was none the less terrible. He accused, he dragged to prison! Then,
even if he should take to flight would his name be any less dishonored
by such a suspicion?

"Since you possess the sum I ask for, sir, and my guarantee is
sufficient, why do you refuse me?"

"Because men have their caprices as well as women, madame."

"But what is this caprice, which makes you act thus against your
interest? for, I repeat to you, make your conditions; whatever they
may be, I accept them!"

"Your grace will accept all the conditions?" said the notary, with a
singular expression.

"All! two, three, four thousand francs--more, if you will; for I tell
you," added the duchess, frankly, in a tone almost affectionate, "I
have no resource but in you, sir--in you alone. It will be impossible
for me to find elsewhere that which I ask you for to-morrow; and it
must be--you understand--it must be absolutely. Thus, I repeat to you,
whatever condition you impose on me for this service, I accept."

In his blindness, he had interpreted in an unworthy manner the last
words of the duchess. It was an idea as stupid as it was infamous; but
we have already said that sometimes Jacques Ferrand became a tiger or
a wolf; then the beast overpowered the man. He arose quickly and
advanced toward the duchess. She, thunder-struck, rose at the same
moment and regarded him with astonishment.

"You will not regard the cost?" cried he, in a broken voice,
approaching still nearer to the duchess. "Well, this sum I will lend
to you on one condition, one single condition--and I swear that----"
He could not finish his declaration.

By one of those strange contradictions of human nature at the sight of
the hideous face of M. Ferrand, at the mere thought of what his
conditions might be, Madame de Lucenay, notwithstanding her
inquietudes and troubles, burst out in a laugh so frank, so loud, so
mirthful, that the notary recoiled confounded.

Without giving him time to utter a word, the duchess, abandoning
herself more and more to her hilarity, pulled down her veil, and
between two renewed bursts of laughter, said to the notary, who was
almost blind with rage, hatred, and fury, "I prefer, upon the whole,
to ask this favor openly of the duke." She then went out, continuing
to laugh so loudly that, though the door of the cabinet was closed,
the notary could still hear her.

Jacques Ferrand returned to his senses only to curse his imprudence
bitterly. Yet, by degrees he reassured himself in thinking that the
duchess could not speak of this interview without gravely compromising
herself.

Nevertheless, it was a bad day for him. He was buried in the blackest
thoughts, when the private door of his cabinet was opened, and Mrs.
Seraphin entered wildly.

"Oh, Ferrand!" cried she, clasping her hands, "you were right enough
in saying that we should some day regret having spared her life!"

"Whose?"

"That cursed little girl's."

"How?"

"A one-eyed woman, whom I did not know, to whom Tournemine delivered
the little girl to rid us of her, fourteen years ago, when we said she
was dead. Oh, who would have thought it!"

"Speak!"

"This woman has just been here; she was below just now. She told me
she knew it was I who gave up the child."

"Malediction! who could have told her? Tournemine is at the galleys."

"I denied everything, treating her as a liar. But she maintains that
she has found this child again, now grown up; that she knows where she
is, and that it only depends upon herself to discover everything."

"Is hell unchained against me to-day?" cried the notary, in a fit of
rage that rendered him hideous.

"What shall be said to the woman? What must we promise, to keep her
silent?"

"Does she look as if she were poor?"

"As I treated her like a beggar, she shook her reticule--there was
money in it."

"And she knows where this young girl is now?"

"She declares she knows."

"And she is the daughter of Countess M'Gregor!" said the notary to
himself, "who just now offered me so much to say that her child was
not dead! And the child lives. I can restore her to her! Yes; but this
false certificate of death--if any inquiry is made, I am lost! This
crime may put them on the scent of others." After a moment's thought,
he said to Madame Seraphin, "This one-eyed woman knows where the girl
is?"

"Yes."

"And this woman will return to-morrow?"

"To-morrow."

"Write to Polidori to be here to-night at nine o'clock."

"Do you mean to get rid of the girl and the old woman? It will be too
much for one time, Ferrand!"

"I tell you to write to Folidori to be here to-night by nine o'clock."



At the close of this day, Rudolph said to Murphy, who had not been
able to see the notary, "Let M. de Graun send a courtier off at once.
Cicily must be in Paris in six days."

"Once more that infernal she-devil! the execrable wife of poor David,
as handsome as she is infamous! For what good, your highness?"

"For what good, Sir Walter? In a month's time you may ask this
question of the notary, Jacques Ferrand."




CHAPTER X.

DENUNCIATION.


About ten o'clock in the evening of the day on which Fleur-de-Marie
had been carried off by Screech-owl and the Schoolmaster, a man on
horseback arrived at the farm, coming, as he said, on the part of
Rudolph, to reassure Mrs. George as to the disappearance of her young
_protegee_, who would return to her in a few days. For several
very important reasons, added this man, Rudolph begged Mrs. George, in
the event of her having anything to send him, not to write him at
Paris, but to hand the letter to the courier, who would take charge of
it.

This courier was an emissary of Sarah's. By this she tranquilized Mrs.
George, and retarded thus for some days the moment when Rudolph must
hear of the abduction. In this interval, Sarah hoped to force the
notary to favor the unworthy scheme of which we have spoken. This was
not all. Sarah wished also to get rid of Madame d'Harville, who
inspired her with serious fears, and who would have been lost but for
Rudolph's rescue.

On the day when the marquis had followed his wife to the house in the
Rue du Temple, where she was to meet Charles Robert, but where Rudolph
led her to the Morels, and thus changed the assignation into a call in
charity, Sarah's brother Tom went there, easily set Mrs. Pipelet
jabbering, and learned that a young lady, on the point of being
surprised by her husband, had been saved, thanks to a lodger in the
house named Rudolph. Informed of this circumstance, Sarah, possessing
no material proof of the rendezvous that Lady d'Harville had given to
Charles Robert, conceived another odious plan. It was concocted to
send an anonymous letter to the marquis, in order to effect a complete
rupture between him and Rudolph, or, at least, to make the marquis so
suspicious as to forbid any further intercourse between the prince and
his wife.

This letter was thus couched:

"You have been deceived most shamefully. The other day, your wife,
advised that you were following her, pretended an imaginary visit of
charity; she went to meet a very _august personage_, who has
hired in the Rue du Temple a room in the fourth story, under the name
of Rudolph. If you doubt these facts, strange as they may appear, go
to the Rue du Temple, No. 17, and inform yourself; paint to yourself
the features of the _august person_ spoken of, and you will easily
acknowledge that you are the most credulous, good-natured husband
who has ever been so _sovereignly_ deceived. Do not neglect
this advice; otherwise it will be supposed that you, also are too much.

    "THE FRIEND OF PRINCES."

This note was put in the post at five o'clock by Sarah, on the day of
her interview with the notary. The same evening, Rudolph went to pay a
visit to a foreign embassy: after which it was his intention to go to
Madame d'Harville's to announce to her that he had found a charitable
intrigue worthy of her. We will conduct the reader to Madame
d'Harville's. It will be seen, from the following conversation, that
this young lady, in showing herself generous and compassionate towards
her husband, whom she had until then treated with extreme coldness,
followed already the noble counsels of Rudolph.

The marquis and his wife had just left the table; the scene passed in
the little saloon of which we have spoken; the expression of Clemence
d'Harville was affectionate and kind; D'Harville seemed less sad than
usual. He had not yet received the now infamous letter from Sarah.

"What are you going to do to-night?" said he, mechanically, to his
wife.

"I shall not go out; pray what are your plans?"

"I do not know," answered he, with a sigh. "Society is insupportable
to me. I will pass this evening, like so many other evenings, alone."

"Why alone, since I am not going out?"

M. d'Harville looked at his wife with surprise. "Doubtless, but--"

"Well?"

"I know that you often prefer solitude when you do not go out."

"Yes; but as I am very capricious," said Clemence, smiling, "at
present I prefer to partake my solitude with you, if it is agreeable
to you."

"Really," cried D'Harville, with emotion, "how kind you are to
anticipate what I dared not express."

"Do you know, dear, that your astonishment has almost an air of
reproach?"

"A reproach? Oh, no, no! not after my unjust and cruel suspicions the
other day. To find you so forgiving, it is, I confess, a surprise for
me; but a surprise the most delightful."

"Let us forget the past," said she to her husband, with an angelic
smile.

"Clemence, can you forget?" answered he, sadly. "Have I not dared to
suspect you? To tell you to what extremity a blind jealousy has
impelled me? But what is all this compared to other wrongs, still
greater, more irreparable?"

"Let us forget the past, I say," repeated Clemence, restraining her
emotion.

"What do I hear? The past also--can you forget it?"

"I hope to do so."

"Can it be true, Clemence, you can be so generous? But no, no, I
cannot believe in so much happiness; I had renounced it forever."

"You were wrong, you see."

"What a change! Is it a dream? Oh, tell me I am not mistaken."

"No, no, you are not mistaken."

"And, truly, your look is less cold; your voice almost falters. Oh,
say, is it true? Am I not under an illusion?"

"No; for I also have need of pardon."

"You!"

"Have I not been cruel towards you! Ought I not to have thought that
you must have needed a rare courage, a virtue more than human, to act
differently from what you did? Isolated, unhappy, how resist the
desire of seeking some consolation in a marriage which pleased you?
Alas! when one suffers, one is so disposed to believe in the
generosity of others! Your error has been, until now, to count on
mine. Well, henceforth I will try to give you reason."

"Oh, speak, speak once more!" said D'Harville, his hands clasped in a
kind of ecstasy.

"Our existence is forever united. I will do all in my power to render
your life less bitter."

"Is it you I hear?"

"I beg you do not be so much astonished; it gives me pain; it is a
bitter censure on my past conduct. Who else should pity you? Who
should lend you a friendly and helping hand, if not I? A happy
inspiration I have received. I have reflected, well reflected, on the
past, on the future. I have seen my errors, and I have found, I
believe, the means to repair them."

"Your errors, poor wife?"

"Yes; I should have, the next day after our marriage, appealed to your
honor, and frankly demanded a separation."

"Ah, Clemence, pity, pity!"

"Otherwise, since I accepted my position, I should have augmented it
by submission, instead of causing you constant self-reproach by my
haughty and taciturn coldness. I should have endeavored to console you
for a fearful malady, by only remembering your misfortune. By degrees
I should have become attached to my work of commiseration, by reason
even of the cares, perhaps the sacrifices, which it would have cost
me; your gratitude had rewarded me, and then--but what is the matter?
You weep!"

"Yes, I weep--weep with joy. You do not know how many new emotions
your words cause me. Oh, Clemence, let me weep!"

"Never more than at this moment have I comprehended how culpable I
have been in chaining you to my sad destiny!"

"And never have I felt more decided to forget. These gentle tears that
you shed make me acquainted with a happiness of which I was ignorant.
Courage, dear, courage; in default of a fortunate and smiling destiny,
let us seek our satisfaction in the accomplishment of the serious
duties that fate imposes. Let us be indulgent to one another; if we
falter, let us regard the cradle of our child, let us concentrate on
her all our affections, and we shall yet have some joys, melancholy
and holy."

"An angel, she is an angel!" cried D'Harville, joining his hands and
looking at his wife with affectionate admiration. "Oh! you do not know
the pain and pleasure you cause me, Clemence! you do not know that
your harshest words formerly, your most severe reproaches, alas! the
most merited, have never so much overwhelmed me as this adorable,
generous resignation, and yet, in spite of myself, you make hope
spring up again. You do not know the future that I dare imagine."

"And you can have blind and entire faith in what I tell you, Albert.
This resolution is taken firmly; it shall never fail, I swear it to
you. Before long I may give you new guarantees of my word."

"Guarantees?" cried D'Harville, more and more excited by happiness so
unlooked for, "guarantees! have I need of them? Your look, your voice,
this beaming expression of goodness which still graces you, the
throbbings of my heart, all, all prove to me that what you say is
true. But you know, Clemence, man is insatiable in his hopes," added
the marquis. "Your noble and touching words give me courage to hope,
yes, to hope what yesterday I regarded as an insensate dream."

"Albert, I swear to you I shall always be the most devoted of friends,
the most tender of sisters; but nothing more. Pardon, pardon, if
unknowingly my words have ever given you hopes which can never be
realized."

"Never?" cried D'Harville, fixing on her a desperate and supplicating
look.

"Never!" answered Clemence.

This single word, the tone of voice, revealed an irrevocable
resolution. Clemence, brought back to noble resolutions by the
influence of Rudolph, was firmly resolved to surround her husband with
the most touching attentions; but she felt that she was incapable of
ever loving him. An impression still stronger than fright, contempt,
hatred, separated Clemence from her husband forever. It was a
repugnance invincible. After a moment of mournful silence, D'Harville
passed his hand over his eyes, and said to his wife, bitterly:

"Pardon me for deceiving myself; pardon me for having abandoned myself
to a hope, mad as it was foolish. Oh! I am very unfortunate!"

"My friend," said Clemence to him gently, "I do not wish to reproach
you; yet do you reckon as nothing my promise to be for you the most
tender of sisters? You will owe to the most devoted friendship
attentions that love could not give you. Hope for better days. Until
now you have found me almost indifferent to your sorrows; you shall
see how I shall compassionate you, and what consolations you will find
in my affection."

A servant entered, and said to Clemence, "His Royal Highness the Grand
Duke of Gerolstein asks if your ladyship will receive him?"

Clemence looked at her husband, who, recovering his coolness, said to
her, "Of course." The servant retired.

"Pardon me, my friend," said Clemence; "I did not say that I would not
receive. Besides, it is a long time since you have seen the prince; he
will be happy to find you here. I shall, also, be much pleased to see
him; yet I avow, that just now I am so agitated that I should have
preferred to receive his visit some other day."

"I can comprehend it; but what could we do? Here he is." At the same
moment, Rudolph was announced.

"I am a thousand times happy, madame, to have the honor to meet you,"
said Rudolph; "and I doubly appreciate my good fortune, since it also
procures me the pleasure of seeing you, my dear Albert," added he,
turning toward the marquis, whom he cordially shook by the hand.

"It is a long time since I have had the honor to pay your highness my
respects."

"And whose fault is it, invisible lord? The last time I came to pay my
respects to Madame d'Harville, I asked for you; you were absent. It is
now three weeks that you have forgotten me; it is very wrong."

"Be merciless, your highness," said Clemence, smiling: "M. d'Harville
is the more guilty, since he has for your highness the most profound
respect, and he might make that doubted by his negligence."

"Well! see my vanity, madame; whatever D'Harville might do, it would
always be impossible for me to doubt his affection; but I ought not to
say this. I am encouraging him in such conduct."

"Believe me, your highness, that some unforeseen circumstances alone
have prevented me from profiting oftener by your kindness toward me."

"Between ourselves, my dear Albert, I believe you a little too
platonic in friendship; very sure that you are loved, you are not
pliant enough to give or receive proofs of attachment."

Through a breach of etiquette, which rather annoyed Madame d'Harville,
a servant entered, bringing a letter to the marquis. It was the
anonymous denunciation of Sarah, which accused the prince of being the
lover of Madame d'Harville.

The marquis, out of deference to the prince, pushed back with his hand
the silver salver which the servant handed him, and said, in an
undertone, "Not now, not now."

"My dear Albert," said the prince, in the most affectionate tone, "do
you stand on ceremony with me?"

"But, your highness--"

"With the permission of Madame d'Harville, I beg you to read this
letter!"

"I assure your highness that there is nothing pressing."

"Once more, Albert, read this letter!"

"But--"

"I entreat you--I wish it."

"Since your royal highness requires it," said the marquis, taking the
letter from the salver.

"Certainly. I require you to treat me as a friend."

Then turning toward the marchioness, while M. d'Harville broke the
seal of this fatal letter, the contents of which Rudolph could not
have imagined, he added, smiling, "What a triumph for you, madame, to
cause this will, so stern, always to yield!"

D'Harville drew near one of the candelabra on the chimney-piece, and
opened the letter. Rudolph and Clemence conversed together, while
D'Harville twice read the letter. His countenance remained composed; a
nervous trembling, almost imperceptible, agitated his hands alone;
after a moment's hesitation, he put the note into his waistcoat
pocket.

"At the risk of passing for a savage," said he to Rudolph, smiling, "I
shall ask permission to go and answer this letter--more important than
I thought at first."

"Shall I not see you again to-night?"

"I do not think that I can have that honor; I hope your royal highness
will excuse me."

"What a man!" said Rudolph gayly. "Will you not try to retain him,
madame!"

"I dare not attempt what your highness has attempted in vain."

"Seriously, my dear Albert, try to return to us as soon as your letter
is written; if not, promise to grant me an interview some morning. I
have a thousand things to say to you."

"Your royal highness overwhelms me," said the marquis, bowing
profoundly as he retired.

"Your husband is preoccupied," said Rudolph to the marchioness, "his
smile appeared constrained."

"When your royal highness arrived D'Harville was profoundly affected;
he had great trouble to conceal it."

"I have arrived, perhaps, at an inopportune moment."

"No, you have even spared me the conclusion of a painful
conversation."

"How is that?"

"I have told D'Harville the new line of conduct that I was resolved to
follow, promising him support and consolation."

"How happy he should be!"

"At first he was as much so as myself; for his tears and joy produced
an emotion to which I had, as yet, been a stranger. Formerly I thought
I revenged myself by addressing him a reproach, a sarcasm. Sad
revenge! My sorrow afterward has only been more bitter. While just
now--what a difference! I asked my husband if he were going out: he
answered me sadly, that he should pass the evening alone, as was
usually the case. When I offered to remain with him--Oh! if you could
have seen his astonishment! how his expression, always sad, became at
once radiant. Ah! you were right--nothing is more pleasing than to
contrive such surprises of happiness!"

"But how did these proofs of goodness on your part lead to this
painful conversation of which you have spoken?"

"Alas!" said Clemence, blushing, "to these hopes succeeded hopes more
tender, which I was very guarded not to excite, because it will always
be impossible for me to realize them."

"I comprehend; he loves you tenderly."

"As much as I was at first touched with his gratitude, so much was I
alarmed at his protestations of love. I could not conceal my alarm. I
caused him a sad blow in manifesting thus my invincible repugnance to
his love, I regret it. But, at least, D'Harville is now forever
convinced that he has only to expect from me the most devoted
friendship."

"I pity him, without being able to blame you; there are
susceptibilities, thus to speak, which are sacred. Poor Albert, so
good, so kind! If you knew how much I have been afflicted, for a long
time past, with his sadness and dejection, although ignorant of the
cause. Let us leave all to time, to reason. By degrees he will
recognize the value of the affection you offer him, and he will be
resigned to it, as he was resigned before having the touching
consolations which you offer him."

"And which shall never be wanting, I swear to your highness."

"Now let us think of the other unfortunates. I have promised you a
good work, having all the charm of a romance in action. I come to
fulfill my engagement."

"Already! what happiness!"

"Ah! it was a kind of happy inspiration that induced me to take that
poor room in the house of the Rue du Temple, of which I have spoken to
you. You cannot imagine all that I find curious and interesting! In
the first place, your _proteges_ of the garret enjoy the comforts
your presence had promised them; they have, however, yet to undergo
some sad trials; but I do not wish to make you sad. Some day you shall
know how many horrible calamities may overwhelm one single family."

"What must be their gratitude toward you!" "It is your name they
bless."

"Your highness has succored them in my name?"

"To render the charity sweeter to them. Besides, I have only realized
your promises."

"Oh! I will go and undeceive them: tell them it is to you they owe--"

"Do not do that! you know I have a room in that house: be guarded
against any new cowardly acts of your enemies, or of mine; and since
the Morels are now out of the reach of want, think of others. Let us
think of our intrigue. It concerns a poor mother and her daughter,
who, formerly in affluence, are at this time, in consequence of an
infamous spoliation, reduced to the most frightful misery."

"Unfortunate women! and where do they live, your highness?"

"I do not know."

"But how did you find out their situation?"

"Yesterday I went to the temple. Your ladyship does not know what the
Temple is?"

"No, my lord."

"It is a bazaar very amusing to see. I went there to make some
purchases with my neighbor of the fourth floor."

"Your neighbor?"

"Have I not my room in the Rue du Temple?"

"I forgot."

"This neighbor is a charming little grisette; she calls herself
Rigolette; this Miss Dimpleton is always laughing, and never had a
lover."

"What virtue for a grisette!"

"It is not exactly from virtue that she is virtuous, but because, she
says, she has no time to be in love; for she must work from twelve to
fifteen hours a-day to earn twenty-five sous, on which she lives."

"She can live on so small an amount?"

"Rather; and she has even articles of luxury; two birds who eat more
than she does; her little room is as neat as possible, and her dress
really quite coquettish."

"Live on twenty-five sous a-day! she is a prodigy."

"A real prodigy of order, labor, economy, and practical philosophy, I
assure you; hence, I recommend her to you. She is, she says, a very
skillful seamstress. At all events, you would not be ashamed to wear
the clothes she may make."

"To-morrow I will send her some work. Poor girl! to live on so small a
sum, and, so to speak, be unknown to us, who are rich, whose smallest
caprices cost a hundred times that amount."

"I am rejoiced that you have determined to interest yourself in my
little _protegee_. I will now explain our new adventure. I had
gone to the Temple with Rigolette, to purchase some furniture designed
for the poor people in the garret, when, upon accidentally examining
an old secretary which was for sale, I found the draft of a letter
written by a female to some individual, in which she complained that
herself and daughter were reduced to the greatest misery, on account
of the dishonesty of a lawyer. The secretary was part of a lot of
furniture, which a woman of middle age had been compelled by her
penury to sell; and I was told by the dealer that the woman and her
daughter seemed to belong to the upper classes of society, and to bear
their reverses with great fortitude and pride."

"And you do not know their abode?"

"Unfortunately, no. But I have given orders to M. de Graun to endeavor
to discover it, even if he is obliged to apply to the police. It is
possible that, stripped of every thing, the mother and daughter have
sought refuge in some miserably furnished lodgings. If it should be
so, we have some hope, for the landlords report every evening the
strangers who arrive in the course of the day."

"What a singular concurrence of circumstances!" said Madame
d'Harville, with astonishment.

"This is not all. In a corner of this letter, found in the old
secretary were these words, '_Write to Madame de Lucenay_.'"

"What good fortune! perhaps we can find out something from the
duchess," cried Madame d'Harville, with vivacity; then she continued,
with a sigh, "But I am ignorant of the name of this woman--how
designate her to Madame de Lucenay?"

"You must ask if she does not know a widow, still young, of
distinguished appearance, whose daughter, aged sixteen or seventeen,
is named Claire."

"I remember the name. The name of my own daughter! It seems to me a
motive the more to interest me in their misfortunes."

"I forgot to tell you that the brother of this widow committed suicide
some months ago."

"If Madame de Lucenay knows this family," said Madame d'Harville,
"such information will suffice to bring them to her mind. How desirous
I am of going to see her. I will write her a note to-night, so that I
shall be sure to find her to-morrow morning. Who can these women be?
From what you know of them, they appear to belong to the upper classes
of society. And to find themselves reduced to such distress! Ah! for
them poverty must be doubly frightful!"

"By the robbery of a notary, a miserable scoundrel, of whom I already
know many other misdeeds--Jacques Ferrand."

"My husband's notary!" cried Clemence; "the notary of my step-mother!
But you are deceived, my lord; he is looked upon as one of the most
honorable men in the world."

"I have proofs to the contrary. But do not, I pray you, say a word on
this subject to any one; he is as crafty as he is criminal, and to
unmask him, I have need that he shall not suspect, or rather, that he
shall go on with impunity a short time longer. Yes; it is he who has
despoiled these unfortunates, by denying a deposit which, from all
appearances, had been placed in his hands by the brother of this
widow."

"And this sum?"

"Was their sole resource! Oh! what a crime--what a crime!" cried
Rudolph; "a crime that nothing can excuse--neither want nor passion.
Often does hunger cause robbery, vengeance, murder. But this notary
was already rich; and, clothed by society with a character almost
holy, which imposes, ay, forces confidence, this man is induced to
crime by a cold and implacable cupidity. The assassin only kills you
once, and quickly, with his knife; he kills you slowly, by all the
horrors of despair and misery into which he plunges you. For a man
like this Ferrand, no patrimony of the orphan or savings of the poor
are sacred! You confide to him gold; this gold tempts him; he makes
you a beggar. By the force of privations and toil, you have assured to
yourself bread, and an asylum for your old age; _the will_ of
this man tears from your old age this bread and shelter. This is not
all. See the fearful effects of these infamous spoliations; this widow
of whom we speak may die of sorrow and distress; her daughter, young
and handsome, without support, without resources, accustomed to a
competency, unfit, from her education, to gain a living, soon finds
herself between starvation and dishonor! she is lost! By this robbery,
Jacques Ferrand is the cause of the death of the mother, the ruin of
the child! he has killed the body of one, he has killed the soul of
the other; and this, once more I say it, not at once, like other
homicides, but with cruelty, and slowly."

[Illustration: BETWEEN DISHONOR AND HUNGER]

Clemence had never heard Rudolph speak with so much bitterness and
indignation; she listened in silence, struck by these words of
eloquence, doubtless very sad, but which discovered a vigorous hatred
of evil.

"Pardon me, madame," said Rudolph, after a moment's pause; "I cannot
restrain my indignation in thinking of the cruel fate which your
future _protegees_ may have realized. Ah! believe me, the
consequences of ruin and poverty are very seldom exaggerated."

"Oh! on the contrary, I thank your highness for having, by these
terrible words, still more augmented, if that is possible, the sincere
commiseration I feel for these unfortunates. Alas! it is above all for
her daughter she must suffer! oh! it is frightful. But we will save
them--we will assure their future. I am rich, but not as much so as I
could wish, now that I see a new use for money; but, if it is
necessary, I will speak to D'Harville; I will make him so happy that
he cannot refuse any of my new caprices. Our _protegees_ are
proud, your highness says; I like them better for it: pride in
misfortune always proves an elevated mind. I will find the means to
save them, without their knowing that they owe the succor they receive
to a benefactor. It will be difficult; so much the better! Oh! I have
already a project; you shall see, your highness, you shall see that I
am not wanting in address and cunning."

"I already foresee the most Machiavelian combinations," said Rudolph,
smiling.

"But we must first discover them; how I wish it was to-morrow! On
having Madame de Lucenay I will go to their old lodgings, I will
question their neighbors; I will see for myself. I will ask
information from everybody. I will compromise myself, if it is
necessary! I shall be so proud to obtain by myself, and by myself
alone, the result I desire: oh! I will succeed; this adventure is so
touching. Poor women: it seems to me I feel more interest in them when
I think of my child."

Rudolph, touched with this charitable eagerness, smiled sadly on
seeing this lady, so handsome, so lovely, trying to forget in noble
occupations the domestic troubles which afflicted her; the eyes of
Clemence sparkled with vivacity, her cheeks were slightly suffused;
the animation of her gesture, of her speech, gave new attraction to
her ravishing countenance. She perceived that Rudolph was
contemplating her in silence. She blushed, cast down her eyes; then,
raising them in charming confusion, she said, "You laugh at my
enthusiasm? It is because I am impatient to taste those holy joys
which are about to reanimate my existence, until now sad and useless.
Such, without doubt, was not the life I dreamed of; there is a
sentiment, a happiness, more lively still that I can never know;
although still very young, I must renounce it!" added Clemence,
suppressing a sigh. "But thanks to you, my deliverer, always thanks to
you, I have created for myself other interests; charity shall replace
love. I am already indebted to your advice for such touching emotions!
Your words, your highness, have so much influence! The more I
meditate, the more I reflect on your ideas, the more I find them just,
great, and fruitful. Oh! how much goodness your mind discloses! from
what source have you, then, drawn these feelings of tender
commiseration?"

"I have suffered much, I still suffer! This is the reason I know the
cause of many sorrows."

"Your highness unhappy!"

"Yes, for one would say that, to prepare me to solace all kinds of
sorrow, fate has willed I should undergo them all. A lover, it has
struck me through the first woman that I loved with all the blind
confidence of youth; a husband, through my wife; a son, it has struck
me through my father; a father, through my child!"

"I thought that the grand duchess did not leave you any child?"

"She did not; but before my marriage with her I had a daughter, who
died very young. Well! strange as it may appear to you, the loss of
this child, whom I had hardly seen, is the sorrow of my life. The
older I become, the more profound my regrets! Each year redoubles the
bitterness. It seems to increase as her years would have increased.
Now she would have been seventeen!"

"And does her mother still live?" asked Clemence.

"Oh! do not speak of her!" cried Rudolph. "Her mother is an unworthy
creature, a being bronzed by egotism and ambition. Sometimes I ask
myself if it were not better my child should be dead, than to have
remained in the hands of her mother."

Clemence experienced a kind of satisfaction in hearing Rudolph express
himself thus. "Oh! I conceive," cried she, "how you doubly regret your
daughter!"

"I should have loved her so well! and, besides, it seems to me that
among us princes there is always in our love for a son a kind of
interest of race and name; but a daughter is loved for herself alone.
And when one has seen, alas! humanity under the most sinister aspects,
what delight to contemplate a pure and lovely being! to inhale her
virgin purity, to watch over her with tender care! A mother the most
fond and most proud of her daughter cannot experience this feeling;
she is herself too similar to taste these ineffable delights; she will
appreciate much more the manly qualities of a bold and noble boy. For,
do you not find that that which renders, perhaps, still more touching
the love of a mother for her son, a father for his daughter, is, that
there is always in these affections a feeble being who has need of
protection. The son protects the mother, the father protects the
daughter."

"Oh, it is true."

"But, alas! why understand the ineffable joys, when one can never
experience them?" said Rudolph, dejectedly. "But pardon me, madame; my
regrets and my souvenirs have, in spite of myself, carried me away;
you will excuse me?"

"Ah! believe I partake of your sorrows. Have I not the right? Have you
not partaken of mine? Unfortunately, the consolations that I can offer
you are in vain."

"No, no; the expression of your interest is sweet and salutary to me.
It is weakness, but I cannot hear a young girl spoken of without
thinking of her whom I have lost."

"These thoughts are so natural! Hold, my lord; since I have seen you,
I have accompanied, in visits to the prisons, a lady of my
acquaintance, who is a patroness of the work of the young women
confined at Saint Lazare; this house contains many culprits. If I were
not a mother, I should have judged them, doubtless, with still more
severity, while I now feel for them pity; much softened in thinking
that, perhaps, they had not been lost, except for the state of poverty
and neglect they had been in from their infancy. I do not know why,
but after these thoughts it seemed to me I loved my child the more."

"Come, courage," said Rudolph, with a melancholy smile: "this
conversation leaves me quite reassured as to you. A salutary path is
open to you; in following it, you will pass through, without
stumbling, these years of trial, so dangerous for women, above all for
a woman gifted as you are; your reward shall be great; you will still
have to struggle and suffer-for you are very young--but you will renew
your strength in thinking of the good you have done--of that which you
still do."

Madame d'Harville burst into tears. "At least," said she, "your
assistance, your counsels, will never fail me?" "Far or near, I shall
always take the deepest interest in all that concerns you; always, as
much as depends upon me, I will contribute to your happiness: to the
man's to whom I have vowed the most constant friendship."

"Oh! thank your highness for this promise," said Clemence, drying her
tears; "without your generous support, my strength would abandon me;
but, believe me, I swear it here, I will constantly accomplish my
duty."

On these words, a small door, concealed behind the tapestry, was
opened roughly. Clemence uttered a cry. Rudolph shuddered. D'Harville
appeared pale and profoundly affected: his eyes were wet with tears.
The first astonishment over, the marquis said to Rudolph, giving him
Sarah's letter, "Your highness, here is the infamous letter which I
received just now before you. I pray you to burn it after you have
read it."

Clemence looked at her husband with alarm. "Oh, this is infamous!"
cried Rudolph, indignantly. "Yet there is something still more
infamous than this anonymous scurrility--it is my own conduct." "What
do you mean to say?" "A little while ago, instead of showing you this
letter frankly, boldly, I concealed it from you; I pretended to be
calm, while I had jealousy, anger, and despair in my heart; this is
not all. Do you know what I did, my lord? I shamefully went and
concealed myself behind this door to listen to you--to spy--yes, I
have been wretch enough to doubt your honor. Oh! the author of this
letter knows to whom he addresses it; he knows how weak my head is.
Well, my lord, say, after hearing what I have just heard--for I have
not lost a word of your conversation, and know why you go to the Rue
du Temple--ought I not, on my knees, ask for pardon and pity? and I do
it, my lord. I do it, Clemence; I have no more hope but in your
generosity."

"My dear Albert, what have I to pardon?" said Rudolph, extending both
hands with the most touching cordiality. "_Now_ you know our
secrets, I am delighted. I can preach to you at my leisure. I am your
confidant by compulsion, and, what is still better, you are the
confidant of Madeline d'Harville; that is to say, you now know all you
have to expect from that noble heart."

"And, Clemence, will you pardon me also?"

"Yes: on condition that you will assist me in assuring your own
happiness," and she extended her hand to her husband, who pressed it
with emotion.

"My dear marquis," cried Rudolph, "our enemies are unlucky; thanks to
them, we are only the more intimate from the past. You never have more
justly appreciated Madame d'Harville: she has never been more devoted
to you; acknowledge that we are well avenged of the envious and
wicked. That will answer while waiting for something better, for I
divine from whence this came, and I am not accustomed to suffer
patiently the injuries done to my friends. But this regards me. Adieu,
madame; here is our _intrigue_ discovered; you will no longer be
alone in assisting your _protegees_: be assured we will get up
some new mysterious enterprise, which the marquis must be very cunning
to discover."

After having accompanied the prince to his carriage, to thank him
again, the marquis retired to his own apartments without seeing
Clemence again.




CHAPTER XI.

REFLECTIONS.


It would be difficult to describe the tumultuous and contrary
sentiments which agitated D'Harville when he found himself alone. He
acknowleged with joy the falsity of the accusation against Rudolph and
Clemence, but he was also convinced that he must renounce the hope of
being loved by her. The more in her conversation with Rudolph Clemence
had shown herself courageous and resolute to do good, the more he
bitterly reproached himself for having, with guilty egotism, linked
this unhappy lady to his fate. Far from being consoled from the
conversation he had just heard, he fell into a state of sadness, of
inexpressible despondency. There is in a life of opulence without
employment this terrible disadvantage: nothing turns its attention,
nothing protects the mind from brooding on its sorrows, on itself.
Never being compelled to occupy itself with the necessities of the
future, or the labors of each day, it remains entirely a prey to great
mental afflictions. Being able to possess all that gold can procure,
it desires or regrets violently that which gold alone cannot procure.

The grief of D'Harville was desperate; for, after all, he desired
nothing but what was just and lawful.

To transports of vain anger succeeded a feeling of gloomy dejection.
"Oh!" cried he, at once softened and cast down, "it is my fault, my
fault! poor unhappy woman, I have deceived her, unworthily deceived
her! She can, she ought to hate me; and yet, just now, again she
evinced the most touching interest for me; but, instead of contenting
myself with that, my foolish passions have carried me away. I became
tender; I have spoken to her of my love, and hardly had my lips
touched her hand, than she trembled with affright. If I could still
have had any doubt of the invincible repugnance with which I inspire
her, what she has just now said to the prince leaves me no illusion.
Oh! it is frightful--frightful!

"And by what right did she confide to him this hideous secret? it is
an unworthy betrayal of confidence? By what right? Alas! by the same
right as prisoners have to complain of their executioner. Poor girl!
so young and lovely, all that she could find to say that was cruel
against the horrible fate to which I have doomed her, is that such was
not the lot she had dreamed of, and that she was very young to
renounce love! I know Clemence; the word she has given me, which she
has given to the prince, she will henceforth keep; she will be for me
the most affectionate sister. Well! my position is not worthy of envy!
to the cold and constrained feeling which existed between us, are
going to succeed the most affectionate and the kindest relations,
while she might have continued to treat me with a frozen contempt,
without my daring to complain. Another torture! How I have suffered,
my God! when I thought her guilty!--what terrible agony! But no, this
fear is vain; Clemence has sworn not to fail in her duties; she will
keep her promises; but at what a price! Just now, when she returned to
me with her affectionate words, how her sad, soft, melancholy smile
caused me pain! How much this return to her executioner must have cost
her! Poor woman, how handsome she looked! For the first time I felt
acute remorse, for until then her haughty coldness was her revenge.
Oh, unfortunate man, unfortunate man that I am!"

After a long sleepless night of bitter reflections, the agitation of
D'Harville ceased as by enchantment.

He awaited the day with impatience. As soon as it was morning, he rang
for his valet, old Joseph. On entering the room, the latter heard his
master, to his great astonishment, humming a hunting-song, a sign, as
rare as it was sure, of D'Harville's good-humor.

"Ah!" said the faithful servant, quite softened, "what a good voice
your lordship has! what a shame you do not sing oftener!" "Really,
Joseph, have I a good voice?" said D'Harville, laughing.

"My lord might have a voice as hoarse as an owl or a rattle, I should
still think he had a good voice."

"Hold your tongue, flatterer!"

"When your lordship sings, it is a sign you are contented; and then
your voice appears to me the most charming music in the world."

"In that case, Joseph, learn to open your long ears."

"What do you say?"

"You can enjoy this charming music every day."

"You will be happy every day, my lord?" cried Joseph, clasping his
hands with astonished delight.

"Every day, my old Joseph! happy every day. Yes, no more sorrow--no
more sadness. I can tell this to you, who are sole and discreet
confidant of all my sorrows! I am overjoyed with happiness! My wife is
an angel of goodness! she has asked pardon for her past coldness,
attributing it to--can you guess?--to jealousy!"

"To jealousy?"

"Yes; absurd suspicions, caused by anonymous letters."

"What indignity!"

"You comprehend? women have so much self-love! It needed nothing more
to separate us; but, happily, last night we had an explanation. I
undeceived her; to tell you of her joy would be impossible; for she
loves me! oh, how she loves me! Thus, this cruel separation has
ceased; judge of my joy!"

"Can it be true?" cried Joseph, with tears in his eyes. "Then, my
lord, you are forever happy, since the love of her ladyship was alone
wanting, as you have told me."

"And to whom should I have told it, my poor old Joseph? Do you not
possess a still more sorrowful secret? But let us not talk of sorrow;
the day is too happy. You see, perhaps, I have wept! it is thus, you
see, happiness overpowers me! I so little expected it! How weak I am!"

"Yes, yes, my lord can well weep for joy, who has wept so much for
sorrow. Hold! am I not acting as you are? Brave tears! I would not
part with them for ten years of my life. I have only one fear: it is
that I shall hardly be able to keep from throwing myself at my lady's
feet the first time I see her."

"Old fool! you are as unreasonable as your master. Now I have a fear
that this will not last. I am too happy! what is wanting?"

"Nothing, my lord, absolutely nothing."

"It is on this account I am mistrustful of happiness so perfect--so
complete!"

"Alas! if it was not for--but no, I dare not."

"I understand you: well, believe your fears are vain; the change that
my happiness causes me is so great, so profound, that I am almost sure
of being saved."

"How is that?"

"My physician has told me a hundred times, that often a violent mental
shock sufficed to induce or cure my malady. Why should not emotions of
happiness produce the same effect?"

"If you believe this, my lord, it will be so--it is so--you are cured!
Why this is, indeed, a blessed day! Ah! as you say, her ladyship is a
good angel descended from heaven; and I begin to be almost alarmed
myself; it is, perhaps, too much felicity for one day; but I must
think--if to reassure you it only needs a small sorrow--I have it!"

"How?"

"One of your friends has received, very fortunately and seasonably, as
it happens, a sword cut--not at all serious, it is true; but no
matter, it is enough to make you a little sorry, that there may be, as
you desire it, a little trouble on this happy day. It is true, that in
regard to that, it had been better if the thrust had been more
dangerous; but we must be contented as it is."

"Will you be quiet? Of whom do you speak?"

"Of his grace the Duke of Lucenay. He is wounded! a scratch on the
arm. He came yesterday to see you, and he said he would come this
morning and ask for a cup of tea."

"Poor Lucenay! why did you not tell me?"

"Last night I was not able to see my lord."

After a moment's thought, D'Harville replied, "You are right; this
light sorrow will doubtless satisfy jealous destiny. But an idea has
just struck me; I have a mind to have this morning a bachelor
breakfast, all friends of M. de Lucenay, to congratulate him on the
happy result of his duel: he will be enchanted."

"Joy forever! Make up lost time. How many covers, so that I can give
the orders?"

"Six, in the little winter breakfast parlor."

"And the invitations?"

"I will go and write them. A man from the stables can take them round
on horseback. It is early; they will all be found at home. Ring."

D'Harville entered his cabinet, and wrote the following notes, without
any other address than the name of the invited:--

 "My Dear * * *--This is a circular; an impromptu affair is in
 agitation. Lucenay is to come and breakfast with me this morning; he
 counts only on a _tete-a-tete_; cause him a very agreeable
 surprise by joining me, and a few other of his friends, whom I have
 also advised.

 "At noon precisely.

   "A. D'HARVILLE."

"Let some one mount a horse immediately," said D'Harville, to a
servant who answered the bell, "and deliver these letters." Then,
turning to Joseph, he directed him to address them as follows: "M. le
Vicomte de Saint Remy. Lucenay cannot do without him," said D'Harville
to himself. "M. de Monville--one of his traveling companions. Lord
Douglas--his faithful partner at whist. Baron de Sezannes--the friend
of his youth. Have you written?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Send these letters without losing a moment," said D'Harville.

"Ah, Philippe! ask M. Doublet to come to me." The servant retired.
"Well! what is the matter?" asked D'Harville of Joseph, who looked at
him with amazement.

"I cannot get over it, sir! I never saw you so gay; and, besides, you,
who are commonly so pale, have a fine color--your eyes sparkle."

"Happiness! old Joseph, happiness! Oh! now you must assist me in a
scheme. You must go and find out from Juliette who has charge of her
ladyship's diamonds."

"Yes, it is Mademoiselle Juliette, my lord, who takes care of them; I
helped her, not a week ago, to clean them."

"You go and ask her the name and address of the jeweler of her
mistress; but she must not say a word on the subject to my lady."

"Ah! I understand! A surprise."

"Go quickly. Here is M. Doublet. My dear M. Doublet, I am going to
frighten you," said he, laughing. "I am going to make you utter cries
of distress."

"Me! my lord?"

"You!"

"I will do all in my power to satisfy your lordship."

"I am going to spend a great deal of money, M. Doublet--an enormous
amount of money."

"What of that, my lord? We are able to do it--well able to do it."

"For a long time I've been possessed with the notion of building. I
have it in contemplation to add a gallery on the garden to the right
wing of the hotel. After a long hesitation, I have quite decided. You
must tell my architect to-day so that he can come and talk over the
plans. Well, M. Doublet, you don't groan over this expense?"

"I can assure your lordship that I do not groan."

"This gallery will be destined for _fetes_; I wish it to be
built, as it were, by enchantment; now, enchantments being very dear,
you must sell fifteen or twenty thousand livres of stock, to be ready
to furnish the funds, for I wish the work commenced as soon as
possible." Joseph entered.

"Here is the address of the jeweler, my lord; his name is Baudoin."

"My dear M. Doublet, you will go, I beg you, to this jeweler, and tell
him to bring here, in an hour, a diamond necklace worth about two
thousand louis. Women can never have too many jewels, now that dresses
are trimmed with them. You will arrange with the jeweler for the
payment."

"Yes, my lord. It is on account of the surprise that I do not groan
this time. Diamonds are like buildings, the value remains; and,
besides, this surprise to the marchioness! It is as I had the honor to
say the other day--there is not in the world a happier man than your
lordship."

"Good M. Doublet!" said D'Harville, smiling; "his felicitations are
always so inconceivably _apropos_"

"It is their sole merit, my lord; and they have, perhaps, this merit
because they come from the bottom of the heart. I go to the jeweler,"
said Doublet, retiring.

As soon as he was gone, D'Harville paced the floor, his arms folded,
his eyes fixed and meditative.

Suddenly his countenance changed; it no longer expressed the content
of which the attendant and the old servant had just been the dupe, but
a calm, cold, and mournful resolution. After having walked some time,
he seated himself, as if overcome by the weight of his troubles, with
his face buried in his hands. Then he suddenly arose, wiped away a
tear which moistened his burning eyelid, and said, with an effort,
"Come, courage."

He wrote letters to several persons about insignificant objects, but
in the letters he appointed or put off different meetings several
days. This correspondence finished, Joseph came in; he was so gay that
he so far forgot himself as to sing in his turn.

"Joseph, you have a very fine voice," said his master smiling.

"So much the worse, my lord, for I never knew it; something sings so
loudly within that it must be heard without."

"You will put these letters in the post-office."

"Yes, my lord; but where will you receive these gentlemen?"

"Here in my cabinet; they will smoke after breakfast, and the odor of
the tobacco will not reach her lady-ship."

At this moment the noise of a carriage was heard in the courtyard.

"It is her ladyship going out; she ordered the horses this morning at
an early hour," said Joseph.

"Run and beg her to come here before she goes out."

"Yes, my lord."

Hardly had the domestic gone, than D'Harville approached a glass, and
examined himself minutely. "Well, well," said he in a gloomy tone;
"that's right--the cheeks flushed, the eye sparkling--joy or fear--no
matter--as long as they are deceived. Let us see now--a smile on the
lips. There are so many kinds of smiles. But who can distinguish the
false from the real? who can penetrate under this lying mask, to say,
this smile conceals a black despair? no one, happily, no one! Stay,
yes, love could never be mistaken; no, its instinct would enlighten
it. But I hear my wife--my wife! Come to your post, inauspicious
buffoon."

"Good-day, Albert," said Madame d'Harville, with a sweet smile, giving
him her hand. "But what is the matter, my friend? You appear so happy
and gay!"

"It is, that at the moment you came in, dear little sister, I was
thinking of you. Besides, I was under the influence of an excellent
resolution."

"That does not surprise me."

"What took place yesterday--your admirable generity, the noble conduct
of the prince--gave me much to think about, and I am a convert to your
ideas. You would not have excused me last night if I had too easily
renounced your love, I am sure, Clemence."

"What language, what a happy change!" cried Madame d'Harville. "Oh! I
was very sure that in addressing myself to your heart, to your reason,
you would comprehend me. Now I have no longer any doubt for the
future."

"Nor I, Clemence, I assure you. Yes, since the resolution I have taken
last night, the future, which seemed to me dark and gloomy, has become
singularly cleared up--simplified."

"Nothing is more natural, my friend; now we move toward one object,
leaning fraternally on each other: at the end of our career we will
find ourselves as we are to-day. In fine, I desire that you shall be
happy, and this shall be so, for I have placed it there," said
Clemence, putting her finger on his forehead, ere she resumed, with a
charming expression, lowering her hand to his heart: "No, I am
mistaken; it is here that this good thought will incessantly watch for
you, and for me also; and you shall see what is the obstinacy of a
devoted heart."

"Dear Clemence," answered D'Harville, with constrained emotion; then,
after a pause, he added gayly, "I begged you to come here before your
departure to inform you that I could not take tea with you this
morning. I have a number of persons to breakfast with me; it is a kind
of impromptu assemblage to congratulate M. de Lucenay on the happy
issue of his duel."

"What a coincidence! M. de Lucenay comes to breakfast with you, while
I go, perhaps very indiscreetly, to invite myself to do the same with
Madame de Lucenay; for I have much to say to her about my unknown
_protegees_. From there I intend to go to the prison of Saint
Lazare, with Madame de Blinval, for you do not know all my ambition;
at this moment I am intriguing to be admitted into the Discharged
Prisoners' Aid Society."

"Truly, you are insatiable," said the marquis; "thus," added he,
restraining with great difficulty his emotion, "thus I shall see you
no more--to-day!" he hastened to add.

"Are you vexed that I go out this morning so early?" asked Madame
d'Harville, quickly, astonished at the tone of his voice. "If you ask
it, I will put off my visit to Madame de Lucenay."

The marquis was on the point of betraying himself; but said, in the
most affectionate manner, "Yes, my dear, I am as much vexed to see you
go out as I shall be impatient to see you return; these are defects I
shall never correct myself of."

"And you will do well, dear; for I should be very angry."

A bell announcing a visit resounded throughout the hotel.

"Here are, doubtless, some of your guests," said Madame d'Harville; "I
leave you--by the way, what are you going to do to-night? If you have
not disposed of your evening, I wish you would accompany me to the
opera; perhaps, now, music will please you more!"

"I place myself under your orders with the greatest pleasure."

"Are you going out soon? Shall I see you again before dinner?"

"I am not going out. You will find me here."

"Then, when I return, I will come and see if your bachelor breakfast
has been amusing."

"Adieu, Clemence."

"By, 'by! I leave you the field clear; I wish you much pleasure. Be
very gay!" And after having cordially pressed the hand of her husband,
Clemence went out by one door a moment before M. de Lucenay entered by
another.

"She wishes me much amusement--she tells me to be gay--she went away
tranquilly--smiling! this does honor to my dissimulation. By Jove! I
did not think myself so good an actor. But here is Lucenay."

The Duke de Lucenay entered the room; his wound had been so slight
that he did not carry his arm in a sling. He was one of those men
whose countenances are always cheerful and contemptuous, movements
always restless, and mania to make a bustle insurmountable. Yet,
notwithstanding his caprices, his pleasantries in very bad taste, and
his enormous nose, he was not a vulgar man, thanks to a kind of
natural dignity and courageous impertinence which never abandoned him.

"How indifferent you must suppose me to be as regards anything
concerning you, my dear Henry!" said D'Harville, extending his hand to
Lucenay; "but it was only this morning I heard of your disagreeable
adventure."

"Disagreeable! come now, marquis! I got the worth of my money, as they
say. I never laughed so much in my life! M. Robert appeared so
solemnly determined not to pass for having a cold. You don't know what
was the cause of the duel? The other night at the embassy, I asked
him, before your wife and the Countess M'Gregor, how he got on with
his cough; between us, he had not this inconvenience. But never mind.
You understand--to say that before handsome women is annoying."

"What folly! I recognize you there. But who is this M. Robert?"

"I' faith! I don't know anything about him; he is a gentleman whom I
met at the watering-places; he passed before us in the winter-garden
at the embassy; I called him to play off this joke; he answered the
second day after by giving me, very gallantly, a nice little thrust
with his sword. But don't let us talk of this nonsense. I come to beg
a cup of tea." Saying this, Lucenay threw himself at full length on
the sofa; after which, introducing the end of his cane between the
wall and the frame of a picture placed over his head, he commenced
moving it backward and forward.

"I expected you, my dear Henry, and I have arranged a little surprise
for you."

"Oh, what is it?" cried Lucenay, pushing the picture into a very
ticklish position.

"You'll end by pulling that picture on your head."

"That's true, by Jove! you have the eye of an eagle. But your
surprise, what is it?"

"I have sent for some friends to breakfast with us."

"Ah, good! marquis, bravo! bravissimo! archibravissimo!" screamed
Lucenay, striking heavy blows on the sofa cushions. "And whom shall we
have?"

"Saint Remy."

"No; he has been in the country for some days."

"What the devil can he manage to do in the country in winter! Are you
sure he is not in Paris?"

"Very sure; I wrote him to be my second; he was absent; I fell back on
Lord Douglas and Sezannes."

"That is fortunate; they breakfast with us."

"Bravo! bravo!" cried Lucenay, anew. Then he turned and twisted
himself on the sofa, accompanying his loud cries with a series of
somersaults that would have astonished a rope-dancer. The acrobatic
evolutions were interrupted by the arrival of Saint Remy.

"I have no need to ask if Lucenay is here," said the viscount, gayly.
"He can be heard below."

"How! is it you? beautiful sylvan! countryman! wolf's cub!" cried the
duke, much surprised; "I thought you were in the country."

"I came back, yesterday; I received the invitation just now, and here
I am, quite delighted at this surprise," and Saint Remy gave his hand
to Lucenay, and then to the marquis.

"I take this very kind in you, my dear Saint Remy. Is it not natural
that the friends of Lucenay should rejoice at the happy issue of this
duel, which, after all, might have had a very grievous result?"

"But," resumed the duke obstinately, "what have you been doing in the
country in midwinter, Saint Remy? that beats me."

"How curious he is!" said the viscount, addressing D'Harville. "I wish
to wean myself from Paris, since I must so soon quit it."

"Ah! yes, this beautiful whim to attach yourself to the legation of
France at Gerolstein. None of your nonsense and stuff about diplomacy;
you will never go there. My wife says so, and everybody repeats it."

"I assure you that Madame de Lucenay is mistaken, like every one
else."

"She told you before me that it was a folly!"

"I have committed so many in my lifetime!"

"Elegant and charming follies, very well, so as to ruin yourself, as
they say, by your Sardanapalus's magnificence--I admit that; but to go
and bury yourself in such a hole of a court as Gerolstein! Come, now,
this is folly, and you are too sensible to do a stupid thing."

"Take care, my dear Lucenay; in abusing this German court you will
have a quarrel with D'Harville, the intimate friend of the grand duke,
who, besides, received me most kindly the other night at the embassade
of----where I was presented to him."

"Really! my dear Henry," said D'Harville, "if you knew the grand duke
as I know him, you would comprehend that Saint Remy could have no
repugnance to go and pass some time at Gerolstein,"

"I believe you, marquis, although, your grand duke is said to be
proudly original; but that doesn't prevent that a beau like Saint
Remy, the finest flower among blossoms, cannot live, excepting at
Paris; his value is only known at Paris."

The other guests had just arrived, when Joseph entered, and said a few
words in a low tone to his master.

"Gentlemen, will you allow me," said the marquis; "it is the jeweler
who brings me some diamonds to choose for my wife--a surprise. You
know, Lucenay, you and I being husbands of the old schools."

"Oh! if you talk of a surprise," cried the duke, "my wife gave me one
yesterday; a famous one, I tell you."

"Some splendid present?"

"She asked me for a hundred thousand francs."

"And as you are a magnifico, you--"

"Lent them! they will be mortgaged on her Arnonville farm--short
accounts make long friends. But never mind; to lend in two hours one
hundred thousand francs to some one who wants them, is generous and
rare. Is it not, spendthrift? You who are an expert at loans," said
the Duke de Lucenay, laughing, without dreaming of the bearing of his
speech.

Notwithstanding his audacity, the viscount at first slightly blushed,
but he said with effrontery, "One hundred thousand francs! enormous.
How can a woman ever have need of such an amount. With men that's
another story."

"I don't know what she wanted with the money. It is all the same to
me. Some bills, probably some urgent creditors; that's her look-out.
And, besides, you well know, my dear Saint Remy, that in lending her
my money, it would have been in the worst taste in the world to ask
what she wanted it for."

"It is, however, a very excusable curiosity in those who lend, to wish
to know what the borrower wants to do with the money," said the
viscount, laughing.

"Saint Remy," said D'Harville, "you, who have such excellent taste,
must aid me in choosing the set I intend for my wife; your approbation
will sanction my choice--be it law."

The jeweler entered, carrying several caskets in a large leather bag.

"Ah! here is M. Baudoin!" said Lucenay.

"At your grace's service."

"I am sure that it is you who ruin my wife with your infernal and
dazzling temptations," said Lucenay.

"Her grace has only had her diamonds reset this winter," said the
jeweler, slightly embarrassed. "I have this moment left them with her
grace, on my way here."

Saint Remy knew that Madame de Lucenay, to assist him, had changed her
diamonds for false ones; this conversation was very disagreeable to
him, but he said boldly, "How curious these husbands are! do not
answer, M. Baudoin."

"Curious! goodness, no," answered the duke; "my wife pays; she is
richer than I am."

During this conversation, Baudoin had displayed on a bureau several
admirable necklaces of rubies and diamonds.

"How splendid! how divinely the stones are cut!" said Lord Douglas.

"Alas! my lord," answered the jeweler, "I employed in this work one of
the best artisans in Paris; unfortunately, he has gone mad, and I
shall never find his equal. My broker tells me that it is probably
misery which has turned his brain, poor man."

"Misery! you confide diamonds to a man in poverty!"

"Certainly, my lord, and I have never known an instance of an artisan
concealing or secreting anything confided to him, however poor he
might be."

"How much for this necklace?" asked D'Harville.

"Your lordship will remark that the stones are of splendid cutting,
and the purest water, almost all of the same size."

"Here are some wordy precautions most menacing for your purse," said
Saint Remy, laughing; "expect now, D'Harville, some exorbitant price."

"Come, M. Baudoin, your lowest price?" said D'Harville.

"I do not wish to make your lordship haggle, so I say the lowest is
forty-two thousand francs."

"Gentlemen!" cried Lucenay, "let us admire D'Harville in silence. To
arrange a surprise for his wife for forty-two thousand francs! The
devil! don't go and noise that abroad; it will be a detestable
example."

"Laugh as much as you please, gentlemen," said the marquis, gayly. "I
am in love with my wife, I do not conceal it; I boast of it!"

"That is easily seen," said Saint Remy; "such a present speaks more
than all the protestations in the world."

"I take this necklace, then," said D'Harville, "if you approve of the
black enamel setting, Saint Remy."

"It sets off to advantage the brilliancy of the stones; they are
beautifully arranged."

"I decide, then, for this necklace," said D'Harville. "You will have
to settle with M. Doublet, my steward, Baudoin."

"M. Doublet has advised me, my lord," said the jeweler, and he went
out, after having put in his sack, without counting them, the
different sets of jewels which he had brought, and which Saint Remy
had for a long time handled and examined during this conversation.

D'Harville, in giving this necklace to Joseph, who awaited his orders,
whispered to him, "Mlle. Juliette must put these diamonds quietly with
her lady's, without her suspecting it, so that the surprise will be
complete."

At this moment the butler announced that breakfast was served; the
guests passed into the breakfast-room and seated themselves at the
table.

"Do you know, my dear D'Harville," said the duke, "that this house is
one of the most elegant and best arranged in Paris?"

"It is commodious enough, but it wants space; my project is to add a
gallery on the garden. Madame d'Harville desires to give some grand
balls, and our three saloons are not large enough; besides, I find
nothing more inconvenient than the encroachments made by a fete on the
apartments which one habitually occupies, and from which, for the
time, you are exiled."

"I am of your opinion," said Saint Remy; "nothing is in worse taste,
more in the 'city' fashion, than these forced removals by authority of
a ball or concert. To give fetes really splendid, without any
inconvenience to one's self, a particular suite of apartments must be
arranged exclusively for them; and, besides, vast and splendid
saloons, destined for grand balls, ought to have a different character
from rooms in ordinary occupation: there is between the two species of
apartments the same difference as between a splendid fresco and a
cabinet picture."

"He is right," said D'Harville; "what a pity that Saint Remy has not
twelve or fifteen hundred thousand livres a year! what wonders we
should enjoy!"

"Since we have the happiness to enjoy a representative government,"
said the Duke de Lucenay, "ought not the country to vote a million a
year to Saint Remy, and charge him to represent at Paris French taste
and fashion, which would thus decide the fashion of Europe and the
world?"

"Adopted!" was cried in chorus.

"And this million should be annually raised in form of a tax on those
abominable misers who, possessors of enormous fortunes, shall be
arraigned, tried, and convicted of living like skinflints," added
Lucenay.

"And as such," said D'Harville, "condemned to defray the magnificences
which they ought to display."

"While waiting for the decision which will legalize the supremacy
which Saint Remy now exercises in fact," said D'Harville, "I ask his
advice for the gallery I am about to construct."

"My feeble lights are at your disposal, D'Harville."

"And when shall this inauguration take place, my dear fellow?"

"Next year, I suppose, for I am going to commence immediately."

"What a man of projects you are!"

"I have many others. I contemplate a complete change at Val Richer."

"Your estate in Burgundy?"

"Yes; there are some admirable plans to execute there, if my life is
spared."

"Poor old man! But have you not lately bought a farm near Val Richer
to add to your estate?"

"Yes, a very good affair that my notary advised."

"Who is this rare and precious notary who advises such good things?"

"M. Jacques Ferrand."

At this name a slight shade passed over the viscount's brow.

"Is he really as honest a man as he is reputed to be?" asked he,
carelessly, of D'Harville, who then remembered what Rudolph had
related to Clemence concerning the notary.

"Jacques Ferrand? what a question; why, he is a man of antique
probity!" said Lucenay. "As respected as respectable. Very pious--that
hurts no one. Excessively avaricious--which is a guarantee for his
clients."

"He is, in fine, one of our notaries of the old school, who ask you
for whom you take them when you speak of a receipt for money confided
to them."

"For no other cause than that I would confide my whole fortune to
him."

"But where the devil, Saint Remy, did you get your doubts concerning
this worthy man, of proverbial integrity?"

"I am only the echo of vague rumors, otherwise I have no reason to
defame this phenix of notaries. But to return to your projects,
D'Harville; what are you going to build at Val Richer? The chateau is
said to be superb."

"You shall be consulted, my dear Saint Remy, and sooner, perhaps, than
you think, for I delight in these works; it seems to me there is
nothing more pleasant than to have your plans spread out for years to
come. To day this project--in a year this one--still later some other:
add to this a charming wife whom one adores, is the motive of all your
plans, and life passes gently enough."

"I believe you; it is a real paradise on earth."

"Now," said D'Harville, when breakfast was over, "if you will smoke a
cigar in my cabinet, you will find some excellent ones there."

They arose from the table and returned to the cabinet of the marquis:
the door of his sleeping apartment, which communicated with it, was
open. The sole ornament of this room was a panoply of arms. Lucenay,
having lighted a cigar, followed the marquis into his chamber.

"Here are some splendid guns, truly; faith, I do not know which to
prefer, the French or the English."

"Douglas," cried Lucenay, "come and see if these guns will not compare
with the best Mantons."

Lord Douglas, Saint Remy, and the two other guests entered the chamber
of the marquis to examine the arms.

D'Harville took a pistol, cocked it, and said, laughing, "Here,
gentlemen, is the universal panacea for all woes, the spleen, or
ennui." He placed the muzzle laughingly to his mouth.

"I prefer another specific," said Saint Remy; "this is only good in
desperate cases."

"Yes, but it is so prompt," said D'Harville. "Click! and it is done;
the will is not more rapid. Really! it is marvelous."

"Take care, D'Harville, such jokes are always dangerous, and accidents
might happen," said Lucenay, seeing the marquis again place the pistol
to his lips.

"Do you think that if it was loaded I would play these tricks?"

"Doubtless, no, but it is always wrong."

"Look here, sirs, this is the way they do it; the barrel is introduced
delicately between the teeth, and then--"

"How foolish you are, D'Harville, when you once get a-going," said
Lucenay, shrugging his shoulders.

"The finger is placed on the trigger," added D'Harville.

"Is he not a child--childish at his age?"

"A little movement on the lock," continued the marquis, "and one goes
straight to the land of spirits."

With these words the pistol went off.

D'Harville had blown his brains out!

We will renounce the task; we cannot describe the affright, the
amazement, of the guests. The next day was seen in a newspaper:

"Yesterday an event, as unforeseen as deplorable, agitated the whole
Faubourg St. Germain. One of those imprudent acts, which lead every
year to such fatal accidents, has caused a most lamentable affair.
Here are the facts which we have gathered, the authenticity of which
we can guarantee.

"The Marquis D'Harville, possessor of an immense fortune, hardly
twenty-six years of age, noted for the elevation of his character and
the goodness of his heart, married to a lady whom he adored, had
invited a few friends to breakfast. On leaving the table, they passed
into the sleeping apartment of M. d'Harville, where were displayed
several valuable arms. In showing some of his guests, M. d'Harville,
in jest, placed a pistol, which he did not know was loaded, to his
lips. In his security, he drew the trigger; it went off, and the
unhappy young nobleman fell dead, with his skull fractured. The
frightful consternation of the surrounding friends may easily be
imagined, to whom, but a moment before, in the bloom of youth, he had
just been conversing of his projects for the future. And as if all the
circumstances attending this painful event should be more cruel from
contrast, the same morning M. d'Harville, wishing to surprise his
wife, had just purchased a valuable necklace. And it is just at this
moment, when, perhaps, life never appeared more smiling, more
desirable, that he falls a victim to a deplorable accident.

"Before such a misfortune all reflections are useless; we can only
remain, as it were, annihilated by the inscrutable decrees of
Providence."

We quote the papers merely to show that general belief attributed the
death of D'Harville to a deplorable accident. It is hardly necessary
to say, that D'Harville carried with him to the tomb the mysterious
secret of this voluntary death. Yes, voluntary; calculated and
meditated with as much coolness as genorosity, so that Clemence could
not have the slightest suspicion of the true cause of this suicide.

Thus the project of which D'Harville had conversed with his friends
and his intendant, his confidential communications to his old servant,
the surprise which he arranged for his wife, were just so many snares
laid for public credulity.

How could a man be supposed about to kill himself, who was so much
occupied with plans for the future--so desirous of pleasing his wife?
His death was therefore attributed, and could only be attributed, to
an imprudence. As to the resolution, an incurable despair had dictated
it.

"My death alone can dissolve these ties--it must be--I shall kill
myself." And this is the reason why D'Harville had accomplished this
grave and melancholy sacrifice.

If a suitable law of divorce had existed, would he have committed
suicide? No! He would have repaired in part the evil he had done;
restored his wife to liberty, permitted her to find happiness in
another union. The inexorable immutability of the law, then, often
renders certain faults irremediable; or, as in this case, only allows
them to be effaced by a new crime.




CHAPTER XII.

SAINT LAZARE.


We think we ought to inform the most scrupulous of our readers that
the prison of Saint Lazare, specially devoted to prostitutes and
female thieves, is daily visited by several ladies, whose charities,
name, and social position command general respect. These ladies,
brought up amid the splendors of fortune, who with good reason are
classed among the most elevated in society, come every week to pass
long hours with the miserable prisoners. Observing in these degraded
beings the least aspiration after virtue, the least regret for a past
crime, they encourage the better tendencies and repentance; and, by
the powerful magic of the words "duty," "honor," "virtue," sometimes
they rescue from the depths of degradation one abandoned, despised,
ruined being.

Accustomed to the refinements of the best society, these courageous
women leave their houses, pressing their lips to the virginal cheeks
of their daughters, pure as the angels of heaven, and go to the gloomy
prisons to brave the gross indifference, or the criminal conversation,
of thieves and prostitutes.

Faithful to their mission of high morality, they valiantly descend
into the infected receptacle, place the hand on all these ulcerated
hearts, and if some feeble pulsation of honor reveals to them the
slightest hope of saving them, they contend and tear from an almost
irrevocable perdition the wretch of whom they do not despair. The
scrupulous reader, to whom we address ourselves, will calm, then, his
sensibility, in thinking that he will only hear and see, after all,
what these venerated women see and hear every day.

After having, we hope, appeased the reader's scruples, we introduce
him to Saint Lazare, an immense edifice, of imposing and gloomy
aspect, situated in the Rue de Faubourg Saint Denis.

Ignorant of the terrible drama that was passing at home, Madame
d'Harville had gone to the prison, after having obtained some
information from Madame de Lucenay concerning the two unhappy women
whom the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand had plunged into distress. Madame
de Blinval, one of the patronesses before spoken of, not being able to
accompany Clemence to Saint Lazare, she came alone. She was received
with much kindness by the director, and by several inspectresses,
known by their black dresses and a blue ribbon with a silver medal.

One of these, a woman of advanced age, of a soft and grave expression,
remained alone with Madame d'Harville, in a small room adjoining the
office.

Madame Armand, the inspectress who had remained alone with Madame
d'Harville, possessed to an extreme degree of foreknowledge and
insight into the character of the prisoners. Her word and judgment was
of paramount authority in the house.

She said to Clemence: "Since your ladyship has been kind enough to
request me to point out those inmates who, from good conduct or
sincere repentance, should merit your interest, I believe I can
recommend one unfortunate, whom I believe more unhappy than culpable;
for I do not think I deceive myself in affirming, that it is not too
late to save this girl, a poor child of sixteen, or seventeen at
most."

[Illustration: THE INSPECTION OF THE DORMITORY]

"For what has she been confined?"

"She is guilty of being found on the Champs Elysees in the evening. As
it is forbidden her class, under very severe penalties, to frequent,
either day or night, certain places, and the Champs Elysees is among
the number of these prohibited places, she was arrested."

"And she appears interesting to you?"

"I have never seen more regular or more ingenuous features. Imagine,
my lady, a picture of the Virgin. What gave still more to her
appearance a most modest expression was, that when she came here she
was dressed like a peasant girl of the environs of Paris."

"She is, then, a country girl?"

"No, my lady. The inspectors recognized her. She lived in a horrible
house in the city, from which she was absent two or three months but
as she had not her name erased from the police registers, she remained
under the control of the officers, who sent her here."

"But perhaps she left Paris to endeavor to reinstate herself?"

"I think so. I felt at once interested in her. I interrogated her as
to the past; I asked her if she came from the country, telling her to
be of good cheer, if, as I hoped, she wished to return to the paths of
virtue."

"What did she reply?"

"Lifting on me her large blue, melancholy eyes, full of tears, she
said to me, in a tone of angelic sweetness, 'I thank you, madame, for
your kindness, but I cannot speak of the past; I have been arrested--I
was wrong--I do not complain.' 'But where do you come from? Where have
you been since you left the city; if you have been to the country to
seek an honest existence, say so; prove it: we will write to the
police to obtain your discharge. You shall be erased from the police
lists, and your good resolutions shall be encouraged.' 'I entreat you,
madame, do not question me; I cannot answer you,' she replied. 'But
when you leave here, do you wish to return to that horrible house
again?' 'Oh, never,' she cried, 'What will you do then?' 'Heaven
knows!' she replied, letting her head fall on her breast."

"This is very strange! She expresses herself--"

"In very good terms, madame; her deportment is timid, respectful, but
without meanness. I will say more. Notwithstanding the extreme
sweetness of her voice and her look, there is at times in her accent,
in her attitude, a kind of sorrowful pride which confounds me. If she
did not belong to the unhappy class of which she is a part, I should
almost think that this pride is that of a soul conscious of its
elevation."




CHAPTER XIII.

MONT SAINT JEAN.


The clock of the prison struck two.

To the severe frost which had reigned for some days, a temperature
soft, mild, almost spring-like, had succeeded; the sunbeams were
reflected on the water of a large square basin, with a stone margin,
situated in the middle of the yard, planted with trees, and surrounded
by high, gloomy walls, pierced with a number of grated windows; wooden
benches were placed here and there in this vast inclosure, which
served as the prisoners' exercise ground.

The tinkling of a bell announcing the hour of recreation, the
prisoners noisily rushed into the court through a strong wicket-door
which was opened for them. These women, dressed in uniform, wore black
caps and long blue woolen frocks, confined by a belt and iron buckle.
There were two hundred prostitutes there, condemned for infringements
of the laws which register them, and place them without the common
law.

At the sight of this collection of lost creatures, one cannot prevent
the sad thought, that many among them have been pure and virtuous, at
least some time. We make this restriction, because a great number have
been vitiated, corrupted, depraved, not only from their youth, but
from their most tender infancy.

When the prisoners rushed into the court, screeching and shouting, it
was easy to see that joy alone at escaping from labor did not render
them so noisy. After having pushed through the only door that led to
the yard, the crowd separated, and made a circle around a deformed
being, whom they overwhelmed with hootings.

She was a woman of about thirty-six or forty, short, thick-set,
crooked, her neck sunk between unequal shoulders. They had pulled off
her cap, and her hair, of a rather faded yellow, uncombed, tangled,
striped with gray, fell over her low and stupid face. She was dressed
in a blue frock, like the other prisoners, and carried under her arm a
bundle tied up in a miserable, ragged handkerchief. She tried to ward
off the threatened blows with her left arm.

Nothing could be more sadly grotesque than the features of this poor
creature. It was a ridiculous and hideous face, lengthened to a snout,
wrinkled, tanned, and dirty, pierced with nostrils, and small red
eyes, squinting and bloodshot; by turns supplicating or angry, she
implored and scolded; but they laughed more at her complaints than at
her threats. This woman was the butt of the prisoners. One fact alone,
however, should have saved her from their bad treatment; she was about
to become a mother. But her ugliness and imbecility, and the habit
they had of looking upon her as a victim devoted to the general
amusement, rendered her persecutors implacable, notwithstanding their
ordinary respect for maternity.

Among the most furious of the enemies of Mont Saint Jean (this was the
name of the drudge) could have been remarked La Louve--a tall girl of
about twenty, active, masculine, with rather regular features; her
coarse, black hair was shaded with red; her face was disfigured with
pimples; her thick lips were slightly covered with a bluish down; her
dark eyebrows, very thick and heavy, met above her large brown eyes;
something violent, ferocious, and brutal in her expression, a kind of
habitual laugh, which, lifting her upper lip when she was angry,
showing her white and scattering teeth, explains her surname of La
Louve (She-Wolf). Nevertheless, this face expressed more audacity and
insolence than cruelty--in a word, rather vicious than thoroughly bad,
this woman was yet susceptible of some good feelings.

"Oh, dear, what have I done to you?" cried Mont Saint Jean. "Why do
you treat me so?"

"Because it amuses us. Because you are only fit to be tormented. It is
your trade. Look at yourself; you will see you have no right to
complain."

"But you know I do not complain until I can't stand it any longer."

"Well, we'll leave you alone if you will tell us why you are called
Mont Saint Jean."

"Yes, yes, tell us that."

"I have told you this-a hundred times. An old soldier, whom I once
loved, was called so because he was wounded in the battle of Mont
Saint Jean. I took his name. Are you content now? You make me repeat
the same things."

"If he looked like you he was a beauty! He must have been one of the
invalids."

"I am ugly, I know. Say what you please: all the same to me; but don't
strike me, that's all I ask."

"What have you got in that old handkerchief?" said La Louve.

"Yes, yes, what is it? Come, show it."

"Oh no, I entreat you!" said the poor creature, holding the bundle
tightly in her hands.

"You must give it up."

"Yes; take it from her, La Louve."

"What is it?"

"Well, it is baby's clothes I have commenced for my child. I make them
with the old pieces of linen I pick up. It is of no consequence to
you, is it?"

"Oh, let us see the baby-linen of Mont Saint Jean! Come, come," cried
La Louve, snatching the bundle from the hands of Mont Saint Jean.

The wretched handkerchief was torn to pieces in the struggle, and its
contents, composed of rags and bits of stuff of all colors, were
strewn on the ground and trampled under foot, amid shouts of laughter.

"What rags! What trash! An old rag shop! Takes more thread than stuff!
Here, pick up your duds, Mont Saint Jean!"

"How wicked you are! How bad you must be!" cried the poor creature
running here and there after the scraps and rags, which she tried to
pick up, notwithstanding the blows they gave her. "I have never harmed
any one," said she, weeping. "I have offered, if they would let me
alone, to do anything for them they wanted; to give them half of my
rations, although I am very hungry. Ah, well! no, no, it is just the
same. But what must I do for peace? They have not even pity on a poor
woman in my condition! They must be more savage than wild beasts! I
had so much trouble to collect those little scraps of linen. How do
you think I shall do, since I have no money to buy anything?" Suddenly
she cried, in an accent of joy, "Oh, now you have come, La Goualeuse,
I am saved! Speak to them for me! They will listen to you, surely, for
they love you as much as they hate me."

The Goualeuse (the Songstress) arriving, the last of the prisoners had
entered the yard.




CHAPTER XIV.

GOUALEUSE AND LOUISE.


Before we continue the account of this horrible scene, we must return
to the Marchioness d'Harville and Madame Armand, whose conversation
had been for a moment interrupted. At the ringing of the bell, the
inspectress had hastened to one of the doors which opened into the
prison yard, to be ready to prevent by her presence, or calm by her
authority, any tumult or quarrels that might arise among the scholars,
whose passions, restrained for some time by discipline and employment,
only wanted the hour of idleness and recreation to be aroused and
excited. Madame Armand had witnessed, in mournful silence, the cruel
treatment of which Mont Saint Jean was a victim, and she had already
advanced to snatch her from her tormentors, when Fleur-de-Marie
appeared.

"She is saved!" said she to herself, and returned to the parlor where
Madame d'Harville awaited her.

"But this is quite a romance that you have just related," cried the
latter, without giving Madame Armand time to apologize for her
absence. "What are the relations of this girl, whose beauty, language,
and manners form such a strange contrast to her past degradation and
present situation with the other prisoners? If she is endowed with the
elevation of mind that you suppose, she must suffer much from
associating with her miserable companions."

"Everything concerning this girl is a subject of astonishment. Hardly
has she been here three days, yet already she possesses a kind of
influence over the other prisoners."

"In so short a time?"

"They show her not only interest, but almost respect."

"How? These unfortunates--"

"Have sometimes an instinct of singular delicacy in perceiving the
noble qualities of others; yet they often hate those whose superiority
they are obliged to admit."

"But they do not hate this young girl?"

"Far from that, madame; not one of them knew her before she entered
here. They were at first struck with her beauty. Her features,
although of rare beauty, are, it is true, veiled with a touching,
unhealthy paleness. This sweet and melancholy face inspired them at
first with more interest than jealousy. Then she became very quiet--
another subject of astonishment for these creatures, who, for the most
part, endeavor always to drown the voice of conscience by force of
noise and tumult. In short, although dignified and reserved, she
showed herself compassionate, which prevented her companions from
being exasperated at her coldness. This is not all. A month ago there
came here an unruly creature, called La Louve, so violent, audacious,
and ferocious is her character. She is a girl of about twenty; tall,
masculine, rather a fine face, but very coarse. We are often obliged
to put her in confinement to subdue her turbulence. Only the day
before yesterday she came out of the cell, very much irritated at the
punishment she had just received. It was meal-time: the poor girl of
whom I have spoken did not eat; she said sadly to her companions, 'Who
wants my bread?' 'I,' said La Louve, first. 'I,' said a poor deformed
creature afterward, called Mont Saint Jean, who serves as a
laughingstock, and sometimes, in spite of us, as a butt to the other
prisoners. The girl gave her bread to the latter, to the great rage of
La Louve. 'I asked you first,' cried she furiously. 'It is true, but
this poor woman has more need of it than you,' answered the girl. La
Louve snatched the bread from the hands of Mont Saint Jean, and began
to vociferate, brandishing her knife. As she is very irascible, and
very much feared, no one dared to take the part of poor Goualeuse."

"What do you call her, madame?"

"La Goualeuse. It is the name, or rather surname, under which she has
been confined here. Almost all of them have similar borrowed names."

"It is very singular."

"It signifies, in their hideous slang, the Songstress; for this young
girl has, they say, a very fine voice; and I readily believe it, for
her tone is enchanting."

"And how did she escape from this villainous Louve?"

"Rendered still more furious by La Goualeuse's coolness, she ran
toward her with an oath and uplifted knife. All the prisoners screamed
with terror. Goualeuse alone regarded without fear this formidable
creature. Smiling bitterly, she said, in her angelic voice, 'Oh, kill
me! kill me! I desire it; but do not make me suffer much.' These
words, it was reported to me, were pronounced with a simplicity so
touching, that almost all the prisoners had tears in their eyes."

"I believe it, said Lady d'Harville, painfully affected.

"The worst characters," answered the inspectress, "happily have
sometimes moments of reflection--a kind of return to the correct path.
On hearing these words, expressed with such resignation, La Louve,
touched to the heart, as she afterward said, threw her knife on the
ground, trampled it under foot, and cried, 'I was wrong to threaten
you, Songstress, for I am stronger than you; you were not afraid of my
knife; you are courageous--I love courage; so now, if any one attempts
to hurt you, I'll defend you.'"

"What a singular character."

"The example of La Louve increased the influence of La Goualeuse; and
at present, a thing almost without a precedent, hardly any of the
prisoners address her familiarly; the greater part respect her, and
even offer to render her any little service that can be rendered among
prisoners. I asked some of the prisoners who slept in the same room
with her, what was the cause of the deference shown her. 'That's more
than we can tell,' they answered; 'it is plain to be seen she is not
one of our sort.' 'But who told you so?' 'No one told us; we see.' 'By
what?' 'In a thousand things. For instance, last night, before she
went to bed, she went on her knees and said her prayers; as she prays,
so La Louve says, she must have a right to pray!'"

"What a strange observation!"

"These poor creatures have no sentiment of religion, yet they never
utter here a sacrilegious or impious word. You will see, madame, in
all our rooms a kind of altar, where the statue of the Virgin is
surrounded with offerings and ornaments made by themselves. But to
return to La Goualeuse. Her companions said to me, 'We see that she is
not our sort, from her soft manners, her sadness, the way in which she
speaks.' And then said La Louve, who was present at this conversation,
'It must be that she is not one of us; for this morning, in our
sleeping-room, without knowing why, we were ashamed to dress ourselves
before her!"

"What strange delicacy in the midst of so much degradation!" cried
Lady d'Harville. "They have a profound sense of their degradation?"

"No one can despise them as much as they despise themselves. Among
some of them, whose repentance is sincere, this original stain of vice
remains indelible in their eyes, even when they find themselves in a
better situation; others become insane, so much does the sense of
their former aberration remain fixed and implacable. I should not be
surprised if the profound sorrow of the Goualeuse proceeds from some
such cause."

"If this should be so, what torture for her! a remorse which nothing
can soothe!"

"Happily, madame, for the honor of the human race, this remorse occurs
oftener than is supposed; avenging conscience never completely sleeps,
or rather, strange thing, sometimes one would say that the spirit
watches while the body sleeps. It is an observation that I made only
this night again in reference to my _protegee_. Very, often, when
the prisoners are asleep, I make the rounds of the sleeping
apartments. Your ladyship cannot imagine how much the physiognomies of
these women differ in expression while they sleep. A great number of
them, whom I had seen during the day careless, bold, brazen, impudent,
seemed completely to have changed when sleep had deprived their
features of all the audacity of wickedness; for vice, alas! has its
pride. Oh, what sorrowful revelations on these countenances, then
dejected, melancholy, and sad! What involuntary starts! What mournful
sighs torn from them by a dream, doubtless impressed with an
inexorable reality! I spoke to you just now, madame, of this girl
called La Louve. About fifteen days ago she insulted me brutally
before all the prisoners. I shrugged my shoulders; my indifference but
exasperated her. Then she thought to wound me by uttering something
disgraceful concerning my mother, whom she had often seen here on a
visit to me. Ah, how horrid! I acknowledge, stupid as this attack was,
she hurt me. La Louve saw it, and triumphed. That night I went to make
an inspection in the sleeping apartment; I reached the bed of La
Louve, who was to be put in the cell next morning; I was struck with
the sweetness of her face, compared with the hard and insolent
expression which was habitual to her; her features seemed
supplicating, full of sadness and contrition; her lips were half-open,
her breathing oppressed; finally, a thing which appeared to me
incredible, for I thought it impossible, tears--tears fell from her
eyes. I looked at her in silence for some moments, when I heard her
pronounce these words, 'Pardon! pardon her, mother!' I listened more
attentively, but all that I could hear was my name, Madame Armand,
pronounced with a sigh."

"She repented, during her sleep, of having abused your mother?"

"I thought so, and it made me less severe."

"And the next day, did she express any regret for her past conduct?"

"None; she showed herself as wild as ever."

"But, madame, you must need great courage, much strength of mind, not
to recoil before the unpleasantness of a task which brings such rare
returns!"

"The consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and encourages me--
besides, sometimes, one is recompensed by some happy discovery."

"No matter; women like you, madame, are seldom to be found."

"No, no; I assure you what I do others do, and with more success and
intelligence than I. One of the inspectresses of the other quarter of
Saint Lazaro, destined for those accused of other crimes, will
interest you much more. She related to me the arrival, this morning,
of a young girl, accused of infanticide. Never have I heard anything
more touching. The father of the poor unfortunate has become insane
from grief, on learning the shame of his child. It appears that
nothing could be more frightful than the poverty of this family, who
lived in a wretched garret in the Rue du Temple!"

"The Rue du Temple!" cried Madame d'Harville, astonished. "What is the
name of the family?"

"Morel. Her name is Louise Morel."

"This poor family has been recommended to me," said Clemence,
blushing, "but I was far from expecting to hear such terrible news--
and Louise Morel--"

"Says she is innocent; she swears her child was dead; and her words
have the accent of truth. Since you have interested yourself in her
family, if you would have the kindness to see her, this mark of your
goodness would calm her despair, which they say is fearful."

"Certainly, I will see her, and the Goualeuse also; for all you tell
me about this poor girl affects me sincerely. But what must I do to
obtain her liberty? Then I will find her a place; I will take charge
of her."

"With the relations your ladyship has, it will be very easy for you to
get her discharge to-day or to-morrow; it depends entirely on the
prefect of the police. The recommendation of a person of quality would
be decisive with him. But I have wandered far, madame, from the
observation that I made on the slumber of the Goualeuse. On this
subject, I must confess, that I should not be astonished that, to the
sentiments of profound grief for her first fault, is joined another
sorrow, not less cruel."

"What do you mean to say, madame?"

"Perhaps I am deceived; but I should not be astonished that this young
girl, emancipated, as it were, from the degradation into which she was
first plunged, had experienced perhaps a virtuous love, which was at
once her happiness and misery."

"Why do you think so?"

"The obstinate silence she keeps as to the place where she passed the
three months which followed her departure from the City, makes me
think that she fears to be reclaimed by the persons with whom,
perhaps, she found a refuge."

"And why this fear?"

"Because she would then have to avow a past life, of which they are
doubtless ignorant."

"Really, this peasant's dress--"

"Besides, another circumstance has strengthened my suspicions. Last
night, as I made my inspection, I drew near the Goualeuse's bed; she
slept profoundly; her face was calm and serene; her thick flaxen hair,
half escaping from under her cap, fell in profusion on her neck and
shoulders. She had her small hands clasped over her bosom, as if she
had fallen asleep while in the act of prayer. I contemplated with
compassion this angelic countenance, when, in a low voice, and in a
tone at once respectful, sorrowful and endearing, she pronounced a
name."

"And this name?"

After a moment's silence, Madame Armand said gravely, "Although I
consider as sacred that which one hears another express in their
sleep, you interest yourself so generously in this unfortunate,
madame, that I can confide to you this secret. The name was Rudolph."

"Rudolph!" cried Madame d'Harville, thinking of the prince. Then,
reflecting that, after all, the Grand Duke of Gerolstein could have no
connection with the Rudolph of poor Goualeuse, she said to the
inspectress, who seemed astonished at her exclamation, "This name
surprised me, madame, for by a singular chance, one of my relations
bears it also; but all you have told me of the Goualeuse interests me
more and more. Can I not see her to-day? Now?"

"Yes, madame, I will go, if you wish, to find her, I can also ask
about Louise Morel, who is in the other part of the prison."

"I shall be much obliged," answered Madame d'Harville, and she
remained alone.

"It is singular," said she; "I cannot account for the strange
impression which the name of Rudolph caused me. Truly, I am mad!
between _him_ and such a creature, what relations can exist?"
Then, after a pause, she added, "He was right! how much all this
interests me! the mind, the heart, expand when they are applied to
such noble occupations! As he says, it seems as if one participated in
the power of Providence, when relieving those who are deserving. And
these excursions in a world of whose existence we have no suspicion
are so interesting, so _amusing_, as _he_ was pleased to
say! What romance could give me such touching emotions, excite to this
point my curiosity! This poor Goualeuse, for example, inspires me with
profound pity, and this unfortunate daughter of the artisan, whom the
prince had so generously relieved in my name! Poor people! their
frightful misery served as a pretext to save me. I have escaped shame,
death, perhaps, by a hypocritical falsehood; this deceit oppresses me;
but I will expiate it by force of benefactions. This will be easy! it
is so sweet to follow the noble counsels of Rudolph, it is rather to
love than to obey him! Oh! I feel it--I know it. I experience a sweet
delight in acting through him; for I love him. Oh, yes, I love him!
yet he will be for ever ignorant of this eternal passion of my life."

While Madame d'Harville awaits the Goualeuse, we will return to the
prison-yard.




CHAPTER XV.

WOLF AND LAMB.


Fleur-de-Marie, the Songstress, wore the blue dress and black cap of
the prisoners; but even in this common costume she was charming. Yet
since she was carried off from the farm of Bouqueval, her features
were much altered; her natural paleness, slightly tinted with rose,
was now as dead as the whitest alabaster; her expression had also
changed; it had now assumed a kind of dignified sadness.
Fleur-de-Marie knew that to endure courageously the grievous sacrifices
of expiation is almost to obtain a kind of regeneration.

"Ask their pardon for me, La Goualeuse," said Mont Saint Jean. "See
how they drag in the dirt all that I had collected with so much
trouble; what good can it do them?"

Fleur-de-Marie did not say a word, but she began actively to collect,
one by one, from under the feet of the prisoners, all the rags she
could find. One of the prisoners retaining mischievously under her
foot a piece of coarse muslin, Fleur-de-Marie, stooping, raised her
enchanting face toward this woman, and said, in her sweet voice, "I
beg you to let me take this, in the name of the poor weeping woman."

The prisoner withdrew her foot. The muslin was saved, as well as all
the other rags, which the Goualeuse secured piece by piece. There
remained only one little cap, which two of them were contending for,
laughing.

Fleur-de-Marie said to them, "Come, be good now, and give her that
little cap."

"My eye! is it for a baby harlequin, this cap? Made of gray stuff,
with peaks of green and black fustian, and a bedtick lining!" This
description of the cap was received with shouts of laughter.

"Laugh at it as much as you please, but give it to me," said Mont
Saint Jean; "don't drag it in the gutter, as you did the rest. I beg
your pardon, La Goualeuse, for having made you soil your hands for
me," added she, in a grateful voice.

"Give me the harlequin cap," said La Louve, who caught it, and shook
it in the air as a trophy.

"I entreat you to give it to me," said La Goualeuse.

"No; because you will give it to Mont Saint Jean."

"Certainly!"

"Ah! bah! such a fag! it's not worth the trouble."

"It is because Mont Saint Jean has nothing but rags to dress her child
with that you should have pity on her, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie,
sadly, extending her hand toward the cap.

"You sha'n't have it!" answered La Louve, brutally; "must one always
give up to you because you are the weakest? You take advantage of
this."

"Where would be the merit of giving it to me if I were the strongest?"
answered La Goualeuse, with a smile full of grace.

"No, no, you wish to twist me about again with your little soft voice;
you sha'n't have it."

"Come, now, La Louve, don't be naughty."

"Leave me alone, you tire me."

"I entreat you!"

"Stop! don't make me angry--I have said no, and no it is!" cried La
Louve, very much irritated.

"Have pity upon her; see how she weeps!"

"What is that to me? So much the worse for her; she is our target."

"That's true, that's true, don't give it up," murmured several of the
prisoners, carried away by the example of La Louve.

"You are right--so much the worse for her!" said Fleur-de-Marie, with
bitterness. "She is your butt; she ought to be resigned to it; her
groans amuse you, her tears make you laugh. You must pass the time in
some way; if you should kill her on the spot, she has no right to say
anything. You are right, La Louve--it is just! this poor woman has
done no harm; she cannot defend herself; she is one against the whole--
you overpower her--that is very brave and very generous."

"Are we cowards, then?" cried La Louve, carried away by the violence
of her character, and by her impatience of all contradiction. "Will
you answer? are we cowards, eh?" said she, more and more irritated.

Murmurs, very threatening for the Goualeuse, began to be heard. The
offended prisoners approached and surrounded her, vociferating,
forgetting or revolting against the ascendancy that the young girl had
until then obtained over them.

"She calls us cowards! By what right does she scold us? Is it because
she is greater than we are? We have been too good to her, and now she
wants to put on airs with us. If we choose to torment Mont Saint Jean,
what has she got to say about it? Since it is so, you shall be worse
beaten than before, do you hear, Mont Saint Jean?"

"Hold, here is one to begin with," said one of them, giving her a
blow. "And if you meddle with what don't concern you, La Goualeuse,
we'll treat you in the same way."

"Yes, yes!"

"This isn't all!" cried La Louve; "La Goualeuse must ask our pardon
for having called us cowards! If not, and we let her go on, she'll
finish by eating us up; we are very stupid not to see that. She must
ask our pardon. On her knee! on both knees! or we'll treat her like
Mont Saint Jean, her _protegee_. On your knees--on your knees!
Oh! we are cowards, are we?"

Fleur-de-Marie was not alarmed at these furious cries; she let the
storm rage, but as soon as she could be heard, casting a calm and
melancholy glance around her, she replied to La Louve, who vociferated
anew, "Dare to repeat that we are cowards!"

"You? no, no; it is this poor woman whose clothes you have torn, whom
you have beaten, dragged in the mire, who is a coward! Do you not see
how she weeps, how she trembles in looking at you? It is she who is a
coward, since she is afraid of you."

The discernment of Fleur-de-Marie served her perfectly. She might have
invoked justice and duty to disarm the stupid and brutal conduct of
the prisoners, they would not have listened to her; but in addressing
them with this sentiment of natural generosity, which is never extinct
even in the most contemptible natures, she awoke a feeling of pity.

La Louve and her companions still murmured; Fleur-de-Marie continued:
"Your target does not deserve compassion, you say; but her child
deserves it. Alas! does it not feel the blows given to the mother?
When she cries for mercy, it is not for herself, it is for her child!
When she asks for some of your bread, if you have too much, because
she has more hunger than usual, it is not for her, but for her child!
When she begs you, with tears in her eyes, to spare these rags, which
she has had so much trouble to collect, it is not for her, but for her
child! This poor little cap, which you have made so much fun of, is
laughable, perhaps; yet only to look at it makes me feel like weeping.
I avow it. Laugh at us both, Mont Saint Jean and me, if you will." The
prisoners did not laugh. La Louve even looked sadly at the little cap
she held in her hand. "Come, now!" continued Fleur-de-Marie, wiping
her eyes with the back of her white and delicate hand; "I know you are
not so hard. You torment Mont Saint Jean from want of employment, not
from cruelty. But you forget that she has her child. Could she hold it
in her arms that it should protect her, not only would you not strike
her, for fear of hurting the poor innocent, but if it was cold, you
would give to its mother all you could to cover it, eh, La Louve?"

"It is true: who would not pity a child?"

"It is very plain."

"If it was hungry you would take the bread out of your own mouth;
would you not, La Louve?"

"Yes, and willingly. I am no worse than others."

"Nor we neither."

"A poor little innocent!"

"Who would have a heart to hurt it?"

"Must be a monster!"

"No hearts!"

"Wild beasts!"

"I told you truly," said Fleur-de-Marie. "That you were not cruel. You
are kind; your error is not reflecting that Mont Saint Jean deserves
as much compassion as though she had her child in her arms, that's
all."

"That's all!" cried La Louve, with warmth; "no, that's not all. You
were right, La Goualeuse; we were cowards, and you were brave in
daring to tell us so; and you are brave in not trembling after having
told us. You see we were right in constantly insisting that _you
were not one of us_--it must always come to that. It vexes me; but
so it is. We were all wrong just now. You were pluckier than the whole
gang of us!"

"That's true; this little blonde must have had courage to tell us the
truth right in our faces."

"After all, it is true, when we strike Mont Saint Jean, we do strike
her child."

"I didn't think of that."

"Nor I either."

"But La Goualeuse thinks of everything."

"And to strike a child is shameful!"

"There isn't one of us capable of doing it."

"Nothing is more easily moved than popular passion-nothing more abrupt
and rapid than the return from evil to good and from good to evil." The
few simple and touching words from Fleur-de-Marie had caused a sudden
reaction in favor of Mont Saint Jean, who wept gently.

Suddenly La Louve, violent and hasty in everything, took the little
cap she held in her hand, made a kind of purse of it, fumbled in her
pocket, and drew out twenty sous, threw them into the cap, and cried,
presenting it to her companions, "I give twenty sous toward buying
baby-linen for Mont Saint Jean. We'll cut it all out and sew it
ourselves, so that the making-up sha'n't cost a copper!"

"Yes, yes."

"That's it! let us club together."

"I'm agreed!"

"Famous idea!"

"Poor woman!"

"She is as ugly as a monster; but she is a mother, like any one else."

"I give ten sous."

"I thirty."

"I twenty."

"I four sous; got no more."

"I have nothing; but I will sell my ration for tomorrow-who'll buy?"

"I," said La Louve; "I put ten sous for you; but you'll keep your
ration, and Mont Saint Jean's baby shall be togged out like a
princess."

To express the surprise and joy of Mont Saint Jean would be
impossible; her grotesque and ugly visage became almost touching.
Happiness and gratitude beamed the Fleur-de-Marie was also very happy,
although she had been obliged to say to La Louve, when she held the
little cap toward her, "I have no money; but I will work as much as
you like."

"Oh! my good little angel from Paradise," cried Mont Saint Jean,
falling at the feet of La Goualeuse, and trying to take her hand to
kiss it. "What is it I have done that you should be so charitable
toward me, and all these _ladies_ also? Is it possible, my good
angel? For my child--everything that I want! Who could have believed
it? I shall go off my head, I am sure. Why, I was just now the
scapegoat of every one! In a moment, because you said something in
your dear little voice of a seraph, you turn them from evil to good;
and now they love me, and I love them. They are so good! I was wrong
to get angry. Wasn't I a fool, and unjust, and ungrateful? All they
have done to me was only for a laugh; they didn't wish me any harm--it
was for my good; for here is the proof. Why, now, if they were to kill
me on the spot, I would not say a word."

"We have eighty-four francs and seven sous," said La Louve, having
finished counting the money she had collected. "Who will be treasurer?
Mustn't give it to Mont Saint Jean; she is too stupid."

"Let Goualeuse take charge of the money," they all cried unanimously.

"If you listen to me," said Fleur-de-Marie, "you will beg Madame
Armand, the inspectress, to take charge of this sum, and make the
necessary purchases; and then she will know the good action you have
done, and, perhaps, will ask to have your time reduced. Well, La
Louve," added she, taking her companion by the arm, "don't you now
feel happier than when you were casting to the winds, just now, the
poor rags of Mont Saint Jean?"

La Louve at first did not answer. To the generous warmth which had for
a moment animated her features had succeeded a kind of savage
defiance.

Fleur-de-Marie looked at her with surprise, not understanding this
sudden change.

"La Goualeuse, come; I want to talk to you," said La Louve, in a
sullen manner; and leaving the other prisoners, she led Fleur-de-Marie
near to the basin which was in the center of the court. La Louve and
her companion seated themselves, isolated from the rest of their
companions.

The winter's sun shed its pale rays upon them, the blue sky was
partially obscured by white and fleecy clouds; some birds, deceived by
the mildness of the atmosphere, were warbling in the black branches of
the large chestnut-trees in the court; two or three sparrows, bolder
than the rest, came to drink and to bathe in a little brook which
flowed from the fountain; the stone margin was covered with green
moss, and here and there from the interstices rose some tufts of green
herbs, which the frost had spared. This description of the prison
basin may seem trifling, but Fleur-de-Marie lost not one of these
details; with her eyes fixed sadly on the clouds as they broke the
azure of the sky, or reflected the golden rays of the sun, she
thought, with a sigh, of the magnificence of nature, which she much
loved, admired poetically, and of which she was deprived.

"What do you wish to say to me?" asked La Goualeuse of her companion,
who, seated alongside of her, remained somber and silent.

"It is necessary that we have a settlement," cried La Louve, harshly,
"this can't go on."

"I don't understand you, La Louve."

"Just now, in the court, I said to myself, 'I will not yield to La
Goualeuse,' and yet I have again given way to you." "But--"

"I tell you this can't last so."

"What have you against me, La Louve?"

"Why, I am no longer the same since your arrival; no, I have no more
courage, strength, or hardihood."

Interrupting herself, she pushed up the sleeve of her dress and showed
to La Goualeuse her strong white arm, pointing out to her, pricked in
with indelible ink, a poniard half plunged in a red heart; over this
emblem were these words:

"Death to Dastards! MARTIAL. For life!"

"Do you see that?" cried La Louve.

"Yes; it makes me afraid," said La Goualeuse, turning away her head.

"When Martial, my lover, wrote this with a red-hot needle, he thought
me brave; if he knew my conduct for three days past, he would drive
his knife in my body, as this poniard is planted in this heart; and he
would be right, for be has written there '_Death to Dastards_'
and I am one."

"What have you done cowardly?"

"Everything."

"Do you regret what you have done just now?"

"Yes!"

"I do not believe you."

"I tell you that I regret it, for it is another proof of the power you
have over us all. Did you not hear what Mont Saint Jean said when she
was on her knees to thank you?"

"What did she say?"

"She said, in speaking of us, that with nothing you turn us from evil
to good. I could have strangled her when she said that, for, to our
shame, it is true. Yes, in a moment you change us from black to white:
we listen to you, we give way to our impulses, and we are your dupes."

"My dupe--because you have generously assisted this poor woman!"

"It shall not be said," cried La Louve, "that a little girl like you
can trample me under foot."

"I! how?"

"Do I know how? You come here--you commence by offending me."

"Offend you?"

"Yes: you ask who wants your bread: I answer first 'I.' Mont Saint
Jean only asks for it afterward and you give her the preference.
Furious at this, I rush on you with my knife raised."

"And I said to you, 'Kill me if you will, but do not make me suffer
too much,'" answered La Goualeuse; "that was all."

"That was all! Yes, that was all! and yet, these words alone caused
the knife to fall from my hands; made me ask pardon from you, who had
offended me. Is it natural? Why, when I return to my senses, I pity
myself. And the night when you arrived here, when you knelt to say
your prayers, why, instead of laughing at you and arousing the whole
company--why was it that I said, 'Leave her alone; she prays because
she has the right to do so.' And, the next morning, why were we all
ashamed to dress before you?"

"I do not know, La Louve."

"Really!" said this violent creature, with irony, "you don't know! It
is, doubtless, as we have told you sometimes in jest, that you are of
another family than ours. Perhaps you believe that?"

"I never said so."

"You never said so, but you act so."

"I pray you to listen to me."

"No! it has been of no service for me to listen to you--to look at
you. Up to now I have never envied any one. Well, two or three times I
have surprised myself in envying--can anything be more sneaking?--in
envying your face--like the Holy Virgin's! your soft, sad manner! Yes,
I have envied even your fair hair, and your blue eyes. I--who have
always detested fair faces, since I am a brunette--wish to resemble
you!"

"No, La Louve! me?"

"A week ago I should have left my mark on any one who would have dared
to tell me this. However, I do not envy you your lot; you are as sad
as a Magdalen. Is it natural? speak!"

"How can you expect me to account to you for the impressions I cause?"

"Oh, you know well enough what you do with your touch-me-not air."

"But what design can I have?"

"Do you think I know? It is exactly because I cannot understand all
this that I suspect you. There is another thing: until now I have
always been gay or angry, but never a thinker; and you have made me
think. Yes, there are some words you say which, in spite of me, have
touched my heart, and make me think all manner of sad things."

"I am sorry to have made you sad, La Louve; but I do not remember to
have said any--"

"Oh!" cried La Louve; "what you do is often as touching as what you
say! You are so malignant!"

"Do not be angry, La Louve! explain yourself."

"Yesterday, in the workshop, I saw you plainly. You had your eyes
down, fixed on your work; a tear fell on your hand; you looked at it
for a moment, and then you carried your hand to your lips, as if to
kiss away this tear; is it not true?"

"It is true," said La Goualeuse, blushing.

"That has the appearance of nothing! But, at that moment you looked so
unhappy--so unhappy, that I felt myself all heartache--every feeling
stirred up. Say now? do you think this is amusing? I have always been
as hard as a rock about everything concerning myself. No one can boast
of ever having seen me weep; and it must be that in looking at your
little face I should feel cowardice at my heart! Yes, for all that is
pure cowardice; and the proof is, that for three days I have not dared
to write to Martial, my conscience accuses me so much. Yes, keeping
company with you has weakened my character; it must stop; I have
enough of it; I wish to remain as I am, and not have people laugh at
me."

"Why should they laugh at you?"

"Because they would see me acting a stupid good-natured part, who made
them all tremble here! No, no, I am twenty; I am as handsome as you,
in my style; I am wicked; I am feared, and that's what I want. I laugh
at the rest. Perish all who say the contrary!"

"You are angry with me, La Louve!"

"Yes, you are for me a bad acquaintance; if this is continued, in
fifteen days, instead of being called Wolf, they will call me Sheep.
Thank you! it's not me they'll baptize so. Martial would kill me. In
short, I want none of your company; I am going to ask to be put in
another hall; if they refuse, I'll flare up so that they will put me
in the dungeon until my time is out. That's what I have to say to you,
La Goualeuse."

"I assure you, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie, "that you feel an
interest in me, not because you are soft, but because you are
generous--brave hearts alone feel the misfortunes of others."

"There is neither generosity nor courage in this," said La Louve,
brutally; "it is cowardice. Besides, I do not wish you to tell me that
I am touched--softened; it is not true."

"I will not say so any more, La Louve; but since you have shown some
interest for me, you will let me be grateful to you for it, will you
not?"

"To-night I shall be in another hall from you, or alone in the
dungeon; and soon I shall be away from here."

"And where will you go?"

"Home; Rue Pierre Lescot. I have my own furnished room."

"And Martial!" said La Goualeuse, who hoped to continue the
conversation by speaking of an object interesting to her; "you'll be
very happy to see him?"

"Yes; oh, yes!" answered she. "When I was arrested he was recovering
from sickness--a fever which he had, because he is always on the
water. For sixteen or seventeen nights I never left him for a moment.
I sold half that I possessed to pay for a doctor and medicines. I can
boast of it; and I do boast of it. If my man lives, he owes it to me.
I yesterday burned a candle before the Virgin for him. It is foolish;
but never mind, some very good effects have proceeded from this, for
he is convalescent."

"Where is he now? what does he do?"

"He lives near the Asnieres Bridge, on the shore."

"On the shore?"

"Yes, with his family, in a solitary house. He is always warring with
the river-keepers; and when once he is in his boat, with his
double-barreled gun, it's no good to approach him!" said La Louve,
proudly.

"What is his trade?"

"He fishes by stealth at night; his father had some
_misunderstanding_ with justice. He has still a mother, two
sisters, and a brother. It would be better for him not to have such a
brother, for he is a scoundrel, who will be guillotined one of these
days; his sisters also. However, never mind, their necks belong to
themselves."

"Where did you first meet Martial?"

"In Paris. He wished to learn the trade of a locksmith; a fine trade,
always red-hot iron and fire around one, and danger, too; that suited
him, but, like me, he had a bad head--couldn't agree with the
slow-pokes: so he returned to his family, and began to maraud on the
river. He came to Paris to see me, and I went to see him at Asnieres; it
is very near; but if it had been further, I should have gone, even if I
had been obliged to go on my hands and knees."

"You will be very happy to go to the country, you, La Louve," said the
Goualeuse, sighing; "above all, if you love, as I do, to walk in the
fields."

"I prefer to walk in the woods--in the large forests, with Martial!"

"In forests? are you not afraid?"

"Afraid! Is a wolf afraid? The thicker and darker the forest, the more
I like it. A lonely hut, where I should live with Martial, who should
be a poacher; to go with him at night, to set traps for the game; and
then, if the guards come to arrest us, to fire on them, hiding in the
bushes--ah! that's what I like!"

"You have lived in a, forest. La Louve?"

"Never."

"Who gave you such ideas?"

"Martial. He was a poacher in Rambouillet Wood. About a year ago he
was _looked upon_ as having fired upon a guard who had fired upon
him--villain of a guard! It was not proved in court, but Martial was
obliged to leave. So he then came to Paris to learn a trade; as I
said, he left and went to maraud on the river; it is less slavish. But
he always regrets the woods, and will return there some day or other."

"And, La Louve, where are your parents?"

"Do you think I know!"

"Is it a long time since you have seen them?"

"I do not know if they are dead or alive."

Fleur-de-Marie, although plunged very young into an atmosphere of
corruption, had since respired an air so pure, that she experienced a
painful oppression at the horrid story of La Louve. Suppressing the
emotion which the sad confession of her companion had caused her, she
said to her, timidly, "Listen to me without being angry."

"Come, say on; I hope I have talked enough; but, in truth, all the
same, since it is the last time we shall converse together."

"Are you happy, La Louve?"

"What do you mean?"

"With the life you lead?"

"Here at Saint Lazare?"

"No; at your home, when you are free."

"Yes, I am happy."

"Always?"

"Always."

"You would not change your lot for any other?"

"For what other? There's no other lot for me."

"Tell me, La Louve," continued Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's
silence, "do you not sometimes like to build castles in the air here
in prison? It is so amusing."

"Castles in the air?"

"About Martial."

"Martial?"

"Yes."

"Ma foi, I never have."

"Let me build one for you and Martial."

"What's the use?"

"To pass the time."

"Well, let us see this castle."

"Just imagine, for example, that by chance you should meet some one
who should say to you, 'Abandoned by your father and mother, your
childhood has been surrounded by bad examples; that you must be pitied
as much as blamed for having become--'"

"Having become what?"

"What you and I--have become," answered Goualeuse, in a soft voice.
"Suppose this person were to say to you, 'You love Martial--he loves
you; leave your present mode of life, and become his wife.'"

La Louve shrugged her shoulders.

"Do you think he would take me for his wife?"

"Except his poaching, has he ever committed any other culpable
action?"

"No; he is a poacher on the river, as he was in the woods; and he is
right. Are not fish, like game, the property of those who can take
them? Where is the mark of their owner?"

"Well, suppose, having renounced this, he wishes to become an honest
man; suppose that he inspired, by the frankness of his good
resolutions, enough confidence in an unknown benefactor to be given a
place--as gamekeeper, for instance. To a poacher, it would be to his
liking. It is the same trade, only lawful."

"Lord! yes; it is life in the woods."

"Only this place would be given to him on the sole condition that he
would marry you and take you with him."

"I go with Martial?"

"Yes; you would be happy, you say, to live together in a forest. Would
you not like better, instead of a miserable poacher's hut where you
would hide yourselves like criminals, to have a nice little cottage,
of which you should be the active, industrious housekeeper?"

"You make fun of me. Can this be possible?"

[Illustration: THE SCAFFOLD]

"Who knows? though it is only a castle."

"Ah, true; very well."

"I say, La Louve, it seems to me I already see you established in your
cottage in the forest, with your husband, and two or three children.
What happiness!"

"Children! Martial!" cried La Louve; "oh, yes, they would be
_proudly_ loved."

"How much company they would be for you in your solitude. Then, when
they began to grow up, they could render you some assistance. The
smallest could pick up the dead branches for your fire; the largest
could drive to pasture the cow which has been given to your husband
for his activity; for, having been a poacher himself, he would make
all the better gamekeeper."

"Just so; that's true. Ah, these castles in the air are amusing. Tell
me some more, La Goualeuse."

"They will be very much pleased with your husband. You will receive
from his master some presents; a nice garden. But marry! you will have
to work, La Louve, from morning to night." "Oh, if that was all, once
along with Martial, work wouldn't make me afraid. I have strong arms."

"And you would have enough to occupy them, I answer for it. There is
so much to do. There are the meals to prepare, clothes to mend; one
day the washing, another day the baking, or the house to clean from
top to bottom; so that the other gamekeepers would say, 'Oh, there is
not a housekeeper like Martial's wife; from cellar to garret her house
is as nice as a new pin; and the children always so neat and clean. It
is because she is so industrious.'"

"Tell me, La Goualeuse, is it true I would be called Madame Martial?"

"It is a great deal better than to be called La Louve, is it not?"

"Certainly; I prefer the name of any man to the name of a beast. But,
bah! bah! wolf I am born, and wolf I shall die."

"Who knows? Do not recoil from a hard but honest life that brings
happiness. So, work would not alarm you?"

"Oh, no."

"And then, besides, it is not all labor: there are moments of repose.
In the winter evenings, while your children are asleep, and your
husband smoking his pipe, cleaning his gun, or caressing his dogs, you
could have a nice quiet time."

"Bah! bah! a quiet time, sit with my arms folded. Goodness, no; I
would prefer to mend the family linen in the evening, in the
chimney-corner; that is not so tiresome. The days are so short in
winter."

At the words of Fleur-de-Marie, La Louve forgot more and more of the
present in these dreams of the future. La Louve did not conceal the
wild tastes with which her lover had inspired her. Fleur-de-Marie had
thought, with reason, that if her companion would suffer herself to be
sufficiently moved at this picture of a rough, poor, and solitary
life, to ardently desire to live such a one, this woman would deserve
interest and pity.

Enchanted at seeing her companion listen with curiosity, La Goualeuse
continued, smiling: "And, then you see _Madame Martial_--let me
call you so, what do you care?"

"On the contrary, it flatters me," said La Louve, shrugging her
shoulders, but smiling. "What folly--to play _Madame!_ What
children we are! Never mind, go on--it is amusing. You said, then----"

"I say, Madame Martial, that in speaking of your mode of living in
winter, in the woods, we only think of the worst part of the season."

"No, that is not the worst. To hear the wind whistle at night in the
forest, and from time to time the wolves howl, far off--far off; I
would not find it tiresome, not I, if I am alongside of a good fire,
with my man and my brats; or even all alone with my children, while he
is gone to make his rounds. Oh! a gun doesn't frighten me. If I had my
children to defend, I'd be good then. La Louve would take good care of
her cubs!"

"Oh! I believe you--you are very brave; but coward me prefers spring
to winter. Oh! the spring, Madame Martial, the spring! when the leaves
burst forth; when the pretty wood-flowers blossom, which smell so
good--so good, that the air is perfumed. Then it is that your children
will tumble gayly on the new grass, and the forest will become so
thick and bushy, that your house can hardly be seen for the foliage; I
think I can see it from here. There is a bower before the door that
your husband has planted, which shades the seat of turf where he
sleeps during the heat of the day, while you go and come, and tell the
children not to wake their father. I do not know if you have remarked
it, but at noon in the middle of summer, it is as silent in the woods
as during the night. Not a leaf stirs, not a bird is heard to sing."

"That is true," repeated La Louve, mechanically, who, forgetting more
and more the reality, believed almost that she saw displayed before
her eyes the smiling pictures described by the poetic imagination of
Fleur-de-Marie, instinctively a lover of the beauties of nature.

Delighted with the profound attention which her companion lent her,
she continued, allowing herself to be carried away by the charm of the
thoughts she evoked. "There is one thing that I like almost as well as
the silence of the woods; it is the patter of the large drops of rain
in the summer, falling on the leaves; do you like this also?"

"Oh yes--I like also, very much, the summer rain."

"When the trees, moss, and grass are all well moistened, what a fine
fresh odor! And then, how the sun, peeping through the trees, makes
all the drops of water sparkle which hang from the leaves after the
shower. Have you remarked this also?"

"Yes, but I didn't remember it till you told it me. How droll it is!
you tell it so well, La Goualeuse, that one seems to see everything as
you speak; and--I do not know how to explain this to you; but what you
have said--smells good--is refreshing--like the summer rain of which
you spoke."

Thus, like the beautiful and the good, poetry is often contagious. La
Louve's brutal and savage nature had to submit in everything to the
influence of Fleur-de-Marie. She added, smiling, "We must not believe
that we are alone in loving the summer rain. How happy the birds are!
how they shake their wings in warbling joyously--not more joyously,
however, than your children, free, gay, and lively as they are: see
how, at the close of day, the youngest runs through the woods to meet
his brother, who brings the heifers from the pasture; they soon heard
the tinkling of their bells."

"Why, La Goualeuse, it seems to me that I can see the smallest, yet
the boldest, who has been placed by his brother, who sustains him,
astride the back of one of the cows."

"And one would say that the poor beast knew what burden she was
bearing, she walks with so much precaution.

"But now it is supper time: your eldest, while the cattle were
grazing, has amused himself in filling a basket for you with wild
strawberries, which he has brought covered with violets."

"Strawberries and violets--oh! that must be a balm. But where the
mischief do you get such ideas, La Goualeuse?"

"In the woods, where the strawberries ripen, where the violets bloom;
it is only to look and collect, Madame Martial. But let us speak of
the housekeeping: it is night, you must milk your cows, prepare the
supper under the arbor, for you hear your husband's dogs bark, and
soon the voice of their master, who, tired as he is, comes home
singing. And why should he not sing, when, on a fine summer evening,
with a contented mind, he regains his house, where a good wife and
fine children await him?"

"True, one could not do otherwise than sing," said La Louve, becoming
more and more thoughtful.

"At least, if one does not weep from joy," continued Fleur-de-Marie,
herself affected. "And such tears are as sweet as songs. And then,
when night has closed in, what happiness to remain under the arbor, to
enjoy the serenity of a fine evening; to breathe the perfume of the
forest; to hear the children prattle; to look at the stars! Then the
heart is so full that it must be relieved by prayer. How not thank Him
to whom one owes the freshness of the night, the perfume of the woods,
the sweet light of the starry heavens? After these thanks or this
prayer, you go to sleep peacefully until the morning, and then again
you thank the Creator; for this poor, industrious, but calm and honest
life, is that of every day."

"Of every day!" repeated La Louve, her head on her bosom, her eyes
fixed, her breathing oppressed; "for it is true, God is good to give
us the power to live happy on so little."

"Well, now, say," continued Fleur-de-Marie, gently, "say, ought he not
be blessed and thanked next to Heaven, who would give you this
peaceful and industrious life, instead of the miserable one you lead
in the mud in the streets of Paris?"

The word "Paris" called La Louve to the reality.

A strange phenomenon had just been occurring in the mind, the soul of
this creature. A natural picture of an humble working life, a simple
recital, now lighted up by the soft glimmerings of a domestic
fireside, gilded by some joyous rays of the sun, refreshed by the
gentle winds of the forest, or perfumed by the odor of wild flowers,
had made on La Louve an impression more profound, more striking, than
all the exhortations of transcendent morality could have effected.
Yes, as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La Louve had yearned to be an
indefatigable housekeeper, an honest wife, a pious and devoted mother.
To inspire, even for a moment, a violent, immoral, degraded woman,
with a love of family, the respect of duty, the desire to labor,
gratitude toward the Creator, and that by promising her merely what
God gives to all, the sun of Heaven and the shade of the forest, what
man owes to the sweat of his brow, bread and shelter--was it not a
triumph for Fleur-de-Marie? Would the moralist the most severe, the
preacher the most fulminating, have obtained more by their menacing
threats of every vengeance, human and Divine?

The angry feelings shown by La Louve when she awoke from her dream to
the reality, showed the effects or influence of the words of her
companion. The more her regrets were bitter on awakening to the sense
of her horrible position, the more the triumph of the Goualeuse was
manifest.

After a moment of silent reflection, La Louve suddenly raised her
head, passed her hand over her face, and arose from her seat,
threatening and angry.

"You see that I had reason to avoid you, and not listen to you,
because it only does me harm! Why have you talked in this way to me?--
to laugh at me? to torment me? And because I was fool enough to tell
you that I would like to live in a forest with Martial! But who are
you, then? Why do you turn my head in this way? You do not know what
you have done, unlucky girl! Now in spite of myself, I shall always be
thinking of that wood, that house, those children, all that happiness,
which I never shall have--never, never! And if I cannot forget what
you have told me, my life will be a torment, a hell; and all by your
fault--yes, by your fault!"

"So much the better!--oh! so much the better!" said Fleur-de-Marie.

"You dare to say so?" cried La Louve, with threatening eyes.

"Yes, so much the better; for if your miserable mode of living from
henceforth proves a hell, you will prefer that of which I have
spoken."

"And what good for me to prefer it, since I cannot enjoy it? why
regret being a girl of the streets, since I must die one?" cried La
Louve, more and more irritated, seizing hold of the small hand of
Fleur-de-Marie. "Answer--answer! Why have you made me wish for a life
I cannot have?"

"To wish for an honest and industrious life is to be worthy of such a
life, I have told you," answered Fleur-de-Marie, without seeking to
disengage her hand.

"Well, what then, when I shall be worthy? what does it prove? how
advance me?"

"To see realized that which you regard as a dream," said Fleur-de-Marie,
in a voice so serious and convincing that La Louve, again
overpowered, abandoned the hand of La Goualeuse, and remained struck
with astonishment. "Listen to me, La Louve," added Marie, in a voice
full of compassion; "do not think me so cruel as to awaken in you
these thoughts, these hopes, if I were not sure, in making you ashamed
of your present condition, to give you the means to escape from it."

"You cannot do that!"

"I--no; but some one who is good, great, almost all-powerful."

"All-powerful?"

"Listen again, La Louve. Three months since, like you, I was a poor,
lost, abandoned creature. One day, he, of whom I speak with tears of
gratitude,"--Fleur-de-Marie wiped her tears--"came to me; he was not
afraid, debased and despised although I was, to speak to me words of
consolation--the first I ever heard! I told him my sufferings, misery,
and shame, without concealing anything, just as you have now related
to me your life, La Louve. After having listened to me with kindness,
he did not blame--but pitied me, he did not deride me for my
degradation, but extolled the happy and peaceful life of the country."

"Like you just now."

"Then my situation appeared the more frightful, as the possible future
which he pointed out seemed to me more enchanting."

"Like me also."

"Yes; and like you I said, 'What good, alas! to show this Paradise to
me, who am condemned to a hell upon earth?' But I was wrong to
despair; for he of whom I speak is sovereignly just, sovereignly good,
and incapable of causing a false hope to shine in the eyes of a poor
creature who asked neither pity, nor hope, nor happiness from any
one."

"And what did he do for you?"

"He treated me like a sick child; I was, like you, plunged in air
corrupt, he sent me to respire a salubrious and vivifying atmosphere;
I lived also among hideous and criminal beings; he confided me to
beings made after his own image, who have purified my soul, elevated
my mind; for, to all those he loves and respects, he gives a spark of
his celestial intelligence. Yes, if my words move you, La Louve, if my
tears cause your tears to flow, it is his mind, his thoughts inspire
me! if I speak to you of a future more happy, which you will obtain by
repentance, it is because I can promise you this future in his name,
although he is now ignorant of the engagement I make. In short, if I
say to you, 'Hope!' it is because he always hears the voice of those
who desire to become better; for God has sent him on this earth to
further the belief in Providence."

Thus speaking, the countenance of Fleur-de-Marie became glowing and
inspired; her pale cheeks were colored for a moment with a slight
carnation; her beautiful blue eyes softly sparkled; she beamed forth a
beauty so noble, so touching, that La Louve, profoundly affected at
this conversation, looked at her companion with admiration, and cried,
"Where am I? Do I dream? I have never heard nor seen anything like
this; it is not possible! but who are you, once more? oh! I said truly
that you were not one of us! But how is it that you who speak so well,
who can do so much, who know such powerful people, are here, a
prisoner with us? is it to tempt us? You are, then, for good--what the
devil is for evil!"

Fleur-de-Marie was about to reply, when Madame Armand came and
interrupted her to conduct her to Madame d'Harvile. She said to La
Louve, who remained dumb from surprise, "I see with pleasure that the
presence of La Goualeuse in this prison has been beneficial to you and
your companions. I know that you have made a collection for poor Mont
Saint Jean; that is good and charitable, La Louve. It shall be
reckoned to you. I was sure that you were better than you appeared to
be. In recompense for your good action, I think I can promise you that
your imprisonment shall be abridged by many days." And Madame Armand
departed, followed by Fleur-de-Marie.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE PROTECTRESS.


The inspectress entered, with Goualeuse, the room where Clemence was;
the pale cheeks of the girl were slightly flushed from her earnest
conversation with La Louve.

"My lady the marchioness, pleased with the excellent accounts I have
given of you," said Madame Armand to Fleur-de-Marie, "desires to see
you, and perhaps will deign to obtain permission for you to leave here
before the expiration of your time."

"I thank you, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie, timidly, to Madame
Armand, who left her alone with the noble lady.

Clemence, struck with the beautiful features of her _protegee_,
and her graceful and modest bearing, could not help remembering that
the Goualeuse had, in her sleep, pronounced the name of Rudolph, and
that the inspectress believed her to be preyed upon by a deep and
concealed love. Although perfectly convinced that the Grand Duke
Rudolph could not be in question, Clemence allowed that, at least in
point of beauty, La Goualeuse was worthy of the love of a prince. At
the sight of her protectress, whose expression, as we have said, was
that of ineffable goodness, Fleur-de-Marie felt herself irresistibly
drawn toward her.

"My child," said Clemence, "in praising much the sweetness of your
disposition and the exemplary propriety of your conduct, Madame Armand
complains of your want of confidence in her."

Fleur-de-Marie held down her head without replying.

"The peasant dress in which you were clothed when you were arrested,
your silence on the subject of where you resided before you came here,
prove that you conceal something."

"Madame--"

"I have no right to your confidence, my poor child; I wish to ask you
no improper questions; only I am assured, that if I ask your release
from prison it will be granted. Before I ask, I wish to talk with you
of your projects and resources for the future. Once free, what will
you do? If, as I doubt not, you are decided to follow in the good path
you have entered, have confidence in me--I will put you in a way to
gain your living honorably."

La Goualeuse was affected to tears at the interest Madame d'Harville
evinced for her. She said, after a moment's thought, "You deign,
madame, to show yourself so benevolent and generous, that I ought,
perhaps, to break the silence which I have hitherto preserved as to
the past. An oath compelled me."

"An oath?"

"Yes, madame; I have sworn to conceal from justice, and from the
persons employed in this prison, in what manner I have been brought
here; yet, if you will, madame, make me a promise--"

"What promise?"

"To keep my secret. I can, thanks to you, madame, without breaking my
oath, relieve some respectable people, who, doubtless, are very uneasy
about me."

"Count on my discretion; I will only tell what you authorize me to
say."

"Oh, thank you, madame! I feared so much that my silence toward my
benefactors would look like ingratitude."

The sweet tears of Fleur-de-Marie, her language, so well chosen,
struck Madame d'Harville with renewed astonishment.

"I cannot conceal from you," said she, "that your bearing, your words,
all astonish me much. How, with an education such as you appear to
have had, how could you---"

"Fall so low, madame?" said the Goualeuse, bitterly.

"Yes, alas!"

"It is but a short time since I received it. I owe it to a generous
protector, who, like you, madame, without knowing me, without ever
having the favorable accounts which they have given you here of me,
took compassion on me."

"And who is this protector?"

"I am ignorant, madame."

"You are ignorant?"

"He has only made himself known to me by his inexhaustible goodness.
Thanks to heaven! I found myself in his way."

"Where did you meet him?"

"One night, in the city, madame," said La Goualeuse, casting down her
eyes, "a man wanted to strike me; this unknown benefactor courageously
defended me. Such was my first encounter with him."

"He was, then, a man of the common order?"

"The first time I saw him he had their dress and language, but
afterward--"

"Afterward?"

"The manner in which he spoke to me, the profound respect shown him by
the people to whom he confided me, all proved to me that he had
disguised himself as one of the men who frequent the city."

"But for what purpose?"

"I do not know."

"And the name of this mysterious protector, do you know it?"

"Oh, yes, madame, thank heaven!" said Goualeuse, with warmth; "for I
can bless and adore without ceasing this name. My deliverer is known
as Rudolph, madame."

Clemence blushed deeply.

"And has he no other name?" asked she, quickly, of Fleur-de-Marie.

"I do not know, madame. At the farm where he sent me, he was only
known by the name of Rudolph."

"And his age?"

"He is still young, madame."

"And handsome?"

"Oh, yes! handsome, noble--as his heart."

The grateful, feeling manner with which Fleur-de-Marie pronounced
these words, caused a disagreeable sensation to Madame d'Harville. An
invincible, an inexplicable presentiment told her that this Rudolph
was the prince.

"The observations of the inspectress were well founded," thought
Clemence. "The Goualeuse loves Rudolph; it was his name she pronounced
in her sleep. Under what strange circumstances had the prince and this
poor girl met? Why did Rudolph go disguised into the city?" She could
not resolve these questions; only she remembered that Sarah had
formerly, wickedly and falsely, related to her some pretended
eccentricities of Rudolph, and of his strange amours. Was it not,
indeed, strange that he had taken from a life of misery this creature,
of ravishing beauty and of no common mind?

Clemence had noble qualities, but she was a woman, and she loved
Rudolph profoundly, although she had determined to bury this secret in
the very depths of her heart. Without reflecting that this, no doubt,
was one of those generous actions which the prince was accustomed to
do secretly; without reflecting that, perhaps, she confounded with
love a sentiment of warm gratitude; without reflecting, finally, that
of this sentiment, even if it were more tender, Rudolph might be
ignorant, the lady, in the first feeling of bitterness and injustice,
could not prevent herself considering the Goualeuse as a rival. Her
pride revolted in feeling that she blushed; that she suffered, in
spite of herself, at a rivalry so abject. She resumed, then, in a cold
manner, which cruelly contrasted with the affectionate benevolence of
her first words, "And how is it, girl, that your protector leaves you
in prison? How did you get here?"

"Madame," said Fleur-de-Marie, timidly, struck with this change of
language: "have I displeased you in any way?"

"How could you have displeased me?" demanded Madame d'Harville, with
haughtiness.

"It seems to me that just now you spoke to me with more kindness,
madame."

"Truly, girl, must I weigh each of my words, since I consent to
interest myself in you? I have the right, I think, to address you
questions?"

Hardly were these words pronounced than Clemence, for many reasons,
regretted their severity. In the first place, by a praiseworthy return
of generosity; then because she thought, by offending her rival, she
could learn nothing more of what she wished to know.

In effect, the countenance of La Goualeuse, one moment open and
confiding, became instantly reserved.

Like the sensitive plant, which at the first touch closes its delicate
leaves, and folds them within its bosom, the heart of Fleur-de-Marie
contracted painfully.

Clemence resumed gently, not to awaken the suspicions of her
_protegee_ by too sudden a change. "In truth, I repeat to you, I
cannot comprehend that, having so much to praise in your benefactor,
you should be a prisoner here; how, after having sincerely returned to
the paths of rectitude, could you cause yourself to be arrested in a
place to you interdicted? All this seems to me extraordinary. You
speak of an oath which so far has imposed silence upon you; but this
oath even is so strange!"

"I have told the truth, madame."

"I am sure of it; one has only to see and hear you to believe you
incapable of a falsehood. But, what is incomprehensible in your
situation, augments, irritates my impatient curiosity; it is only to
that that you must attribute the sharpness of my words just now. Come,
I avow I was wrong; for, although I had no other right to your
confidence than my earnest wish to be useful to you, you have offered
to tell me that which you have told to no one, and I am very sensible,
believe me, my poor child, of this proof of your faith in the interest
I have for you. Hence, I promise you, in guarding scrupulously your
secret, if you confide it to me, I will do all in my power to meet
your wishes."

Thanks to this palliating speech, Madame d'Harville regained the
confidence of La Goualeuse, for a moment impaired. Fleur-de-Marie, in
her innocence, reproached herself for having misinterpreted the words
which had wounded her.

"Pardon me, madame," said she; "I was doubtless wrong not to tell you
at once what you wished to know; but you asked me the name of my
rescuer; in spite of myself, I cannot resist the pleasure of speaking
of him."

"Nothing is better; it proves how grateful you are toward him. But why
have you left the good people with whom he had placed you? Does your
oath have reference to this?"

"Yes, madame; but thanks to you, I believe now, still keeping my word,
I shall be able to satisfy my benefactors as to my disappearance."
"Come, my poor child, I listen."  "It is about three months since M.
Rudolph placed me at a farm situated four or five leagues hence."  "He
conducted you there himself?"  "Yes, madame; he confided me to the
care of a lady as good as she was venerable, whom I soon loved as a
mother. She and the cure of the village, at the request of M. Rudolph,
took charge of my education."  "And M. Rudolph often came to the
farm?"  "No, madame; he came there only three times while I was
there."  Clemence could not conceal a thrill of joy.  "And when he
came to see you, it made you very happy, did it not?"  "Oh, yes,
madame! it was for me more than happiness: It was a sentiment mixed
with gratitude, respect, admiration, and even a little fear."  "Fear!"
"From him to me--from him to others--the distance is so great!"  "But
what is his rank?"  "I am ignorant if he has any rank, madame."  "Yet
you speak of the distance which exists between him and others."  "Oh,
madame! that which places him above the rest of the world is the
elevation of his character--his inexhaustible generosity for those who
suffer; it is the enthusiasm with which he inspires everybody. The
wicked even cannot hear his name without trembling; they respect him
as much as they fear him. But pardon me, madame, for having again
spoken of him--I ought to be silent; for I should give you but an
imperfect idea of him whom I ought to content myself with adoring to
myself. As well attempt to express by words the grandeur of Heaven!
This comparison is perhaps sacrilegious, madame. But will it offend to
compare to Goodness itself the man who has given me a consciousness of
good and evil--who has dragged me from the abyss--to whom I owe a new
existence?"  "I do not blame you, my child; I comprehend your
feelings. But how have you abandoned this farm, where you were so
happy?"

"Alas, it was not voluntary, madame!"

"Who forced you, then?"

"One night, a short time since," said Fleur-de-Marie, trembling at the
recital, "I went to the parsonage of the village, when a wicked woman,
who had treated me cruelly in my childhood, and a man, her accomplice,
who was concealed with her in a ravine, threw themselves upon me,
wrapped me up, and carried me off in a carriage."

"For what purpose?"

"I do not know, madame. My waylayers were acting, I think, under the
orders of some powerful persons."

"What then ensued?"

"Hardly had the vehicle moved, than the bad woman, whose name was La
Chouette (Screech-Owl), cried, 'I have got some vitriol; I am going to
wash the face of La Goualeuse, to disfigure her.'"

"How horrid! Unfortunate child! What saved you from that danger?"

"The accomplice of this woman, a blind man, called the Schoolmaster."

"He defended you?"

"Yes, madame, on this occasion and on another. This time a struggle
ensued between him and La Chouette. Availing himself of his strength,
he forced her to throw out of the window the bottle which contained
the vitriol. This was the first service he rendered me, after having
assisted in carrying me off. The night was very dark. At the end of an
hour and a half the carriage stopped, I believe on the high road which
crosses the plain of Saint Denis; a man on horseback waited for us
here. 'Well,' said he, 'have you got her at last?' 'Yes, we have her,'
answered La Chouette, who was furious at having been prevented from
disfiguring me. 'If you wish to get rid of this little thing there is
a good way; I will stretch her on the road--drive the wheels of the
carriage over her head--it will look as if she was run over by
accident.'"

"Oh, this is frightful!"

"Alas, madame! La Chouette was well capable of doing what she said.
Happily, the man on horseback said that he did not wish to harm me;
that it was only necessary to keep me shut up for two months in some
place where I could neither get out nor write to any one. Then La
Chouette proposed to take me to a man called Bras-Rouge, who kept a
tavern in the Champs Elysees. In this tavern there were several
subterranean chambers; one of them, La Chouette said, could answer for
my prison. The man on horseback accepted this proposition. Then he
promised me that, after remaining two months with Bras-Rouge, I should
be so provided for that I would not regret the farm at Bouqueval."

"What a strange mystery!"

"This man gave some money to La Chouette, promising her some more when
I should be taken from Bras-Rouge, and set out on a gallop. We
continued our route toward Paris. A short time before we arrived at
the gates, the Schoolmaster said to La Chouette, 'You wish to shut up
La Goualeuse in one of Bras-Rouge's cellars; you know very well that,
being near the river, these cellars in winter are always inundated. Do
you wish to drown her?' 'Yes,' answered La Chouette."

"But what had you done to this horrible woman?"

"Nothing, madame: and yet, since my infancy, she has always shown this
feeling toward me. The Schoolmaster answered, 'I will not have the
Goualeuse drowned; she shall not go to Bras-Rouge.' La Chouette was as
much surprised as I was, madame, to hear this man defend me thus. She
became furious, and swore that she would take me to Bras-Rouge in
spite of him. 'I defy you,' said he,' for I have La Goualeuse by the
arm; I will not let her go, and I'll strangle you if you come near
her.' But what do you mean to do with her?' cried La Chouette, 'since
she must be put out of the way for two months.' 'There is a way,' said
the Schoolmaster; 'we are going to the Champs Elysees; we will stop
the carriage near the guard-house; you will go and look for Bras-Rouge
at his tavern. It is midnight; you will find him there; bring him with
you; he will take La Goualeuse to the post, and declare she is a gay
girl, whom he found near his tavern. As they are condemned to three
months' imprisonment when they are caught on the Champs Elysees, and
Goualeuse is still on the police lists, she will be arrested, and sent
to Saint Lazare, where she will be as well guarded and concealed as in
the cellar of Bras-Rouge.' 'But,' replied La Chouette, 'the Goualeuse
will not suffer herself to be arrested; once at the guard-house, she
will tell all, she will denounce us. Supposing, even, that she is
imprisoned, she will write to her protectors; all will be discovered.'
'No, she will go to prison willingly,' answered the School-master; 'she
must swear that she will not denounce us to any one as long as she
remains at Saint Lazare, nor afterward either. She owes as much to me,
for I have prevented her being disfigured by you, and drowned at
Bras-Rouge's; but if after having sworn not to speak, she should do
it, we will set the farm at Bouqueval a-fire.' Then, addressing me, he
said, 'Decide! swear the oath I ask, you shall go to prison for two
months; otherwise I abandon you to La Chouette, who will take you to
the cellar, where you'll be drowned. Come, decide. I know If you swear
you will keep your oath.'"

"And you have sworn?"

"Alas! yes, madame; I feared so much to be disfigured by La Chouette,
or to be drowned in a cellar; that appeared to me so frightful. Any
other kind of death would nave appeared less fearful. I should not,
perhaps, have endeavored to escape."

"What a gloomy idea at your age!" said Madame d'Harville, looking at
La Goualeuse with surprise. "Once away from this place, returned to
your benefactors, will you not be very happy? Has not your repentance
effaced the past?"

"Can the past be effaced? Can the past be forgotten? Can repentance
destroy the memory, madame?" cried Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so
despairing that Clemence shuddered.

"But all faults can be redeemed, unhappy child!"

"But the recollection of the stain--madame, does it not become more
and more terrible in measure as the mind is purified, as the soul
becomes elevated? Alas! the more you mount the deeper appears the
abyss from which you have emerged."

"Then you renounce all hope of re-establishment and pardon?"

"On the part of others--no, madame; your goodness proves that
indulgence is never wanting to the penitent."

"You will, then, be the only one without pity toward yourself?"

"Others may be ignorant, may pardon and forget what I have been. I,
madame, never can forget."'

"And sometimes you wish to die?"

"Sometimes!" said La Goualeuse, smiling bitterly, "yes, madame,
sometimes."

"Yet you feared to be disfigured by that horrible woman? you cling to
your beauty, then, poor child? That announces that life has some
charms for you. Courage, then--courage!"

"It is, perhaps, a weakness to think so; but if I were handsome, as
you say, madame, I should wish to die handsome, in pronouncing the
name of my benefactor."

The eyes of Madame d'Harville filled with tears.

Fleur-de-Marie had said these words so simply; her angelic features,
pale and cast down, her mournful smile, were so much in unison with
her words, that no one could doubt the reality of her gloomy desire.
Madame d'Harville was endowed with too much sensibility not to feel
what was fatal and inflexible in this thought of La Goualeuse-_ "I
shall never forget what I have been" _--a fixed, constant idea,
which would predominate and torture the life of Fleur-de-Marie.
Clemence, ashamed at having for a moment misunderstood the generosity,
always so disinterested, of the prince, also regretted that she should
have had for a moment a feeling of jealousy toward La Goualeuse, who
had expressed, with so much warmth, her gratitude toward her
protector. Strange thing--the admiration which this poor prisoner
showed so vividly for Rudolph, augmented, perhaps, still more the
profound love which Clemence was forever to conceal from him. She
resumed, to drive away her thoughts: "I hope that, in future, you will
be less severe toward yourself. But let us speak of your oath; now I
can understand your silence. You did not wish to denounce the
wretches?"

"Although the Schoolmaster took part in my abduction, he had twice
defended me--I was afraid of being ungrateful toward him."

"And you lent yourself to the designs of these monsters?"

"Yes, madame, I was so much alarmed! La Chouette went to seek
Bras-Rouge; he took me to the guard-house, saying he found me roving
about his inn; I did not deny it; I was arrested, and brought here."

"But your friends at the farm must be very much alarmed."

"Alas, madame, in my fright I did not reflect that my oath would
prevent me from informing them; now it gives me much pain, but I
believe that, without breaking my oath, I can beg you to write to
Madame George, at the farm of Bouqueval, to have no uneasiness about
me, without telling her where I am, for I have promised to be silent."

"My child, these precautions will become useless if, at my
recommendation, you are pardoned; to-morrow you shall return to the
farm, without having broken your oath; you can then consult your
benefactors, to know how far you are restricted by this oath, drawn
from you by threats."

"You think, madame, that, thanks to your kindness, I can hope to leave
here soon?"

"You deserve so much interest, that I shall succeed, I am sure, and I
doubt not that after to-morrow you can go yourself to reassure your
benefactors."

"How can I have merited so much kindness on your ladyship's part? How
can I show my gratitude?"

"By continuing to conduct yourself as you have done. I only regret I
can do nothing for your future welfare-it is a pleasure that your
friends have reserved."

Madame Armand entered suddenly, with an alarmed air.

"Madame," said she to Clemence, with hesitation, "I am grieved at the
message I have to deliver to you."

"What do you mean to say, madame?"

"The Duke de Lucenay is below-he comes from your house, madame."

"You frighten me; what is it?"

"I am ignorant, madame, but M. de Lucenay has information for you, he
says, as sad, as it was unforeseen. He learned at his wife's that you
were here and he came in all haste."

"Sad news!" said Madame d'Harville. Then suddenly she cried in a
heart-rending tone, "My daughter-my child, perhaps! Oh, speak,
madame!"

"I am ignorant, madame."

"Oh! in mercy, madame, take me to M. de Lucenay," cried Madame
d'Harville, going out, quite bewildered, and followed by Madame
Armand.

"Poor mother!" said the Gonaleuse, sadly; "oh, now, it is impossible!
At the moment even when she was showing so much benevolence toward me,
such a blow to fall! No, no-once more, it is impossible!"




CHAPTER XVII.

A FORGED INTIMACY.


We will conduct the reader to the house in the Rue du Temple, the day
of the suicide of M. d'Harville, about three o'clock in the afternoon.
Pipelet, the porter, alone in the lodge, was occupied in mending a
boot. The chaste porter was dejected and melancholy. As a soldier, in
the humiliation of his defeat, passes his hand sadly over his scars,
Pipelet breathed a profound sigh, stopped his work, and moved his
trembling finger over the transverse fracture of his huge hat, made by
an insolent hand. Then all the chagrin, inquietude, and fears of
Alfred Pipelet were awakened in thinking of the inconceivable and
incessant pursuits of the author.

Pipelet had not a very extended or elevated mind; his imagination was
not the most lively nor the most poetical, but he possessed a very
solid, very logical, very common sense.

Cabrion, a painter, formerly a tenant, had seen fit to make the porter
a butt of the most audacious practical jokes, inundating him with
caricatures, laughable labels, and startling appearances before his
unexpectant appalled sight. Unfortunately, by a natural consequence of
the rectitude of his judgment, not being able to comprehend practical
jokes, Pipelet endeavored to find some reasonable motive for the
outrageous conduct of Cabrion, and on this subject he posed himself
with a thousand insoluble questions. Thus, sometimes, a new Paschal,
he felt himself seized with a vertigo in trying to sound the
bottomless abyss which the infernal genius of the painter had dug
under his feet. How many times, in the overflowings of his
imagination, he had been forced to commune within himself thanks to
the frenzied skepticism of Madame Pipelet, who, only looking at facts,
and disdaining to seek after causes, grossly considered the
incomprehensible conduct of Cabrion toward Alfred as simple
comicality.

Pipelet, a serious man, could not admit of such an interpretation; he
groaned at the blindness of his wife; his dignity as a man revolted at
the thought that he could be the plaything of a combination so vulgar
as a _lark!_ He was absolutely convinced that the unheard-of
conduct of Cabriori concealed some mysterious plot under a frivolous
appearance.

It was to solve this fatal problem that the man in the big hat
exhausted his powerful logic. "I would sooner lay my head on the
scaffold," said this austere man, who, as soon as he touched them,
increased immensely the importance of any propositions. "I would
sooner lay my head upon the scaffold than admit that, in the mere
intention of a stupid pleasantry, Cabrion could be so obstinately
exasperated against me; a _farce_ is only played for the gallery.
Now, in his last undertaking, this obnoxious creature had no witness;
he acted alone and in obscurity, as always; he clandestinely
introduced himself into the solitude of my lodge to deposit on my
forehead a hideous kiss! I ask any disinterested person, for what
purpose? It was not from bravado--no one saw him; it was not from
pleasure--the laws of nature opposed it; it was not from friendship--I
have but one enemy in the world--it is he. It must, then, be
acknowledged that there is a mystery there which my reason cannot
penetrate! Then to what does this diabolical plot, concerted and
pursued with a persistence which alarms me, tend? That I cannot
comprehend: it is this impossibility to raise the veil, which, by
degrees, is undermining and consuming me."

Such were the painful reflections of Pipelet at the moment when we
present him to our readers. The honest porter had just torn open his
bleeding wounds, by carry--his hand mechanically to the fracture of
his hat, when a piercing voice, coming from one of the upper stories
of the house, made these words resound again: "Mr. Pipelet, quick!
quick! come up! make haste!"

"I do not know that voice," said Alfred, after a moment of anxious
listening, and he let his arm, inclosed in the boot he was mending,
fall on his knees.

"Mr. Pipelet! make haste!" repeated the voice, in a pressing tone.

"That voice is completely strange to me. It is masculine; it calls me,
that I can affirm. It is not a sufficient reason that I should abandon
my lodge. Leave it--desert it in the absence of my wife--never!" cried
Alfred, heroically, "never!"

"Mr. Pipelet," said the voice, "come up quick, Mrs. Pipelet is off in
a swoon."

"Anastasia!" cried Alfred, rising from his seat: then be fell back
again, saying to himself, "child that I am--it is impossible; my wife
went out an hour ago. Yes, but might she not have returned without my
seeing her? This would be rather irregular; but I must declare that it
is possible."

"Mr. Pipelet, come up; I have your wife in my arms!"

"Some one has my wife in their arms!" said Pipelet, rising abruptly.

"I cannot unlace Mrs. Pipelet all alone!" added the voice.

These words produced a magical effect upon Alfred: his face flushed,
his chastity revolted.

"The masculine and unknown voice speaks of unlacing Anastasia!" cried
he: "I oppose it, I forbid it!" and he rushed out of the lodge; but on
the threshold he stopped.

Pipelet found himself in one of those horribly critical, and eminently
dramatical positions, so often described by poets. On the one hand,
duty retained him in his lodge: on the other, his chaste and conjugal
susceptibility called him to the upper stories of the house. In the
midst of these terrible perplexities, the voice said:

"You don't come, Mr. Pipelet? so much the worse--I cut the strings,
and I shut my eyes!"

This threat decided Pipelet.

"Mossieur!" cried he, in a stentorian voice, "in the name of honor I
conjure you to cut nothing--to leave my wife intact! I come!" and
Alfred rushed upstairs, leaving, in his alarm, the door of the lodge
open. Hardly had he left it, than a man entered quickly, took from the
table a hammer, jumped on the bed, at the back part of the obscure
alcove, and vanished. This operation was done so quickly, that the
porter, remembering almost immediately that he had left the door open,
returned precipitately, shut it, and carried off the key, without
suspecting that any one could have entered in this interval. After
this measure of precaution, Alfred started again to the assistance of
Anastasia, crying, with all his strength, "Cut nothing--I am coming--
here I am--I place my wife under the safeguard of your delicacy!"

Hardly had he mounted the first flight, before he heard the voice of
Anastasia, not from the upper story, but in the alley.

The voice, shriller than ever cried, "Alfred! here you leave the lodge
alone! Where are you, old gadabout?"

At this moment, Pipelet was about placing his right foot on the
landing-place of the first story; he remained petrified, his head
turned toward the bottom of the stairs, his mouth open, his eyes
fixed, his foot raised.

"Alfred!" cried Mrs. Pipelet anew.

"Anastasia is below--she is not above, occupied in being sick," said
Pipelet to himself, faithful to his logical argumentation. "But then
this unknown and masculine voice, who threatened to unlace her, is an
impostor. He has been playing a cruel game with my emotions! What is
his design? There is something extraordinary going on here! No matter:
do your duty, happen what may! After having responded to my wife, I
shall mount to enlighten this mystery and verify this voice."

Pipelet descended, very much troubled, and found himself face to face
with his wife.

"It is you?" said he.

"Well! yes, it is me; who would you have it to be?"

"It is you--my eyes do not deceive me!"

"Ah, now! what is the matter, that makes your big eyes look like
billiard balls? You look at me as if you were going to eat me."

"Your presence reveals to me that something has been passing here--
things--"

"What things? Come, give me the key of the lodge; why do you leave it?
I come from the office of the Normandy diligences, where I went in a
hack, to carry the trunk of M. Bradamanti, who did not wish it to be
known that he was about to leave town to-night, and who could not
depend on that little scoundrel Tortillard (Hoppy)--and he is right!"

Saying these words, Mrs. Pipelet took the key, which her husband held
in his hand, opened the lodge, and went in before her husband.

Hardly had they entered, when a person, descending the staircase
lightly, passed rapidly and unperceived before the lodge. It was the
"masculine voice" which had so deeply excited the inquietudes of
Alfred.

Pipelet rested himself heavily on his chair, and said to his wife in a
trembling voice, "Anastasia, I do not feel at my accustomed ease;
things occurring here--events--"

"Now you repeat that again; but things occur everywhere; what is the
matter? Come, let us see--why, you are all wet--all in a perspiration!
what effort have you been making? He's all a-trickling--the old
darling!"

"Yes, I perspire, as I have reason to;" Pipelet passed his hand over
his face, dripping with moisture; "for there are regular revolutionary
events passing here."

"Again I ask, what is it? You never can remain quiet. You must always
be trotting about like a cat, instead of remaining in your chair to
take care of the lodge."

"If I trot, it is for you."

"For me?"

"Yes; to spare you an outrage for which we both should have groaned
and blushed, I have deserted a post which I consider as sacred as the
sentry-box."

"Some one wished to commit an outrage on me--on me!"

"It was not on you, since the outrage of which you were threatened was
to have been accomplished upstairs, and you were gone out--"

"May Old Harry run away with me, if I understand a single word of what
you are singing there. Ah, ah! is it that you are decidedly losing your
noddle? I shall begin to think that you are absent-minded--the fault
of that beggarly Cabrion! Since his games of the other day, I don't
know you; you look struck all of a heap. That being will be always
your nightmare."

Hardly had Anastasia pronounced the words than a strange thing came to
pass. Alfred remained sitting, his face turned toward the bed. The
lodge was lighted by the sickly light of a winter's day, and by a
lamp. At the moment his wife pronounced the name Cabrion, Pipelet
thought he saw in the shade of the alcove the immovable, cunning face
of the painter. It was he, his pointed hat, long hair, thin face,
satanic smile, queer beard, and paralyzing gaze. For a moment, Pipelet
thought himself in a dream; he passed his hand over his eyes,
believing that he was the victim of an illusion. It was not an
illusion. Nothing could be more real than this apparition. Frightful
thing! nobody could be seen, but only a head, of which the living
flesh stood out in bold relief from the obscurity of the alcove. At
this sight Pipelet fell over backward, without saying a word; he
raised his right arm toward the bed, and pointed at this terrible
vision, with a gesture so alarming, that Mrs. Pipelet turned to seek
the cause of an alarm of which she soon partook, in spite of her
habitual courage. She recoiled two steps, seized with force the hand
of Alfred, and cried, "Cabrion!"

"Yes," murmured Pipelet, in a hollow voice, almost extinct, shutting
his eyes.

The stupor of the pair paid the greatest honor to the talent of the
artist who had so admirably painted on the pasteboard the features of
Cabrion. Her first surprise over, Anastasia, as bold as a lion, ran to
the bed, got on it, and tore the picture from the wall.

The amazon crowned this valiant enterprise by shouting, as a war-cry,
her favorite exclamation, "Go ahead!"

Alfred, with his eyes closed, his hands stretched forth, remained
immovable, as he had always been accustomed to do in the critical
moments of his life. The convulsive oscillations of his hat alone
revealed, from time to time, the continued violence of his interior
emotions.

"Open your eyes, old darling," said Mrs. Pipelet, triumphantly; "it's
nothing! it's a picture; the portrait of that scoundrel Cabrion! Look,
see how I stamp upon him!" and Anastasia, in her indignation, threw
the picture on the ground, and trampled it under her feet, crying,
"That's the way I would like to treat his flesh and bones, the
wretch!" then picking it up, "see!" said she, "now it has my marks;
look now!"

Alfred shook his head negatively, without saying a word, and making a
sign to his wife to take away the detested picture.

"Has ever any one seen such impudence? This is not all; he has
written at the bottom, in red letters, 'Cabrion, to his good friend
Pipelet, for life,'" said the portress, examining the picture by the
light.

"His good friend for life!" murmured Alfred; raising his hands as if
to call heaven to witness this new outrageous irony.

[Illustration: Louise in Prison]

"But how could he do it?" said Anastasia. "This portrait was not there
this morning when I made the bed, very sure. You took the key with you
just now: nobody could have entered while you were absent? How, then,
once more, could this portrait get there? Could it be you, by chance,
who put it there, old darling?"

At this monstrous hypothesis, Alfred bounced from his seat; he opened
his eyes wide and threatening.

"I fasten in my alcove the portrait of this evil-doer, who, not
content with persecuting me by his odious presence, pursues me at
night in my dreams--the daytime in a picture! Would you make me mad,
Anastasia? mad enough to be chained?"

"Well! for the sake of making peace, you might have agreed with
Cabrion during my absence. Where would be the great harm?"

"I make up with--oh, merciful powers! you hear her?"

"And then, he might have given you his portrait, as a pledge of
friendship. If this is so, do not deny it."

"Anastasia!"

"If this is so, it must be confessed you are as capricious as a pretty
woman."

"Wife!"

"In short, it must have been you who placed the portrait!"

"I--oh!"

"But who is it then?"

"You, madame."

"I!"

"Yes," cried Pipelet wildly, "it is you; I have reason to believe it
is you. This morning, having my back turned toward the bed I could see
nothing."

"But, old darling, I tell you it must be you, otherwise I shall think
it was the devil."

"I have not left the lodge, and when I went upstairs to answer to the
call of the masculine organ, I had the key; the door was shut. You
opened it; deny that!"

"Ma foi; it is true!"

"You confess, then?"

"I confess that I comprehend nothing. It's a game, and it is prettily
played."

"A game!" cried Pipelet, carried away by frenzied indignation. "Ah!
there you are again! I tell you, I, that all this conceals some
abominable plot; there is something under all this--a plot. The abyss
is hidden under flowers--they try to stun me to prevent my seeing the
precipice from which they wish to plunge me. It only remains for me to
place myself under the protection of the laws. Happily, the Lord is on
our side;" and Pipelet turned toward the door,

"Where are you going, old darling?"

"To the commissary's, to lodge my complaint, and this portrait as
proof of the persecutions I am overwhelmed with."

"But what will you complain of?"

"What will I complain of? How! my most inveterate enemy shall find
means by proceeding fraudulently to force me to have his portrait in
my house, even on my nuptial bed, and the magistrates will not take me
under the aegis? Give me the portrait, Anastasia--give it to me--not
the side where the painting is, the sight revolts me! The traitor
cannot deny it; it is in his hand; Cabrion to his good friend Pipelet,
for life. For life! Yes, that's it; for my life, without doubt, he
pursues me, and he will finish by having it. I live in continual
alarm: I shall think that this infernal being is here, always here--
under the floor, in the walls, in the ceiling! at night he sees me
reposing in the arms of my wife; in the daytime he is standing behind
me, always with his satanic smile; and who will tell me that even at
this moment he is not here, concealed somewhere, like a venomous
insect? Come, now! are you there, monster? Are you here?" cried
Pipelet, accompanying this furious imprecation with a circular
movement of the head, as if he had wished to interrogate all parts of
the lodge.

"I am here, good friend!" said most affectionately the well-known
voice of Cabrion.

These words seemed to come from the bottom of the alcove, merely from
the effects of ventriloquism; for the infernal artist was standing
outside the door of the lodge, enjoying the smallest details of this
scene; however, after having pronounced these last words, he prudently
made off, not without leaving, as we shall see, a new subject of rage,
astonishment, and meditation to his victim. Mrs. Pipelet, always
courageous and skeptical, looked under the bed, and in every hole and
corner, without success, while M. Pipelet, undone by the last blow,
had fallen on the chair in a state of utter despair.

"It's nothing, Alfred," said Anastasia; "the scoundrel was concealed
behind the door, and while I looked one way, he escaped the other.
Patience, I'll catch him one of these days, and then, let him look
out! he shall taste the handle of my broom!"

The door opened, and Mrs. Seraphin, housekeeper of Jacques Ferrand,
entered.

"Good-day, Mrs. Seraphin," said Mrs. Pipelet, who, wishing to conceal
from a stranger her domestic sorrows, assumed a very gracious and
smiling air; "what can I do to serve you?"

"First, tell me, then, what is your new sign?"

"New sign?"

"The little sign."

"A little sign?"

"Yes, black with red letters, which is nailed over the door of your
alley."

"In the street?"

"Why, yes, in the street, just over your door."

"My dear Mrs. Seraphin, may I never speak again, if I understand a
word; and you, old darling?" Alfred remained dumb.

"In truth, it concerns Mr. Pipelet," said Mrs. Seraphin; "he must
explain this to me."

Alfred uttered a sort of low, inarticulate groan, shaking his hat, a
pantomime signifying that Alfred found himself incapable of explaining
anything to others, being sufficiently preoccupied with an infinity of
problems, each one more difficult of solution than the other.

"Pay no attention, Mrs. Seraphin," said Anastasia. "Poor Alfred has
got the cramp; that makes him--"

"But what is this sign, then, of which you speak?"

"Perhaps our neighbor--"

"No, no; I tell you it is a little sign nailed over your door."

"Come, you want to joke."

"Not at all; I saw it as I came in. There is written on it in large
letters, 'Pipelet and Cabrion, Dealers in Friendship, etc. Apply
within.'"

"That's written over our door, do you hear, Alfred?"

Pipelet looked at Mrs. Seraphin with a wild stare. He did not
comprehend; he did not wish to comprehend.

"It is in the street--on a sign!" repeated Mrs. Pipelet, confounded at
this new audacity.

"Yes, for I have just read it. Then I said to myself, 'What a funny
thing! Pipelet is a cobbler by trade, and he informs the passer-by
that he is engaged in a _commerce d'amitie_ with Cabrion. What
does it signify? There is something concealed, it is clear; but as
the sign says inquire within, Mrs. Pipelet will explain it." "But look
there," cried Mrs. Seraphin, suddenly, "your husband looks as if he
was sick; take care, he will fall backward!"

Mrs. Pipelet received Alfred in her arms, in a fainting state. This
last blow had been too violent; the man nearly lost all consciousness
as he pronounced these words:

"The creature has publicly posted me."

"I told you, Mrs. Seraphin, Alfred has the cramp, without speaking of
an unchained blackguard, who undermines him with his sorry tricks. The
poor old darling cannot resist it! Happily, I have a drop of bitters
here; probably it will put him on his legs."

In fact, thanks to the infallible remedy of Mrs. Pipelet, Alfred by
degrees recovered his senses; but, alas! hardly had he come to, than
he had to undergo another trial.

A middle-aged person, neatly dressed, and with a pleasing face, opened
the door, and said, "I have just seen on a sign placed over this door,
'Pipelet and Cabrion, Dealers in Friendship.' Can you, if you please,
do me the honor to inform me what this means--you being the porter of
this house?"

"What this means!" cried Pipelet in a thundering voice, giving vent to
his indignation, too long suppressed; "this means that Mr. Cabrion is
an infamous impostor, sir!"

The man, at this sudden and furious explosion, drew back a step.
Alfred, much exasperated, with a fiery look and purple face, had
stretched his body half out of the lodge, and leaned his contracted
hands on the lower half of the door, while the figures of Mrs.
Seraphin and Anastasia could be vaguely seen in the background, in the
semi-obscure light of the lodge.

"Learn, sir," cried Pipelet, "that I have no dealings with this
scoundrel Cabrion, and that of friendship still less than any other!"

"It is true; and you must be very queer, old noodle that you are to
come and ask such a question," cried Madame Pipelet, sharply, showing
her quarrelsome face over the shoulder of her husband.

"Madame!" said the man sententiously, falling back another step,
"notices are made to be read; you put them up, I read; I have the
right to do so, but you have no right to say such rude things."

"Rude things yourself, you beggarly wretch!" replied Anastasia,
showing her teeth. "You are a low-bred fellow. Alfred, your boot-tree,
till I take the length of his muzzle, to teach him to come and play
the Joe Miller at his age, old clown!"

"Insults when one comes to ask the meaning of a notice placed over
your own door? It shall not pass over in this way, madame!"

"But, sir!" cried the unhappy porter.

"But, sir," answered the quiz, pretending to be angry, "be as friendly
as you please with your Mr. Cabrion, but zounds! don't stick it in
large letters under the noses of the passers-by! I find myself under
the necessity of telling you that you are a pitiful wretch, and that I
shall go and make my complaint to the authorities!" and the quiz
departed in a great rage.

"Anastasia!" said Mr. Pipelet, in a sorrowful tone, "I shall not
survive this, I feel it; I am wounded to death. I have no hope of
escaping him. You see, my name is publicly stuck up alongside of this
wretch. He dares to say that I have a friendly trade with him, and the
public will believe it. I inform you--I say it--I communicate it; it
is monstrous, it is enormous it is an infernal idea: but it must
finish; the measure is full; either he or I must fall in this
struggle!" and, overcoming his habitual apathy, Pipelet, determined on
a vigorous resolution, seized the portrait of Cabrion, and rushed
toward the door.

"Where are you going to, Alfred?"

"To the commissary's. At the same time I am going to tear down this
infamous sign; then with this portrait and this sign in my hand, I
will cry to the commissary, 'Defend me! avenge me! deliver me from
Cabrion!'"

"Well said, old darling; stir yourself, shake yourself; if you cannot
get the sign down, ask the next door to help you, and lend you his
ladder."

"Rascally Cabrion! Oh, if I had him, and I could do it, I'd fry him on
my stove. I should like so much to see him suffer. Yes, people are
guillotined who do not deserve it as much as he does. The wretch! I
should like to see him on the scaffold, the villain!"

Alfred showed under these circumstances the most sublime equanimity.
Notwithstanding his great causes of revenge against Cabrion, he had
the generosity to feel sentiments akin to pity for him.

"No," said he; "no; even if I could, I would not ask for his head."

"As for me, I would. Go do it!" cried the ferocious Anastasia.

"No," replied Alfred; "I do not like blood; but I have a right to
claim the perpetual seclusion of this evil-doer; my repose requires
it; my health commands it; the law accords me this reparation;
otherwise, I leave la France--ma belle France! That is what they'll
gain!"

And Alfred, swallowed up in his grief, walked majestically out of the
lodge, like one of those imposing victims of ancient fatality.




CHAPTER XVIII.

CECILY.


Before we relate the conversation between Mrs. Seraphin and Mrs.
Pipelet, we will inform the reader that Anastasia, without suspecting
the least in the world the virtue and devotion of the notary, blamed
extremely the severity he had shown toward Louise Morel and Germain.
Naturally she included Mrs. Seraphin in her reprobation; but like a
skillful politician, for reasons which we will show by and by, she
concealed her feeling for the housekeeper under a most cordial
reception. After having formally disapproved of the unworthy conduct
of Cabrion, Mrs. Seraphin added, "What has become of M. Bradamanti
(Polidori)? Last night I wrote to him--no answer; this morning I came
to find him--no one. I hope this time I shall be more fortunate."

Mrs. Pipelet feigned to be very much vexed.

"Ah!" cried she, "you must have bad luck."

"How?"

"M. Bradamanti has not come in."

"It is insupportable!"

"It is vexing, my poor Mrs. Seraphin!"

"I have so much to say to him."

"It is just like fate."

"So much the more, as I have to invent so many pretexts for coming
here; for if M. Ferrand ever suspected that I knew a quack, he being
so devout and scrupulous, you can judge of the scene."

"Just like Alfred. He is so prudish, that he is startled at
everything." "And you do not know when Bradamanti will come in?"

"He made an appointment for six or seven o'clock in the evening, for
he told me to say to the person to call again if he had not returned.
Come back this evening, you will be sure to find him." Anastasia added
to herself: "You can count on this: in one hour he will be on the road
to Normandy."

"I will return then to-night," said Mrs. Seraphin, much annoyed; "but
I have something else to say to you, my dear Mrs. Pipelet. You know
what has happened to this wench of a Louise, whom every one thought so
virtuous?"

"Don't speak of it," answered Mrs. Pipelet, raising her eyes with
compunction, "it makes my hair stand on end."

"I want to tell you that we have no servant; and that if by chance you
should hear a girl spoken of, virtuous, hard-working, honest, you will
be very kind if you will address her to me. Good subjects are so
difficult to find, that one has to look on all sides for them."

"Be quite easy, Mrs. Seraphin. If I hear of any one, I will inform
you. Good places are as difficult to find as good subjects;" then she
added mentally, "Very likely I'd send you a poor girl to be starved to
death in your hovel! Your master is too miserly and too wicked--to
denounce, in one breath, poor Louise and poor M. Germain."

"I need not tell you," said Mrs. Seraphin, "how quiet our house is; a
girl gains much by getting there, and this Louise must have been an
incarnate imp to have turned out so bad, notwithstanding all the good
and holy advice M. Ferrand gave her."

"Certainly, so depend upon me; if I hear any one spoken of that I
think will answer, I will send them to you."

"There is one thing more," said Mrs. Seraphin; "M. Ferrand prefers
that this servant should have no family, because, you comprehend,
having no occasion to go out, she will run less risk; so, if by chance
she could be found, monsieur would prefer an orphan, I suppose; in the
first place, because it would be a good action, and then because,
having no friends, she would have no pretext to go out. This miserable
Louise is a good lesson for him, my poor Mrs. Pipelet! That's what
makes him so hard to please in the choice of a domestic. Such a
scandalous affair in a pious house like ours--how horrid! well,
goodbye; to-night, when I go to see M. Bradamanti, I'll call upon
Madame Burette."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Seraphin--you will certainly see him to-night."

Mrs. Seraphin took her departure.

"Isn't she crazy after Bradamanti!" said Mrs. Pipelet. "What can she
want with him? and wasn't he crazy for fear he should see her before
he left for Normandy? I was afraid she wouldn't go, as M. Bradamanti
expects the lady who came last night; I couldn't see her, but this
time I'll try to unmask her. But who can this lady of M. Bradamanti's
be? A lady or a common woman? I'd like to know, for I am as curious as
a magpie. It is not my fault--I'm made so. It is my character. Ah,
hold! an idea, a famous one too--to find out her name! I'll try it.
But who comes there? Ah! it is my prince of lodgers. Hail, Mr.
Rudolph," said Mrs. Pipelet, putting herself in the attitude of
carrying arms, the back of her left hand to her wig.

It was Rudolph, as yet ignorant of the death of M. d'Harville. "Good-day,
Madame Pipelet," said he on entering. "Is Mile. Rigolette at home?
I wish to speak to her."

"The poor little puss is always at home at her work! Does she ever
take a holiday?"

"And how is Morel's wife? Does she cheer up any?"

"Yes, Mr. Rudolph, many thanks to you, or to the protector of whom you
are the agent, she and her children are so happy now! They are like
fish _in_ water; they have fire, air, good beds, good food, a
nurse to take care of them, without reckoning little Rigolette, who
working like a little beaver, without appearing to, keeps them under
her eye? and, besides, a negro doctor has been to see them. Mr.
Rudolph, I said to myself, 'Ah! but this is the coalheaver doctor,
this black man; he can feel their pulse without soiling his hands!'
But never mind, color is skin deep; he seems to be a first-rate hand,
all the same. He ordered a potion for Madame Morel, which relieved her
at once."

"Poor woman, she must be very sad."

"Oh! yes, Mr. Rudolph, what else? her husband mad, and then her Louise
in prison. Louise is her heart's grief; for an honest family it is
terrible; and when I think that just now Mother Seraphin came here to
say such things about her. If I had not a gudgeon to make her swallow,
old Seraphin would not have got off so easy, but for a quarter of an
hour I gave her fair words. Didn't she have the brass to come and ask
me if I knew of any young body to take the place of Louise, at that
beggar of a notary's? Ain't he close and miserly? Just imagine, they
want an orphan, if she can be found. Do you know why, Mr. Rudolph?
Because she would never want to go out. But that is not it--trash, a
lie! The truth is, that they want to get hold of a girl who, having no
one to advise her, could be ground out of her wages at their pleasure.
Isn't it true?"

"Yes, yes," answered Rudolph, in a thoughtful manner.

Learning that Mrs. Seraphin sought an orphan to take the place of
Louise, Rudolph foresaw in this circumstance a means, perhaps certain
of obtaining the punishment of the notary. While Mrs. Pipelet was
speaking, he arranged in his mind the part a tool of his might play,
as a principal instrument in the just punishment which he wished to
inflict on the executioner of Louise Morel.

"I was sure you would think as I did," said Madame Pipelet; "yes, I
repeat it, and I would sooner die than send any one to them. Am I not
right, Mr. Rudolph?"

"Mrs. Pipelet, will you render me a great service?"

"Lord o' mercy! Mr. Rudolph, do you wish me to throw myself across the
fire, curl my wig with boiling oil? or would you prefer I should bite
some one? Speak, I am wholly yours! I and my heart are your slaves,
except--"

"Make yourself easy, Mrs. Pipelet; this is not what I mean. I want a
place for a young orphan. She is a stranger; she has never been at
Paris, and I wish to send her to M. Ferrand's."

"You suffocate me! How? In his barrack? to that Old miser's?"

"It is nevertheless a situation. If the girl should not like it, she
can leave; but, at least, she will for the time earn her living, and I
shall be easy on her account."

"Marry! Mr. Rudolph, it's your affair: you are warned. If,
notwithstanding, you find the place good, you are the master; and,
besides, I must be just--speaking of the notary--if there's something
against, there's also something for him. He is as miserly as a dog,
hard as an ass, bigoted as a sacristan, it is true; but he is as
honest as one can be. He gives small wages, but he pays like a man.
The food is bad. In fine, it is a house where one must work like a
horse, but where there is no risk of a young girl's reputation. Louise
was an exception."

"Madame Pipelet, I am going to confide a secret to your honor."

"On the faith of Anastasia Pipelet, whose maiden name was Galimard, as
true as there is a holiness in heaven, and Alfred wears only green
coats, I shall be as dumb as a fish."

"You must not say a word to Mr. Pipelet."

"I swear it on the head of my old darling! If the motive is honest."

"Oh, Mrs. Pipelet!"

"It is between ourselves, my prince of lodgers. Go on."

"The girl of whom I have spoken has committed a fault."

"I twig! If I had not at fifteen married Alfred, I should have perhaps
committed fifty-hundreds of faults! I, that you see--I was a regular
saltpeter mine unchained! Happily, Pipelet extinguished me in his
virtue; without that I should have committed follies. If your girl has
only committed one fault, there is yet some hope."

"I think so also. The girl was a servant in Germany, at one of my
relatives'; the son of this relative has been the accomplice of the
fault: you comprehend?"

"Whew! I comprehend-as if I had committed the _faux pas_ myself."

"The mother drove away the servant; but the young man was mad enough
to leave his paternal home, and bring this poor girl to Paris."

"Oh, these young folks--"

"After this came reflections--all the wiser as the money they had was
all gone. My young relative called upon me; I consented to give him
enough to return to his mother, but on condition that he should leave
this girl here, and I would endeavor to place her."

"I could not have done better for my own son, if Pipelet had been
pleased to grant me one."

"I am enchanted with your approbation; only as the young girl has no
recommendations, and is a stranger, it is very difficult to find a
place. If you would tell Mrs. Seraphin that one of your relations in
Germany had addressed and recommended this young girl to you, and the
notary would take her in his service, I should be doubly pleased.
Cecily--that is her name--having been only led astray, would be made
correct, certainly, in a house so strict as that of the notary. It is
for this reason I wish to see her enter the service of M. Ferrand. I
need not tell you that, presented by you--a person so respectable--"

"Oh! Mr. Rudolph--"

"So estimable--"

"Oh, my prince of lodgers-"

"She will be certainly accepted by Madame Seraphin; while, presented
by me--"

"Understood! It is as if I presented a young man. Oh, well! done! it
suits me. Stick old Seraphin! So much the better! I have a bone to
pick with her. I will answer for the affair, Mr. Rudolph! I'll make
her see stars at noon. I'll tell her I had a cousin, ever so long ago,
settle in Germany, one of the Galimards--my family name; that I have
just received the news that she is defunct, her husband also, and that
their daughter, now an orphan, will be on my hands immediately."

"Very well. You will take Cecily yourself to M. Ferrand, without
saying anything more to Mrs. Seraphin. As it is twenty years since you
have seen your cousin, you will have nothing to answer, except that
since her departure for Germany you have received no news from her."

"Ah, now! but if the young woman only jabbers German?"

"She speaks French perfectly; I will give her her lesson; all you have
to do is to recommend her strongly to Mrs. Seraphin; or, rather, I
think, no--for she would suspect, perhaps, that you wished to force
her. You know it suffices often merely to ask for a thing to have it
refused."

"To whom do you tell this? That's the way I always served cajolers. If
they had asked nothing, I do not say--"

"That always happens. You must say, then, that Cecily is an orphan and
a stranger, very young and very handsome; that she is going to be a
heavy charge for you; that you feel but slight affection for her, as
you had quarreled with your cousin, and that you are not much obliged
for such a present as she has made you."

"Oh, my! how cunning you are. But be easy--we two'll fix the pair. I
say, Mr. Rudolph, how we understand each other. When I think that if
you had been of my age in the time when I was a train of powder--_ma
foi_, I don't know--and you?"

"Hush! if Mr. Pipelet--"

"Oh, yes! poor dear man! You don't know a new infamy of Cabrion's? But
I will tell you directly. As to your young girl, be easy; I bet that
I'll lead old Seraphin to ask me to place my relation with them."

"If you succeed, my dear Mrs. Pipelet, there is a hundred francs for
you. I am not rich, but--"

"Do you mock at me, Mr. Rudolph? Do you think I do this from
interested feelings? It is pure friendship--a hundred francs!"

"But remember that if I had this girl for a long time under my charge
it would cost me more than that at the end of some months."

"It is only to oblige you that I shall take the hundred francs, Mr.
Rudolph; but it was a famous ticket in the lottery for us when you
came to this house. I can cry from the roof, you are the prince of
lodgers. Holloa! a hack! It is doubtless the little lady for M.
Bradamanti. She came yesterday; I could not see her. I am going to
trifle with her, to make her show her face; without counting that I
have invented a way to find out her name. You'll see me work; it will
amuse you."

"No, no, Mrs. Pipelet, the name and face of this lady are of no
importance to me," said Rudolph, retreating to the back part of the
lodge.

"Madame!" cried Anastasia, rushing out before the lady who entered,
"where are you going, madame?"

"To M. Bradamanti's," said the female, visibly annoyed at thus being
stopped in the passage.

"He is not at home."

"It is impossible; I have an appointment with him."

"He is not at home."

"You are mistaken."

"I am not mistaken at all," trying all the time to catch a glimpse of
her face. "M. Bradamanti has gone out, certainly gone out--very
certainly gone out--that is to say, except for a lady."

"Well! it is I! you annoy me; let me pass."

"Your name, madame? I shall soon know if it is the person M.
Bradamanti told me to pass in. If you have not that name, you must
step over my body before you shall enter."

"He told you my name?" cried the lady, with as much surprise as
inquietude.

"Yes, madame."

"What imprudence!" murmured the lady; then, after a moment's pause,
she added impatiently, in a low voice, as if she feared to be
overheard, "Well! I am Lady d'Orbigny!"

At this name Rudolph started. It was the stepmother of Madame
d'Harville. Instead of remaining in the shade he advanced; and, by the
light of the day and the lamp, he easily recognized her, from the
description Clemence had more than once given him.

"Lady d'Orbigny!" repeated Mrs. Pipelet, "that's the name; you can go
up, madame."

The step-mother of Clemence passed rapidly before the lodge.

"Look at that!" cried the portress, in a triumphant manner; "gammoned
the citizen! know her name--she is called D'Orbigny; my means were not
bad, Mr. Rudolph? But what is the matter? You are quite pensive!"

"This lady has been here before?" asked Rudolph.

"Yes, last night; as soon as she was gone, M. Bradamanti went out,
probably to take his place in the diligence for to-day; for on his
return, last night, he begged me to go with his trunk to the office,
as he could not depend upon that little devil Tortillard."

"And where is M. Bradamanti going to? do you know?"

"To Normandy--to Alencon."

Rudolph remembered that the estate of Aubiers, where M. d'Orbigny
resided, was situated in Normandy. There could be no doubt the quack
was going to see the father of Clemence for no good purpose.

"It is the departure of M. Bradamanti that will finely provoke old
Seraphin!" said Madame Pipelet. "She is like a mad wolf after M.
Cesar, who avoids her as much as he can; for he told me to conceal
from her that he was going to leave to-night; thus, when she returns,
she will find nobody at home! I'll profit by this to speak of your
young woman. Apropos, how is she called--Ciec?"

"Cecely."

"It is the same as if you said Cecile with an _i_ at the end. All
the same; I must put a piece of paper in my snuff-box to remember this
name--Cici--Casi--Cecily, good, I have it."

"Now I go to see Mlle. Rigolette," said Rudolph; and, singularly
preoccupied with the visit of Madame d'Orbigny to Polidori, he
ascended to the fourth story.




CHAPTER XIX.

RIGOLETTE'S FIRST GRIEF.


Rigolette's chamber shone with coquettish nicety; a heavy silver
watch, placed on the chimney, marked four o'clock; the very cold
weather having passed, the economical workwoman had not put any fire
in her stove. Hardly could one see from the window any part of the
sky, the rough, irregular mass of roofs, garrets, and high chimneys,
on the other side of the street, forming the horizon.

Suddenly a ray of the sun, astray as it were, glancing between two
high roofs, came to light up, for some moments, with its purple tints,
the windows of the room.

Rigolette was working, seated near the casement, sewing, with her feet
on a stool, placed before her. Thus, as a noble amuses himself
sometimes, through caprice, in concealing the walls of a cottage by
the most splendid draperies, for a moment the setting sun illuminated
the little apartment with a thousand sparkling fires, cast its golden
rays on the gray and green chintz curtains, made the highly-polished
furniture sparkle, the waxed floor to glisten like brass, and
surrounded with gilded wire the bird-cage.

But, alas! notwithstanding the provoking joyousness of this ray of the
sun, its two canaries flew about with an unquiet air, and, contrary to
custom, did not sing.

It was because, contrary to custom, also, Rigolette did not sing. None
of the three warbled without the others. Almost always the fresh and
matinal song of one awoke the song of the others, who, more lazy, did
not leave their nests at so early an hour. Then it was a challenge, a
contest of clear, sonorous, brilliant, silvery notes, in which the
birds did not always have the advantage.

Rigolette sung no more, because, for the first time in her life, she
experienced a _sorrow_.

Until then, the sight of the misery of the Morels had often afflicted
her, but such scenes are too familiar to the poorer classes to make
any durable impression.

After having each day assisted these unfortunates as much as was in
her power, sincerely wept with them, and for them, the girl felt
affected, yet satisfied; affected with their misfortunes, and
satisfied with her conduct toward them. But this was no _sorrow_.

Soon the natural gayety of her character resumed its empire. And
besides, without egotism, but from comparison, she found herself so
happy in her little chamber, on leaving the horrible den of the
Morels, that her ephemeral sadness was soon dissipated.

Before we inform the reader of the cause of the first grief of
Rigolette, we wish to assure him completely as to the virtue of this
young girl. We regret to use the word virtue--a grave, pompous, and
solemn word, which always carries along with it ideas of a grievous
sacrifice, of a painful contest with the passions, austere meditations
on the end of things here below. Such was not the virtue of Rigolette.
She had neither struggled nor meditated. She had worked, laughed, and
sung.

It depended on a question of time. She had no leisure to be in love.

Before all--gay, industrious, managing--order, work, gayety, had,
unknown to her, defended, sustained, and saved her. Perhaps this
morality will be found light, easy, and joyous; but what matters the
cause, provided the effect subsists? What matters the direction of the
roots, if the flower blooms brilliant and perfumed. But let us descend
from our Utopian sphere, and return to the cause of Rigolette's first
grief.

Except Germain, a good and serious young man, the neighbors of the
grisette had taken, at first, her familiarity and neighborly kindness
for very significant encouragement; but these gentlemen had been
obliged to acknowledge, with as much surprise as vexation, that they
found in Rigolette an amiable and gay companion for their Sunday
recreations, a kind neighbor, and "nice little girl," but nothing
more. Their surprise and their vexation quailed by degrees to the
frank and charming disposition of the grisette, and her neighbors were
proud on Sunday to have on their arm a pretty girl who did them honor
(Rigolette cared little for appearances), and who only cost the
partaking of their modest pleasures, which her presence and
sprightliness enhanced. Besides, the dear girl was so easily
contented; in the days of penury she dined so well and so gayly on a
piece of hot cake, nipped with all the force of her little white
teeth; after which she amused herself so much with a walk on the
boulevards or streets.

Francois Germain alone founded no foolish hopes on the girl's
familiarity. Either from penetration or delicacy of mind, he saw at
once all that could be agreeable in the mode of living offered by
Rigolette. That which, of course, would happen, happened. He became
desperately in love with his neighbor, without daring to speak of this
love. Far from imitating his predecessors, who, soon convinced of the
vanity of their pursuits, had consoled themselves elsewhere, Germain
had deliciously enjoyed his intimacy with the girl, passing with her
not only Sundays, but every evening that he was not occupied.

During these long hours, Rigolette had conducted herself, as always,
lively and gay; Germain tender, attentive, serious, and often a little
melancholy. This sadness was the only inconvenience; for his manners,
naturally uncommon, could not be compared to the ridiculous
pretensions of Girandeau, the traveling clerk, nor to the noisy
eccentricities of Cabrion; M. Girandeau by his inexhaustible
loquacity, and the painter by his hilarity not less so, had the
advantage of Germain, whose gentle gravity awed a little his lively
neighbor.

Rigolette had not, until now, any marked preference for either of her
three lovers; but as she was not wanting in judgment, she found that
Germain alone united all the qualities necessary to make a reasonable
woman happy.

These antecedents disposed of, we will say why Rigolette was sad, and
why neither she nor her birds sung.

Her round, blooming face was rather pale; her large black eyes,
ordinarily bright and sparkling, were cast down and dull; her
expression showed unaccustomed fatigue. She had worked more than half
the night. From time to time she regarded sadly a letter placed open
upon a table beside her; this letter was from Germain, and contained
what follows:

"Conciergerie Prison.

"MADEMOISELLE.--The place whence I write will tell you the extent of
my misfortune. I am incarcerated as a thief--I am criminal in the eyes
of the world, though I dare to write to you. It would be frightful for
me to think that you also looked upon me as a degraded and guilty
being. I implore you, do not condemn me before having read this
letter. If you cast me off, this last blow will overwhelm me quite.

"For some time past I have not lived in the Rue du Temple, but I knew
through poor Louise that the Morel family, in whom we were so much
interested, were more and more wretched. Alas I my pity for these poor
people has ruined me! I do not repent it, but my fate is a cruel one.
Yesterday, I remained quite late at M. Ferrand's, occupied with some
pressing writings. In the room where I worked was a desk; each day my
patron locked up in it the work I had done. This night he appeared
restless and agitated; he said to me, 'Do not go until these accounts
are finished; you will place them in the desk, of which I leave you
the key,' and he went out.

"My work being finished I opened the drawer to put it away;
mechanically my eyes fell upon an open letter, where I read the name
of Jerome Morel, the artisan. I confess, seeing that it referred to
that unfortunate man, I had the indiscretion to read this letter; I
thus learned that the artisan was to be arrested the next morning for
a note of thirteen hundred francs, at the suit of M. Ferrand, who,
under an assumed name, would cause him to be imprisoned. This notice
was from the agent of my patron. I knew the situation of the family
well enough to foresee what a horrible blow this would be for them. I
was as sorry as I was indignant. Unfortunately, I saw in the same
drawer an open box containing some gold; there was about two thousand
francs. At this moment I heard Louise on the staircase; without
reflecting on the gravity of my action, profiting by the occasion
which chance offered, I took thirteen hundred francs; I went into the
passage and placed the money in the hand of Louise, telling her, 'Your
father is to be arrested to-morrow at daylight for thirteen hundred
francs: here they are; save him, but do not say you had this money
from me. M. Ferrand is a bad man.'

"You see, mademoiselle, my intention was good though my conduct was
culpable; I conceal nothing. Now hear my excuse.

"During a long time, by economy, I have saved and placed at a banker's
the small sum of fifteen hundred francs. About a week ago he notified
me that the term of his obligation toward me being arrived, he held my
funds subject to my order, if I did not wish them to remain with him.

"I thus possessed more than I took from the notary. I could the next
day replace it; but the cashier of the bank did not reach his office
before twelve o'clock, and at daybreak they were to arrest poor Morel.
It was necessary to place him in a situation to pay, otherwise, even
if I were to go and take him from prison, the arrest might have
already killed his wife; besides, the very considerable expenses
attending this would have been at the cost of the artisan. You
comprehend that all these misfortunes would not have happened, if I
could have returned the thirteen hundred francs before M. Ferrand
discovered their loss.

"I left the house, no longer under the impression of indignation and
pity which had made me act in this manner. I reflected on all the
dangers of my position; a thousand fears assailed me. I knew the
severity of the notary; he could, after my departure, return and go to
the bureau, find out the _theft_; for in his eyes, to the eyes of
everybody, it is a theft.

"These ideas quite upset me; although it was late, I ran to the
banker's to beg him to return my money instantly. I should have
explained this extraordinary demand; afterward I would have returned
to M. Ferrand, and replaced the money I had taken.

"The banker, by a fatal chance, had been for two days at Belleville,
his country house. I awaited the daylight with increasing agony; at
length I arrived at Belleville. Everything seemed leagued against me;
the banker had left for Paris; I flew back, I got my money; I went to
M. Ferrand's--all was discovered.

"But this is only a part of my misfortunes; now the notary accuses me
of having stolen fifteen thousand francs in notes, which were, he
said, in the drawer with the two thousand francs in gold. It is a
false accusation, an infamous lie. I avow myself guilty of the first
charge; but by all that is sacred, I swear to you, mademoiselle, that
I am innocent of the second. I have seen no bills in the drawer; there
was only the gold, as I said before.

"Such is the truth, mademoiselle; I am under the charge of an
overwhelming accusation, and yet I affirm that you ought to think me
incapable of telling a falsehood. But who will believe me? Alas! as M.
Ferrand told me, he who has stolen a small sum can easily steal a
large one, and his words deserve no confidence.

"I have always found you so good and devoted to the unfortunate,
mademoiselle, I know you are so faithful and frank, that your heart
will guide you, I hope, in the appreciation of the truth--I ask
nothing more. Give faith to my words, and you will find me as much to
be pitied as blamed; for, I repeat, my intention was good;
circumstances impossible to foresee have ruined me.

"Oh, Mile. Rigolette, I am very unhappy. If you knew what kind of
people I am destined to live among until the day of my trial!
Yesterday they took me to a place which is called the station-house of
the Prefecture of Police. I cannot tell you what I experienced when,
after having mounted a gloomy staircase, I arrived before a door with
an iron wicket, which they opened, and soon closed upon me. I was so
much troubled, that at first I could distinguish nothing. A hot,
disagreeable air struck me in the face; I heard a great noise of
voices mingled with sinister laughs, accents of rage and low songs; I
held myself immovable near the door, looking at the stone flaggings,
daring neither to advance nor raise my eyes, believing that every one
was looking at me. They did not trouble themselves about me; one
prisoner more or less is of no consequence to them; at length I raised
my head. What horrible figures! how many clothed in rags! how many
ragged clothes soiled with mud! All the externals of vice and misery.
There were about forty or fifty, seated, standing, or lying on benches
fastened to the walls; vagabonds, robbers, assassins, in fine, all who
had been arrested that night or day.

"When they perceived me, I found a sad consolation in seeing that they
did not recognize me as one of their fellows. Some of them looked at
me with an insolent and jeering air; then they began to talk among
themselves, in a low tone, and in a hideous language I did not
comprehend. At the end of a short time, the most audacious of them
came and struck me on the shoulder, and asked me for some money to pay
my footing.

"I gave them some money, in hopes to purchase repose; it was not
enough; they required more; I refused. Then several of them surrounded
me, loading me with threats and insults; they were about to throw
themselves upon me, when happily, attracted by the noise, a keeper
entered. I complained to him; he made them give up the money I had
given them, and told me that, if I wished, I could, for a small
amount, be put alone in a cell. I accepted with gratitude, and left
these bandits in the midst of their threats for the future. The keeper
placed me in a cell, where I passed the rest of the night. It is hence
that I write to you this morning, Mlle. Rigolette. Immediately after
my examination, I shall be conducted to another prison, which is
called La Force, where I fear I shall meet many of my lock-up
companions. The keeper, interested by my grief and tears, has promised
me to send you this letter, although it is strictly forbidden. I
expect, Mlle. Rigolette, a last service of our old friendship, if now
you should not blush at this friendship.

"If you are willing to grant my demand, here it is.

"You will receive with this a small key, and a line for the porter of
the house where I reside, Boulevard Saint Denis, No. 11. I inform him
that you can dispose of all that belongs to me, and that he must obey
your orders. He will show you my room. You will have the kindness to
open my secretary with the key I send you; you will find a large
envelope covering many papers, which I wish you to take care of; one
of them was destined for you, as you will see by the address; others
have been written concerning you, in our happy days. Do not be angry--
you never else would have known it.

"I beg you also to take the small sum of money which is in the
secretary, also a sachet of satin, inclosing a little cravat of orange
silk, that you wore on our last Sunday walk, and gave me the day I
left the Rue du Temple. I wish that, with the exception of some linen,
which you will send to La Force, you would sell the furniture and
effects I possess: acquitted or condemned, I shall not be the less
ruined and obliged to leave Paris. Where shall I go? What are my
resources? Heaven only knows!

"Madame Bouvard, as saleswoman in the Temple, who has already sold and
bought for me, will doubtless arrange all this: she's an honest woman;
this arrangement will spare you much embarrassment, for I know how
precious your time is.

"I have paid my rent in advance; I beg you to give a small gratuity to
the porter. Pardon me, mademoiselle, for imposing on you with these
details, but you are the only person in the world to whom I dare and
can address myself.

"I might have asked this service from one of the clerks at M.
Ferrand's, but I feared his discretion respecting sundry papers: many
of them concerning you, as I have already told you; others have
reference to some sad events of my life.

"Oh! believe me, Mlle. Rigolette, if you grant it, this last proof of
your former affection will be my sole consolation in the great trouble
which crushes me; in spite of myself, I hope you will not refuse me.

"I ask, also, permission to write you sometimes--it will be so
soothing, so precious, to be able to pour out, to disclose to a
benevolent heart, the sorrows which overwhelm me.

"Alas! I am alone in the world; no one feels any interest in me. This
isolated condition was always painful--judge now what it is!

"And yet I am honest; and I have the consciousness of never having
injured any one; of having always, even at the peril of my life, shown
my aversion for evil, as you will see by the papers, which I beg you
to keep and read. But when I say this, who will believe me? M. Ferrand
is respected by everybody; his reputation is well established; he will
crush me; I resign myself, in advance, to my fate.

"In brief, Mlle. Rigolette, if you believe me, you will not have, I
hope, any contempt for me; you will pity me, and you will sometimes
think of a sincere friend; then, if I cause you much--much pity,
perhaps you will push your generosity so far as to come, some day-_a
Sunday_ (alas! what recollections does not the word awaken)--to
brave the reception-room of my prison.

"But, no, no! to see you in such a place--I never can dare. Yet you
are so kind, that--

"I am obliged to stop, and send you this, with the key and the note to
the porter, which I shall write in haste, as the keeper has come to
tell me I am to be taken before the judge. Adieu, adieu, Mlle.
Rigolette.

"Do not cast me off. I have no hope but in you--in you alone.

  "FRANCOIS GERMAIN.

"P.S.--If you answer address your letter to the prison of La Force."

The reader can now comprehend the cause of the first grief of La
Rigolette. Her excellent heart was profoundly affected at a calamity
of which she had not had until then any suspicion. She believed
implicitly in the entire veracity of the story of Germain. Not very
severe, she even found that her old neighbor enormously exaggerated
his fault. To save an unfortunate father, he had taken the money,
which he knew he could return. This action, in the eyes of the
grisette, was only generous.

By one of those inconsistencies natural to women, and above all, to
those of her class, this girl, who until then had felt for Germain, as
for her other neighbors, a joyous and cordial friendship, now
acknowledged a decided preference.

As soon as she knew he was unfortunate, unjustly accused, and a
prisoner, she thought no more of his rivals.

With Rigolette it was not yet love; it was a lively, sincere
affection, filled with commiseration and resolute devotion: a very new
sentiment for her, from the bitterness which was joined to it. Such
was her mental situation when Rudolph entered her room, after having
discreetly knocked at the door.

"Good-day, my neighbor," said Rudolph; "I hope I do not disturb you?"

"No, neighbor; I am, on the contrary, very glad to see you, for I have
much sorrow!"

"Why do I find you pale? you seem to have been weeping!"

"I should think I have wept! There is reason for it. Poor Germain!
Here, read;" and Rigolette handed to Rudolph the letter. "If this is
not enough to break one's heart! You told me you were interested in
him. Now is the time to show it," added she, while Rudolph read
attentively. "Is this villain, Ferrand, thirsting for the blood of
everybody? First it was Louise, now it is Germain. Oh! I am not cruel;
but if some misfortune should happen to this notary I should be
content! To accuse such an honest young man of having stolen one
thousand three hundred francs! Germain! truth and honesty itself, and
then so regular, so mild, so sad--is he not to be pitied, among all
these scoundrels-in prison! Oh! M. Rudolph, from to-day I begin to see
that all is not _couleur de rose_ in life."

"And what do you mean to do my neighbor?"

"Do? why, everything he asks, and as soon as possible. I should have
already been off, but for this work, which I must finish and take to
the Rue Saint Honore as I go to Germain's room to get the papers he
speaks of. I have passed a part of the night in working, so as to gain
some hours in advance. I am going to have so many things to do,
besides my work, that I must get in readiness. In the first place,
Madame Morel wishes me to see Louise in her prison? It is, perhaps,
very difficult, but I will try. Unfortunately, I do not know who to
address myself to."

"I have thought of that."

"You, my neighbor?"

"Here is a magistrate's order."

"What happiness! Can you not get me one also for the prison of this
unfortunate Germain? it will give him so much pleasure."

"I will give you, also, the means to see Germain."

"Oh, thank you, M. Rudolph."

"You are not afraid, then, to go to the prison?"

"Very certain my heart will beat the first time. But never mind. When
Germain was happy, did I not always find him ready to anticipate all
my wishes? To take me to the theater, or a walk? to read to me at
night? to assist me in arranging my flowers? to wax my floor? Well!
now he is in trouble, it is my turn; a poor little mouse like me can't
do much, I know; but all I can do I will do--he can count on it; he
shall see whether I am a good friend! M. Rudolph, there is one thing
that vexes me; it is his suspicion--he believes me capable of
despising him! I ask you why? This old miser of a notary accuses him
of theft; but what is that to me? I know it is not true. The letter of
Germain proves as clear as day that he is innocent, whom I should
never have thought guilty. Only to see him, to know him, shows he is
incapable of a wrong action. One must be as wicked as M. Ferrand to
maintain such false assertions."

"Bravo, neighbor, I like your indignation!"

"Oh! stop--I wish I was a man, to go see this notary, and say to him:
'Oh! you maintain that Germain has robbed you; well, look here, take
that, you old liar, he won't steal this from you.' And I'd beat him to
a mummy."

"You'd have very expeditious justice," said Rudolph, smiling at the
animation of Rigolette.

"It is so revolting; and, as Germain says in his letter, everybody
will take the master's part against him, because his master is rich,
and thought much of, while Germain is a poor young man without
protection; unless you come to his assistance, M. Rudolph, who know so
many benevolent persons. Can nothing be done?"

"He must wait for his trial. Once acquitted, as I think he will be,
numerous proofs of interest will be shown him, I assure you. But
listen, my neighbor. I know from experience that I can count on your
discretion."

"Oh, yes, M. Rudolph. I have never been a babbler."

"Well, no one must know, even Germain himself must be ignorant that he
has friends who are watching over him, for he has friends."

"Really."

"Very powerful and very devoted."

"It would give him so much courage to know it."

"Doubtless; but perhaps he could not keep the secret. Then, M.
Ferrand, alarmed, would be on his guard, his suspicions aroused; and
as he is very cunning, he would make it difficult to get at him; which
would be lamentable, for not only must the innocence of Germain be
proved, but his calumniator unmasked."

"I understand you, M. Rudolph."

"Just so with Louise; I bring you this permission to see her, so that
you can tell her not to speak to any one of what she had revealed to
me. She will know what this means."

"That is sufficient, M. Rudolph."

"In a word, Louise must be careful not to complain in her prison of
the conduct of her master; it is very important. But she must conceal
nothing from the lawyer who will be sent by me to prepare for her
defense; recommend all this to her."

"Be quite easy, neighbor; I will forget nothing. I have a good memory.
But I speak of kindness, when it is you who are good and generous! If
any one's in trouble, you are there at once!"

"I have told you, neighbor, I am only a poor clerk. When, in roving
about, I find good people who deserve protection, I inform a
benevolent person who has all confidence in me, and they are
assisted."

"Where do you lodge, now that you have given up your room to the
Morels?"

"I lodge--in furnished lodgings."

"Oh, how I detest that. To be where everybody else has been--it is as
if everybody had been in your own room."

"I am only there at night, and then--"

"I conceive--it is less disagreeable. My home, M. Rudolph, rendered me
so happy; I had arranged a life so tranquil, that I should not have
believed it possible to have a sorrow. Yet you see! No, I cannot tell
you what a blow the misfortunes of Germain have caused me. I have seen
the Morels and others--much to be pitied, it is true; but misery is
misery. Among poor folks they expect it; it does not surprise them,
and they help one another as they can. But to see a poor young man,
honest, and good, who has been your friend for a long time, accused of
theft, and imprisoned pell-mell with rogues and cut-throats! Oh, M.
Rudolph! it is true I have no strength against this; it is a
misfortune I have never thought of; it upsets me."

Rigolette's large eyes filled with tears.

"Courage, courage! your gayety will return when your friend is
acquitted."

"Oh, he must be acquitted! They will only have to read to the judges
the letter which he has written me--that will be enough, will it not,
M. Rudolph?"