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Transcriber's Notes:

1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.

2. Passages in Gothic Bold are surrounded by +plus+ signs.

3. Other transcription notes appear at the end of this e-text.




[Illustration: _The Abduction._
Original Etching by Mercier.]




+The Mysteries of Paris.+

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

                 _BY EUGENE SUE_


      _IN SIX VOLUMES
         VOLUME IV._


       _PRINTED FOR
  FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.
          BOSTON_


     +Edition de Luxe+

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

          No.____




CONTENTS.


    CHAPTER                                               PAGE
          I. RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW                       11
         II. THE WILL                                       33
        III. L'ILE DU RAVAGEUR                              48
         IV. THE FRESHWATER PIRATE                          60
          V. THE MOTHER AND SON                             82
         VI. FRANÇOIS AND AMANDINE                         101
        VII. A LODGING-HOUSE                               119
       VIII. THE VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE           132
         IX. THE RUE DE CHAILLOT                           156
          X. THE COMTE DE SAINT-REMY                       170
         XI. THE INTERVIEW                                 185
        XII. THE SEARCH                                    204
       XIII. THE ADIEUX                                    226
        XIV. RECOLLECTIONS                                 239
         XV. THE BOATS                                     262
        XVI. THE HAPPINESS OF MEETINGS                     273
       XVII. DOCTOR GRIFFON                                298
      XVIII. THE PORTRAIT                                  305
        XIX. THE AGENT OF SAFETY                           315
         XX. THE CHOUETTE                                  321




ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                                          PAGE
      THE ABDUCTION                              _Frontispiece_
      THE BRIGAND DASHED AT HIS BROTHER                     87
      HE EXHIBITED SUCH FEROCIOUS JOY                      168
      WAS ABOUT TO EMBRACE HIS FATHER                      199




THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.




CHAPTER I.

RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW.


Rigolette's apartment was still in all its extreme nicety; the large
silver watch placed over the mantelpiece, in a small boxwood stand,
denoted the hour of four. The severe cold weather having ceased, the
thrifty little needlewoman had not lighted her stove.

From the window, a corner of blue sky was scarcely perceptible over the
masses of irregularly built roofs, garrets, and tall chimneys, which
bounded the horizon on the other side of the street. Suddenly a sunbeam,
which, as it were, wandered for a moment between two high gables, came
for an instant to purple with its bright rays the windows of the young
girl's chamber.

Rigolette was at work, seated by her window; and the soft shadow of her
charming profile stood out from the transparent light of the glass as a
cameo of rosy whiteness on a silver ground. Brilliant hues played on her
jet black hair, twisted in a knot at the back of her head, and shaded
with a warm amber colour the ivory of her industrious little fingers,
which plied the needle with incomparable activity. The long folds of her
brown gown, confined at the waist by the bands of her green apron, half
concealed her straw-seated chair, and her pretty feet rested on the edge
of a stool before her.

Like a rich lord, who sometimes amuses himself in hiding the walls of a
cottage beneath splendid hangings, the setting sun for a moment lighted
up this little chamber with a thousand dazzling fires, throwing his
golden tints on the curtains of gray and green stuff, and making the
walnut-tree furniture glisten with brightness, and the dry-rubbed floor
look like heated copper; whilst it encircled in a wire-work of gold the
grisette's bird-cage. But, alas! in spite of the exciting splendour of
this sun-ray, the two canaries (male and female) flitted about uneasily,
and, contrary to their usual habit, did not sing a note. This was
because, contrary to her usual habit, Rigolette did not sing. The three
never warbled without one another; almost invariably the cheerful and
matin song of the latter called forth that of the birds, who, more lazy,
did not leave their nests as early as their mistress. Then there were
rivalries,--contentions of clear, sonorous, pearly, silvery notes, in
which the birds had not always the advantage.

Rigolette did not sing, because, for the first time in her life, she
experienced a sorrow. Up to this time, the sight of the misery of the
Morels had often affected her; but such sights are too familiar to the
poorer classes to cause them any very lasting melancholy. After having,
almost every day, succoured these unfortunates as far as was in her
power, sincerely wept with and for them, the young girl felt herself at
the same time moved and satisfied,--moved by their misfortunes, and
satisfied at having shown herself pitiful. But this was not a sorrow.
Rigolette's natural gaiety soon regained its empire; and then, without
egotism, but by a simple fact of comparison, she found herself so happy
in her little chamber, after leaving the horrible den of the Morels,
that her momentary sadness speedily disappeared.

This lightness of impression was so little affected by personal feeling,
that, by a mode of extremely delicate reasoning, the grisette considered
it almost a duty to aid those more unhappy than herself, that she might
thus unscrupulously enjoy an existence so very precarious and entirely
dependent on her labour, but which, compared with the fearful distress
of the lapidary's family, appeared to her almost luxurious.

"In order to sing without compunction, when we have near us persons so
much to be pitied," she said, naïvely, "we must have been as charitable
to them as possible."

Before we inform our reader the cause of Rigolette's first sorrow, we
are desirous to assure him, or her, completely as to the virtue of this
young girl. We are sorry to use the word virtue,--a serious, pompous,
solemn word, which almost always brings with it ideas of painful
sacrifice, of painful struggle against the passions, of austere
meditations on the final close of all things here below. Such was not
the virtue of Rigolette. She had neither deeply struggled nor meditated;
she had worked, and laughed, and sung. Her prudence, as she called it,
when speaking frankly and sincerely to Rodolph, was with her a question
of time,--she had not the leisure to be in love. Particularly lively,
industrious, and orderly, order, work, and gaiety had often, unknown to
herself, defended, sustained, saved her.

It may be deemed, perchance, that this morality is light, frivolous,
casual; but of what consequence is the cause, so that the effect
endures? Of what consequence are the directions of the roots of a plant,
provided the flower blooms pure, expanded, and full of perfume?

Apropos of our utopianisms, as to the encouragement, help, and
recompenses which society ought to grant to artisans remarkable for
their eminent social qualities, we have alluded to that protection of
virtue (one of the projects of the Emperor, by the way). Let us suppose
this admirable idea realised. One of the real philanthropists whom the
Emperor proposed to employ in searching after worth has discovered
Rigolette. Abandoned without advice, without aid, exposed to all the
perils of poverty, to all the seductions with which youth and beauty are
surrounded, this charming girl has remained pure; her honest,
hard-working life might serve for a model and example. Would not this
young creature deserve, not a mere recompense, not succour only, but
some impressive words of approbation and encouragement, which would give
her a consciousness of her own worth, exalt her in her own eyes, and lay
on her obligations for the future? At least she would know that she was
followed by eyes full of solicitude and protection in the difficult path
in which she is progressing with so much courage and serenity; she would
know that, if one day the want of work or sickness threatened to destroy
the equilibrium of the poor and occupied life, which depends solely on
work and health, a slight help, due to her former deserts, would be
given to her.

People, no doubt, will exclaim against the impossibility of this
tutelary surveillance, which would surround persons particularly worthy
of interest through their previous excellent lives. It seems to us that
society has already resolved this problem. Has it not already imagined
the superintendence of the police, for life or for a period, for the
most useful purpose of constantly controlling the conduct of dangerous
persons, noted for the infamy of their former lives? Why does not
society exercise also a superintendence of moral charity?

But let us leave the lofty stilts of our utopianisms, and return to the
cause of Rigolette's first sorrow.

With the exception of Germain, a well-behaved, open-hearted young man,
the grisette's neighbours had all, at first, begun on terms of
familiarity, believing her offers of good neighbourship were little
flirtations; but these gentlemen had been compelled to admit, with as
much astonishment as annoyance, that they found in Rigolette an amiable
and mirthful companion for their Sunday excursions, a pleasant
neighbour, and a kind-hearted creature, but not a mistress. Their
surprise and their annoyance, at first very great, gradually gave way
before the frank and even temper of the grisette; and then, as she had
sagaciously said to Rodolph, her neighbours were proud on Sundays to
have on their arms a pretty girl, who was an honour to them in every way
(Rigolette was quite regardless of appearances), and who only cost them
the share of the moderate pleasures, whose value was doubled by her
presence and nice appearance. Besides, the dear girl was so easily
contented! In her days of penury she dined well and gaily off a morsel
of warm cake, which she nibbled with all the might of her little white
teeth; after which, she amused herself so much with a walk on the
boulevards or in the arcades.

If our readers feel but little sympathy with Rigolette, they will at
least confess that a person must be very absurd, or very cruel, to
refuse once a week these simple amusements to so delightful a creature,
who, besides having no right to be jealous, never prevented her
cavaliers from consoling themselves for her cruelty by flirtations with
other damsels.

François Germain alone never founded any vain hopes on the familiarity
of the young girl, but, either from instinct of heart or delicacy of
mind, he guessed from the first day how very agreeable the singular
companionship of Rigolette might be made.

What might be imagined happened, and Germain fell passionately in love
with his neighbour, without daring to say a word to her of his love.

Far from imitating his predecessors, who, convinced of the vanity of
their pursuit, had consoled themselves with other loves, without being
on that account the less on good terms with their neighbour, Germain had
most supremely enjoyed his intimacy with the young girl, passing with
her not only his Sunday but every evening when he was not engaged.
During these long hours Rigolette was, as usual, merry and laughing;
Germain tender, attentive, serious, and often somewhat sad. This
sadness was his only drawback, for his manners, naturally good, were not
to be compared with the foppery of M. Girandeau, the commercial
traveller, alias bagman, or with the noisy eccentricities of Cabrion;
but M. Girandeau by his unending loquacity, and the painter by his
equally interminable fun, took the lead of Germain, whose quiet
composure rather astonished his little neighbour, the grisette.

Rigolette then had not, as yet, testified any decided preference for any
one of her beaux; but as she was by no means deficient in judgment, she
soon discovered that Germain alone united all the qualities requisite
for making a reasonable woman happy.

Having stated all these facts, we will inquire why Rigolette was sad,
and why neither she nor her birds sang. Her oval and fresh-looking face
was rather pale; her large black eyes, usually gay and brilliant, were
slightly dulled and veiled; whilst her whole look bespoke unusual
fatigue. She had been working nearly all the night; from time to time
she looked sorrowfully at a letter which lay open on a table near her.
This letter had been addressed to her by Germain, and contained as
follows:

                                  "PRISON OF THE CONCIERGERIE.

      "MADEMOISELLE:--The place from which I address you will
    sufficiently prove to you the extent of my misfortune,--I am
    locked up as a robber. I am guilty in the eyes of all the world,
    and yet I am bold enough to write to you! It is because it
    would, indeed, be dreadful to me to believe that you consider me
    as a degraded criminal. I beseech you not to condemn me until
    you have perused this letter. If you discard me, that will be
    the final blow, and will indeed overwhelm me. I will tell you
    all that has passed. For some time I had left the Rue du Temple,
    but I knew through poor Louise that the Morel family, in whom
    you and I took such deep interest, were daily more and more
    wretched. Alas, my pity for these poor people has been my
    destruction! I do not repent it, but my fate is very cruel. Last
    night I had stayed very late at M. Ferrand's, occupied with
    business of importance. In the room in which I was at work was a
    bureau, in which my employer shut up every day the work I had
    done. This evening he appeared much disturbed and troubled, and
    said to me, 'Do not leave until these accounts are finished, and
    then put them in the bureau, the key of which I will leave with
    you;' and then he left the room. When my work was done I opened
    the drawer to put it away, when, mechanically, my eyes were
    attracted by an open letter, on which I read the name of Jérome
    Morel, the lapidary. I confess that, seeing that it referred to
    this unfortunate man, I had the indiscretion to read this
    letter; and I learnt that the artisan was to be arrested next
    day on an overdue bill of thirteen hundred francs, at the suit
    of M. Ferrand, who, under an assumed name, had imprisoned him.
    This information was from an agent employed by M. Ferrand. I
    knew enough of the situation of the Morel family to be aware of
    the terrible blow which the imprisonment of their only support
    must inflict upon them, and I was equally distressed and
    indignant. Unfortunately I saw in the same drawer an open box,
    with two thousand francs in gold in it. At this moment I heard
    Louise coming up the stairs, and without reflecting on the
    seriousness of my offence, but profiting by the opportunity
    which chance offered, I took thirteen hundred francs, went to
    her in the passage, and put the money in her hand, saying, 'They
    are going to arrest your father to-morrow at daybreak, for
    thirteen hundred francs,--here they are. Save him, but do not
    say that the money comes from me. M. Ferrand is a bad man.' You
    see, mademoiselle, my intention was good, but my conduct
    culpable. I conceal nothing from you, but this is my excuse. By
    dint of saving for a long time I had realised, and placed with a
    banker, the sum of fifteen hundred francs, but the cashier of
    the banker never came to the office before noon. Morel was to be
    arrested at daybreak, and therefore it was necessary that she
    should have the money so as to pay it in good time; if not, even
    if I could have gone in the day to release him from prison,
    still he would be arrested and carried off in presence of his
    wife, whom such a blow must have killed. Besides, the heavy
    costs of the writ would have been added to the expenses of the
    lapidary. You will understand, I dare say, that all these new
    misfortunes would not have befallen me if I had been able to
    restore the thirteen hundred francs I had taken back again to
    the bureau before M. Ferrand discovered anything; unfortunately,
    I fell into that mistake. I left M. Ferrand's, and was no longer
    under the impression of indignation and pity which had impelled
    me to the step. I began to reflect upon all the dangers of my
    position. A thousand fears then came to assail me. I knew the
    notary's severity, and he might come after I left and search in
    his bureau and discover the theft; for in his eyes--in the eyes
    of the world--it is a theft. These thoughts overwhelmed me, and,
    late as it was, I ran to the banker's to supplicate him to give
    me my money instantly. I should have found an excuse for this
    urgent request, and then I should have returned to M. Ferrand
    and replaced the money I had taken. By an unlucky chance, the
    banker had gone to Belleville for two days, to his
    country-house, where he was engaged in some plantations.
    Everything seemed to conspire against me. I waited for daybreak
    with intense anxiety, and hastened to Belleville,--the banker
    had just left for Paris. I returned, saw him, obtained my money,
    hastened to M. Ferrand; everything was discovered. But this is
    only a portion of my misfortunes. The notary at once accused me
    of having robbed him of fifteen thousand francs in bank-notes,
    which, he declared, were in the drawer of the bureau, with the
    two thousand francs in gold. This was a base accusation,--an
    infamous lie! I confess myself guilty of the first abstraction,
    but, by all that is most sacred in the world, I swear to you,
    mademoiselle, that I am innocent of the second. I never saw a
    bank-note in the drawer. There were only two thousand francs in
    gold, from which I took the thirteen hundred francs I have
    mentioned. This is the truth, mademoiselle. I am under this
    terrible accusation, and yet I affirm that you ought to know me
    incapable of a lie. But will you,--do you believe me? Alas, as
    M. Ferrand said, 'he who has taken a small sum may equally have
    taken a large amount, and his word does not deserve belief.' I
    have always seen you so good and devoted to the unhappy,
    mademoiselle, and I know you are so frank and liberal-minded,
    that your heart will guide you in the just appreciation of the
    truth, I hope. I do not ask any more. Give credit to my words,
    and you will find in me as much to pity as to blame; for, I
    repeat to you, my intention was good, and circumstances
    impossible to foresee have destroyed me. Oh, Mlle. Rigolette, I
    am very unhappy! If you knew in the midst of what a set of
    persons I am doomed to exist until my trial is over! Yesterday
    they took me to a place which they call the dépôt of the
    prefecture of police. I cannot tell you what I felt when, after
    having gone up a dark staircase, I reached a door with an iron
    wicket, which was opened and soon closed upon me. I was so
    troubled in my mind that I could not, at first, distinguish
    anything. A hot and fetid air came upon me, and I heard a loud
    noise of voices mingled with sinister laughs, angry
    exclamations, and depraved songs. I remained motionless at the
    door for awhile, looking at the stone flooring of the apartment,
    and neither daring to advance nor lift up my eyes, thinking
    that everybody was looking at me. They were not, however,
    thinking of me; for a prisoner more or less does not at all
    disturb these men. At last I ventured to look up, and, oh, what
    horrid countenances! What ragged wretches! What dirty and
    bespattered garments! All the exterior marks of misery and vice!
    There were forty or fifty seated, standing, or lying on benches
    secured to the wall,--vagrants, robbers, assassins, and all who
    had been apprehended during the night and day. When they
    perceived me I found a sad consolation in seeing that they did
    not recognise me as belonging or known to them. Some of them
    looked at me with an insulting and derisive air, and then began
    to talk amongst themselves in a low tone, and in some horrible
    jargon, not one word of which did I understand. After a short
    time one of the most brutal amongst them came, and, slapping me
    on the shoulder, asked me for money to pay my footing. I gave
    them some silver, hoping thus to purchase repose; but it was not
    enough, and they demanded more, which I refused. Then several of
    them surrounded me and assailed me with threats and
    imprecations, and were proceeding to extremities, when,
    fortunately for me, a turnkey entered, who had been attracted by
    the noise. I complained to him, and he insisted on their
    restoring to me the money I had given them already, adding that,
    if I liked to pay a small fee, I should go to what is called the
    pistole; that is, be in a cell to myself. I accepted the offer
    gratefully, and left these ruffians in the midst of their loud
    menaces for the future; 'for,' said they, 'we are sure to meet
    again, when I could not get away from them.' The turnkey
    conducted me to a cell, where I passed the rest of the night. It
    is from here that I now write to you, Mlle. Rigolette. Directly
    after my examination I shall be taken to another prison, called
    La Force, where I expect to meet many of my companions in the
    station-house. The turnkey, interested by my grief and tears,
    has promised me to forward this letter to you, although such
    kindnesses are strictly forbidden. I ask, Mlle. Rigolette, a
    last service of your friendship, if, indeed, you do not blush
    now for such an intimacy. In case you will kindly grant my
    request, it is this: With this letter you will receive a small
    key, and a line for the porter of the house I live in, Boulevard
    St. Denis, No. 11. I inform him that you will act as if it were
    myself with respect to everything that belongs to me, and that
    he is to attend to your instructions. He will take you to my
    room, and you will have the goodness to open my _secrétaire_
    with the key I send you herewith. In this you will find a large
    packet containing different papers, which I beg of you to take
    care of for me. One of them was intended for you, as you will
    see by the address; others have been written of you, in happier
    days. Do not be angry. I did not think they would ever come to
    your knowledge. I beg you, also, to take the small sum of money
    which is in this drawer, as well as a satin bag, which contains
    a small orange silk handkerchief, which you wore when we used to
    go out on Sundays, and which you gave me on the day I quitted
    the Rue du Temple. I should wish that, excepting a little linen
    which you will be so good as send to me at La Force, you would
    sell the furniture and things I possess; for, whether acquitted
    or found guilty, I must of necessity be obliged to quit Paris.
    Where shall I go? What are my resources? God only knows. Madame
    Bouvard, the saleswoman of the Temple, who has already sold and
    bought for me many things, will perhaps take all the furniture,
    etc., at once. She is a very fair-dealing woman, and this would
    save you a great deal of trouble, for I know how precious your
    time is. I have paid my rent in advance, and I have, therefore,
    only to ask you to give a small present to the porter. Excuse,
    mademoiselle, the trouble of these details; but you are the only
    person in the world to whom I dare and can address myself. I
    might, perhaps, have asked one of M. Ferrand's clerks to do this
    service for me, as we were on friendly terms, but I feared his
    curiosity as to certain papers. Several concern you, as I have
    said, and others relate to the sad events in my life. Ah,
    believe me, Mlle. Rigolette, if you grant me this last favour,
    this last proof of former regard, it will be my only consolation
    under the great affliction in which I am plunged; and, in spite
    of all, I hope you will not refuse me. I also beg of you to give
    me permission to write to you sometimes. It will be so
    consoling, so comforting to me, to be able to pour out my heavy
    sorrows into a kind heart. Alas, I am alone in the world,--no
    one takes the slightest interest in me! This isolation was
    before most painful to me. Think what it must be now! And yet I
    am honest, and have the consciousness of never having injured
    any one, and of always having, at the peril of my life,
    testified my aversion for what is wicked and wrong; as you will
    see by the papers, which I pray of you to take care of, and
    which you may read. But when I say this, who will believe me? M.
    Ferrand is respected by all the world; his reputation for
    probity is long established; he has a just cause of accusation
    against me, and he will crush me. I resign myself at once to my
    fate. Now, Mlle. Rigolette, if you do believe me, you will not,
    I hope, feel any contempt for me, but pity me; and you will,
    perhaps, carry your generosity so far as to come one day,--some
    Sunday (alas, what recollections that word brings up!)--some
    Sunday, to see me in the reception-room of my prison. But no,
    no; I never could dare to see you in such a place! Yet you are
    so good, so kind, that--if--I am compelled to break off this
    letter and send it to you at once, with the key, and a line for
    the porter, which I write in great haste. The turnkey has come
    to tell me that I am going directly before the magistrate.
    Adieu, adieu, Mlle. Rigolette! Do not discard me, for my hope is
    in you, and in you only!

                                            "FRANÇOIS GERMAIN.

      "P. S.--If you reply, address your letter to me at the prison
    of La Force."

We may now divine the cause of Rigolette's first sorrow.

Her excellent heart was deeply wounded at a misfortune of which she had
no suspicion until that moment. She believed unhesitatingly in the
entire veracity of the statement of Germain, the unfortunate son of the
Schoolmaster.

Not very strait-laced, she thought her old neighbour exaggerated his
fault immensely. To save the unhappy father of a family, he had
momentarily appropriated a sum which he thought he could instantly
refund. This action, in the grisette's eyes, was but generous.

By one of those contradictions common to women, and especially to women
of her class, this young girl, who until then had not felt for Germain
more than her other neighbours, but a kind and mirthful friendship, now
experienced for him a decided preference. As soon as she knew that he
was unfortunate, unjustly accused, and a prisoner, his remembrance
effaced that of all his former rivals. Yet Rigolette did not all at once
feel intense love, but a warm and sincere affection, full of pity and
determined devotion,--a sentiment which was the more new with her in
consequence of the better sensations it brought with it.

Such was the moral position of Rigolette when Rodolph entered her
chamber, having first rapped very discreetly at the door.

"Good morning, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigolette; "do not let me
disturb you."

"Not at all, neighbour. On the contrary, I am delighted to see you, for
I have had something to vex me dreadfully."

"Why, in truth, you look very pale, and appear as though you had been
weeping."

"Indeed, I have been weeping, and for a good reason. Poor Germain!
There--read!" And Rigolette handed the letter of the prisoner to
Rodolph. "Is not that enough to break one's heart? You told me you took
an interest in him,--now's the time to prove it!" she added, whilst
Rodolph was attentively reading the letter. "Is that wicked old M.
Ferrand at war with all the world? First he attacked that poor Louise,
and now he assails Germain. Oh, I am not ill-natured; but if some great
harm happened to this notary, I should really be glad! To accuse such an
honest young man of having stolen fifteen thousand francs from him!
Germain, too! He who was honesty itself! And such a steady, serious
young man; and so sad, too! Oh, he is indeed to be pitied, in the midst
of all these wretches in his prison! Ah, M. Rodolph, from to-day I begin
to see that life is not all _couleur-de-rose_."

"And what do you propose to do, my little neighbour?"

"What do I mean to do? Why, of course, all that Germain asks of me, and
as quickly as possible. I should have been gone before now, but for this
work, which is required in great haste, and which I must take instantly
to the Rue St. Honoré, on my way to Germain's room, where I am going to
get the papers he speaks of. I have passed part of the night at work,
that I might be forward. I shall have so many things to do besides my
usual work that I must be excessively methodical. In the first place,
Madame Morel is very anxious that I should see Louise in prison. That
will be a hard task, but I shall try to do it. Unfortunately, I do not
know to whom I should address myself."

"I had thought of that."

"You, neighbour?"

"Here is an order."

"How fortunate! Can't you procure me also an order for the prison of
poor, unhappy Germain? He would be so delighted!"

"I will also find you the means of seeing Germain."

"Oh, thank you, M. Rodolph."

"You will not be afraid, then, of going to his prison?"

"Certainly not; although my heart will beat very violently the first
time. But that's nothing. When Germain was free, was he not always ready
to anticipate all my wishes, and take me to the theatre, for a walk, or
read to me of an evening? Well, and now he is in trouble, it is my turn.
A poor little mouse like me cannot do much, I know that well enough; but
all I can do I will do, that he may rely upon. He shall find that I am a
sincere friend. But, M. Rodolph, there is one thing which pains me, and
that is that he should doubt me,--that he should suppose me capable of
despising him! I!--and for what, I should like to know? That old notary
accuses him of robbery. I know it is not true. Germain's letter has
proved to me that he is innocent, even if I had thought him guilty. You
have only to see him, and you would feel certain that he is incapable of
a bad action. A person must be as wicked as M. Ferrand to assert such
atrocious falsehoods."

"Bravo, neighbour; I like your indignation."

"Oh, how I wish I were a man, that I might go to this notary and say to
him, 'Oh, you say that Germain has robbed you, do you? Well, then,
that's for you! And that he cannot steal from you, at all events?' And
thump--thump--thump, I would beat him till I couldn't stand over him."

"You administer justice very expeditiously," said Rodolph, smiling.

"Because it makes my blood boil. And, as Germain says in his letter,
all the world will side with his employer, because he is rich and looked
up to, whilst Germain is poor and unprotected, unless you will come to
his assistance, M. Rodolph,--you who know such benevolent persons. Do
not you think that something could be done?"

"He must await his sentence. Once acquitted, as I believe he will be, he
will not want for proofs of the interest taken in him. But listen,
neighbour; for I know I may rely on your discretion."

"Oh, yes, M. Rodolph, I never blab."

"Well, then, no one must know--not even Germain himself--that he has
friends who are watching over him,--for he has friends."

"Really!"

"Very powerful and devoted."

"It would give him much courage to know that."

"Unquestionably; but perhaps he might not keep it to himself. Then M.
Ferrand, alarmed, would be on his guard,--his suspicions would be
aroused; and, as he is very cunning, it would become very difficult to
catch him, which would be most annoying; for not only must Germain's
innocence be made clear, but his denouncer must be unmasked."

"I understand, M. Rodolph."

"It is the same with Louise; and I bring you this order to see her, that
you may beg of her not to tell any person what she disclosed to me. She
will know what that means."

"I understand, M. Rodolph."

"In a word, let Louise beware of complaining in prison of her master's
wickedness. This is most important. But she must conceal nothing from
the barrister who will come from me to talk with her as to the grounds
of her defence. Be sure you tell her all this."

"Make yourself easy, neighbour, I will forget nothing; I have an
excellent memory. But, when we talk of goodness, it is you who are so
good and kind. If any one is in trouble, then you come directly."

"I have told you, my good little neighbour, that I am but a poor clerk;
but when I meet with good persons who deserve protection, I instantly
tell a benevolent individual who has entire confidence in me, and they
are helped at once. That's all I do in the matter."

"And where are you lodging, now you have given up your chamber to the
Morels?"

"I live in a furnished lodging."

"Oh, how I should hate that! To be where all the world has been before
you, it is as if everybody had been in your place."

"I am only there at nights, and then--"

"I understand,--it is less disagreeable. Yet I shouldn't like it, M.
Rodolph. My home made me so happy, I had got into such a quiet way of
living, that I did not think it was possible I should ever know a
sorrow. And yet, you see--But no, I cannot describe to you the blow
which Germain's misfortune has brought upon me. I have seen the Morels,
and others beside, who were very much to be pitied certainly. But, at
best, misery is misery; and amongst poor folk, who look for it, it does
not surprise them, and they help one another as well as they can. To-day
it is one, to-morrow it is another. As for oneself, what with courage
and good spirit, one extricates oneself. But to see a poor young man,
honest and good, who has been your friend for a long time,--to see him
accused of robbery, and imprisoned and huddled up with criminals!--ah,
really, M. Rodolph, I cannot get over that; it is a misfortune I had
never thought of, and it quite upsets me."

"Courage, courage! Your spirits will return when your friend is
acquitted."

"Oh, yes, he must be acquitted. The judges have only to read his letter
to me, and that would be enough,--would it not, M. Rodolph?"

"Really, this letter has all the appearance of truth. You must let me
have a copy of it, for it will be necessary for Germain's defence."

"Certainly, M. Rodolph. If I did not write such a scrawl, in spite of
the lessons which good Germain gave me, I would offer to copy it myself;
but my writing is so large, so crooked, and has so many, many faults."

"I will only ask you to trust the letter with me until to-morrow
morning."

"There it is; but you will take great care of it, I hope. I have burnt
all the notes which M. Cabrion and M. Girandeau wrote me in the
beginning of our acquaintance, with flaming hearts and doves at the top
of the paper, when they thought I was to be caught by their tricks and
cajoleries; but this poor letter of Germain's I will keep carefully, as
well as the others, if he writes me any more; for they, you know, M.
Rodolph, will show in my favour that he has asked these small
services,--won't they, M. Rodolph?"

"Most assuredly; and they will prove that you are the best little friend
any one can desire. But, now I think of it, instead of going alone to
Germain's room, shall I accompany you?"

"With pleasure, neighbour. The night is coming on, and, in the evening,
I do not like to be alone in the streets; besides that, I have my work
to carry nearly as far as the Palais Royal. But perhaps it will fatigue
and annoy you to go so far?"

"Not at all. We will have a coach."

"Really! Oh, how pleased I should be to go in a coach if I had not so
much to make me melancholy! And I really must be melancholy, for this is
the first day since I have been here that I have not sung during the
day. My birds are really quite astonished. Poor little dears! They
cannot make it out. Two or three times Papa Crétu has piped a little to
try me; I endeavoured to answer him, but, after a minute or two, I
began to cry. Ramonette then began; but I could not answer one any
better than the other."

"What singular names you have given your birds: Papa Crétu and
Ramonette!"

"Why, M. Rodolph, my birds are the joy of my solitude,--my best friends;
and I have given them the names of the worthy couple who were the joy of
my childhood, and were also my best friends, not forgetting that, to
complete the resemblance, Papa Crétu and Ramonette were gay, and sang
like birds."

"Ah, now, yes, I remember, your adopted parents were called so."

"Yes, neighbour, they are ridiculous names for birds, I know; but that
concerns no one but myself. And besides, it was in this very point that
Germain showed his good heart."

"In what way?"

"Why, M. Girandeau and M. Cabrion--especially M. Cabrion--were always
making their jokes on the names of my birds. To call a canary Papa
Crétu! There never was such nonsense as M. Cabrion made of it, and his
jests were endless. If it was a cock bird, he said, 'Why, that would be
well enough to call him Crétu. As to Ramonette, that's well enough for a
hen canary, for it resembles Ramona.' In fact, he quite wore my patience
out, and for two Sundays I would not go out with him in order to teach
him a lesson; and I told him very seriously, that if he began his
tricks, which annoyed me so much, we should never go out together
again."

"What a bold resolve!"

"Yes, it was really a sacrifice on my part, M. Rodolph, for I was always
looking forward with delight to my Sundays, and I was very much tried by
being kept in all alone in such beautiful weather. But that's nothing. I
preferred sacrificing my Sundays to hearing M. Cabrion continue to make
ridicule of those whom I respected. Certainly, after that, but for the
idea I attached to them, I should have preferred giving my birds other
names; and, you must know, there is one name which I adore,--it is
Colibri.[1] I did not change, because I never will call those birds by
any other name than Crétu and Ramonette; if I did, I should seem to make
a sacrifice, that I forgot my good, adopted parents,--don't you think
so, M. Rodolph?"

  [1] Colibri is a celebrated chanson of Béranger, the especial
  poet of grisettes.--_English Translator_.

"You are right a thousand times over. And Germain did not turn these
names into a jest, eh?"

"On the contrary, the first time he heard them he thought them droll,
like every one else, and that was natural enough. But when I explained
to him my reasons, as I had many times explained them to M. Cabrion,
tears started to his eyes. From that time I said to myself, M. Germain
is very kind-hearted, and there is nothing to be said against him, but
his weeping so. And so, you see, M. Rodolph, my reproaching him with his
sadness has made me unhappy now. Then I could not understand why any one
was melancholy, but now I understand it but too well. But now my packet
is completed, and my work is ready for delivery. Will you hand me my
shawl, neighbour? It is not cold enough to take a cloak, is it?"

"We shall go and return in a coach."

"True; we shall go and return very quickly, and that will be so much
gained."

"But, now I think of it, what are you to do? Your work will suffer from
your visits to the prison."

"Oh, no, no; I have made my calculations. In the first place, I have my
Sundays to myself, so I shall go and see Louise and Germain on those
days; that will serve me for a walk and a change. Then, in the week, I
shall go again to the prison once or twice. Each time will occupy me
three good hours, won't it? Well, to manage this comfortably, I shall
work an hour more every day, and go to bed at twelve o'clock instead of
eleven o'clock; that will be a clear gain of seven or eight hours a
week, which I can employ in going to see Louise and Germain. You see I
am richer than I appear," added Rigolette, with a smile.

"And you have no fear that you will be overfatigued?"

"Bah! Not at all; I shall manage it. And, besides, it can't last for
ever."

"Here is your shawl, neighbour."

"Fasten it; and mind you don't prick me."

"Ah, the pin is bent."

"Well, then, clumsy, take another then,--from the pincushion. Ah, I
forgot! Will you do me a great favour, neighbour?"

"Command me, neighbour."

"Mend me a good pen, with a broad nib, so that when I return I may write
to poor Germain, and tell him I have executed all his commissions. He
will have my letter to-morrow morning in the prison, and that will give
him pleasure."

"Where are your pens?"

"There,--on the table; the knife is in the drawer. Wait until I light my
taper, for it begins to grow dusk."

"Yes, I shall see better how to mend the pen."

"And I how to tie my cap."

Rigolette lighted a lucifer-match, and lighted a wax-end in a small
bright candlestick.

"The deuce,--a wax-light! Why, neighbour, what extravagance!"

"Oh, what I burn costs but a very small trifle more than a candle, and
it's so much cleaner!"

"Not much dearer?"

"Indeed, they are not! I buy these wax-ends by the pound, and a half a
pound lasts nearly a year."

"But," said Rodolph, who was mending the pen very carefully, whilst the
grisette was tying on her cap before the glass, "I do not see any
preparations for your dinner."

"I have not the least appetite. I took a cup of milk this morning, and I
shall take another this evening, with a small piece of bread, and that
will be enough for me."

"Then you will not take a dinner with me quietly after we have been to
Germain's?"

"Thank you, neighbour; but I am not in spirits,--my heart is too
heavy,--another time with pleasure. But the evening when poor Germain
leaves his prison, I invite myself, and afterwards you shall take me to
the theatre. Is that a bargain?"

"It is, neighbour; and I assure you I will not forget the engagement.
But you refuse me this to-day?"

"Yes, M. Rodolph. I should be a very dull companion, without saying a
word about the time it would occupy me; for, you see, at this moment, I
really cannot afford to be idle, or waste one single quarter of an
hour."

"Then, for to-day I renounce the pleasure."

"There is my parcel, neighbour. Now go out first, and I will lock the
door."

"Here's a capital pen for you; and now for the parcel."

"Mind you don't rumple it; it is _pout-de-soie_, and soon creases. Hold
it in your hand,--carefully,--there, in that way; that's it. Now go, and
I will show you a light."

And Rodolph descended the staircase, followed by Rigolette.

At the moment when the two neighbours were passing by the door of the
porter's lodge they saw M. Pipelet, who, with his arms hanging down, was
advancing towards them from the bottom of the passage, holding in one
hand the sign which announced his Partnership of Friendship with
Cabrion, and in the other the portrait of the confounded painter.
Alfred's despair was so overwhelming that his chin touched his breast,
so that the wide crown of his bell-shaped hat was easily seen. Seeing
him thus, with his head lowered, coming towards Rodolph and Rigolette,
he might have been compared to a ram, or a brave Breton, preparing for
combat.

Anastasie soon appeared on the threshold of the lodge, and exclaimed, at
her husband's appearance:

"Well, dearest old boy, here you are! And what did the commissary say to
you? Alfred, Alfred, mind what you're doing, or you'll poke your head
against my king of lodgers. Excuse him, M. Rodolph. It is that vagabond
of a Cabrion, who uses him worse and worse. He'll certainly turn my dear
old darling into a donkey! Alfred, love, speak to me!"

At this voice, so dear to his heart, M. Pipelet raised his head. His
features were impressed with a bitter agony.

"What did the commissary say to you?" inquired Anastasie.

"Anastasie, we must collect the few things we possess, embrace our
friends, pack up our trunk, and expatriate ourselves from Paris,--from
France,--from my beautiful France; for now, assured of impunity, the
monster is capable of pursuing me everywhere, throughout the length and
breadth of the departments of the kingdom."

"What, the commissary?"

"The commissary," exclaimed M. Pipelet, with fierce indignation,--"the
commissary laughed in my teeth!"

"At you,--a man of mature age, with an air so respectable that you would
appear as silly as a goose if one did not know your virtues?"

"Well, notwithstanding that, when I had respectfully deposed in his
presence my mass of complaints and vexations against that infernal
Cabrion, the magistrate, after having looked and laughed--yes, laughed,
and, I may add, laughed indecorously--at the sign and the portrait
which I brought with me as corroborative testimony,--the magistrate
replied, 'My good fellow, this Cabrion is a wag,--a practical joker. But
pay no attention to his pleasantries. I advise you to laugh at him, and
heartily, too, for really there is ample cause to do so.' 'To laugh at
it, sir-r-r!' I exclaimed,--'to laugh at it, when grief consumes
me,--when this scamp poisons my very existence; he placards me, and will
drive me out of my wits. I demand that they imprison, exile the
monster,--at least from my street!' At these words the commissary
smiled, and politely pointed to the door. I understood the magistrate,
sighed, and--and--here I am!"

"Good-for-nothing magistrate!" exclaimed Madame Pipelet.

"It is all over, Anastasie,--all is ended,--hope ceases. There's no
justice in France; I am really atrociously sacrificed."

And, by way of peroration, M. Pipelet dashed the sign and portrait to
the farther end of the passage with all his force. Rodolph and Rigolette
had in the shade smiled at M. Pipelet's despair. After having said a few
words of consolation to Alfred, whom Anastasie was trying to calm as
well as she could, the king of lodgers left the house in the Rue du
Temple with Rigolette, and they both got into a coach to go to François
Germain's.




CHAPTER II.

THE WILL.


François Germain resided No. 11 Boulevard St. Denis. It may not be amiss
to recall to the reader, who has probably forgotten the circumstance,
that Madame Mathieu, the diamond-matcher, whose name has been already
mentioned as the person for whom Morel the lapidary worked, lodged in
the same house as Germain. During the long ride from the Rue du Temple
to the Rue St. Honoré, where dwelt the dressmaker for whom Rigolette
worked, Rodolph had ample opportunities of more fully appreciating the
fine natural disposition of his companion. Like all instinctively noble
and devoted characters, she appeared utterly unconscious of the delicacy
and generosity of her conduct, all she said and did seeming to her as
the most simple and matter-of-course thing possible.

Nothing would have been more easy than for Rodolph to provide liberally
both for Rigolette's present and future wants, and thus to have enabled
her to carry her consoling attentions to Louise and Germain, without
grieving over the loss of that time which was necessarily taken from her
work,--her sole dependence; but the prince was unwilling to diminish the
value of the grisette's devotion by removing all the difficulties, and,
although firmly resolved to bestow a rich reward on the rare and
beautiful qualities he hourly discovered in her, he determined to follow
her to the termination of this new and interesting trial. It is scarcely
necessary to say that, had the health of the young girl appeared to
suffer in the smallest degree from the increase of labour she so
courageously imposed on herself, in order to dedicate a portion of each
week to the unhappy daughter of the lapidary and the son of the
Schoolmaster, Rodolph would instantaneously have stepped forward to her
aid; and he continued to study with equal pleasure and emotion the
workings of a nature so naturally disposed to view everything on its
sunny side, so full of internal happiness, and so little accustomed to
sorrow that occasionally she would smile, and seem the mirthful creature
nature had made her, spite of all the grief by which she was surrounded.

At the end of about an hour, the _fiacre_, returning from the Rue St.
Honoré, stopped before a modest, unpretending sort of house, situated
No. 11 Boulevard St. Denis. Rodolph assisted Rigolette to alight. The
young sempstress then proceeded to the porter's lodge, where she
communicated Germain's intentions, without forgetting the promised
gratuity.

Owing to the extreme amenity of his disposition, the son of the
Schoolmaster was unusually beloved, and the _confrère_ of M. Pipelet was
deeply grieved to learn that so quiet and well-conducted a lodger was
about to quit the house, and to that purpose the worthy porter warmly
expressed himself. Having obtained a light, Rigolette proceeded to
rejoin her companion, having first arranged with the porter that he
should not follow her up-stairs till a time she indicated should have
elapsed, and then merely to receive his final orders. The chamber
occupied by Germain was situated on the fourth floor. When they reached
the door, Rigolette handed the key to Rodolph, saying:

"Here, will you open the door? My hand trembles so violently, I cannot
do it. I fear you will laugh at me. But, when I think that poor Germain
will never more enter this room, I seem as though I were about to pass
the threshold of a chamber of death."

"Come, come, my good neighbour, try and exert yourself; you must not
indulge such thoughts as these."

"I know it is wrong; but, indeed, I cannot help it." And here Rigolette
tried to dry up the tears with which her eyes were filled.

Without being equally affected as his companion, Rodolph still
experienced a deep and painful emotion as he penetrated into this humble
abode. Well aware of the detestable pertinacity with which the
accomplices of the Schoolmaster pursued, and were possibly still
pursuing, Germain, he pictured to himself the many hours the unfortunate
youth was constrained to pass in this cheerless solitude. Rigolette
placed the light on the table. Nothing could possibly be more simple
than the fittings-up of the apartment itself. Its sole furniture
consisted of a small bed, a chest of drawers, a walnut-tree bureau, four
rush-bottomed chairs, and a table; white calico curtains hung from the
windows and around the bed. The only ornament the mantelpiece presented
was a water-bottle and glass. The bed was made; but, by the impression
left on it, it would seem that Germain had thrown himself on it without
undressing on the night previous to his arrest.

"Poor fellow!" said Rigolette, sadly, as she examined each minute detail
of the interior of the apartment; "it is very easy to see I was not near
him. His room is tidy, to be sure, but not as neat as it ought to be.
Everything is covered with dust. The curtains are smoke-dried, the
windows want cleaning, and the floor is not kept as it should be. Oh,
dear, what a difference! The Rue du Temple was not a better room, but it
had a much more cheerful look, because everything was kept so bright and
clean,--like in my apartment!"

"Because in the Rue du Temple he had the benefit of your advice and
assistance."

"Oh, pray look here!" cried Rigolette, pointing to the bed. "Only
see,--the poor fellow never went to bed at all the last night he was
here! How uneasy he must have been! See, he has left his handkerchief on
his pillow, quite wet with his tears! I can see that plainly enough."
Then, taking up the handkerchief, she added, "Germain has kept a small,
orange-coloured silk cravat I gave him once during our happy days. I
have a great mind to keep this handkerchief in remembrance of his
misfortune. Do you think he would be angry?"

"On the contrary, he would but be too much delighted with such a mark of
your affection."

"Ah, but we must not indulge in such thoughts now; let us attend to more
serious matters. I will make up a parcel of linen from the contents of
those drawers, ready to take to the prison, and Mother Bouvard, whom I
will send to-morrow, will see to the rest; but first of all I will open
the bureau, in order to get out the papers and money Germain wished me
to take charge of."

"But, now I think of it, Louise Morel gave me back yesterday the
thirteen hundred francs in gold she received from Germain, to pay the
lapidary's debt, which I had already discharged. I have this money about
me; it justly belongs to Germain, since he repaid the notary what he
withdrew from the cash-box. I will place it in your hands, in order that
you may add it to the sum entrusted to your care."

"Just as you like, M. Rodolph, although really I should prefer not
having so large a sum in my possession, really there are so many
dishonest people nowadays! As for papers, that's quite another thing;
I'll willingly take charge of as many papers as you please, but money is
such a dangerous thing!"

"Perhaps you are right; then I tell you what we will do--eh, neighbour?
I will be banker, and undertake the responsibility of guarding this
money. Should Germain require anything, you can let me know; I will
leave you my address, and whatever you send for shall be punctually and
faithfully sent."

"Oh, dear, yes, that will be very much better! How good of you to offer,
for I could not have ventured to propose such a thing to you! So that is
settled; I will beg of you, also, to take whatever this furniture sells
for. And now let us see about the papers," continued Rigolette, opening
the bureau and pulling out several drawers. "Ah, I dare say this is it!
See what a large packet! But, oh, good gracious, M. Rodolph, do pray
look what mournful words these are written on the outside!"

And here Rigolette, in a faltering voice, read as follows:

"'In the event of my dying by either a violent or natural death, I
request whoever may open this bureau to carry these papers to Mlle.
Rigolette, dressmaker, No. 17 Rue du Temple.' Do you think, M. Rodolph,
that I may break the seals of the envelope?"

"Undoubtedly; does not Germain expressly say that among the papers you
will find a letter particularly addressed to yourself?"

The agitated girl broke the seals which secured the outward cover, and
from it fell a quantity of papers, one of which, bearing the
superscription of Mlle. Rigolette, contained these words:

      "MADEMOISELLE:--When this letter reaches your hands, I shall
    be no more, if, as I fear, I should perish by a violent death,
    through falling into a snare similar to that from which I lately
    escaped. A few particulars herein enclosed, and entitled 'Notes
    on My Life,' may serve to discover my murderers."

"Ah, M. Rodolph," cried Rigolette, interrupting herself, "I am no longer
astonished poor Germain was so melancholy! How very dreadful to be
continually pursued by such ideas!"

"He must, indeed, have suffered deeply; but, trust me, his worst
misfortunes are over."

"Alas, M. Rodolph, I trust it may prove so! Still, to be in prison, and
accused of theft!"

"Make yourself quite easy about him; his innocence once proved, instead
of returning to his former seclusion and loneliness, he will regain his
friends. You, first and foremost, and then a dearly loved mother, from
whom he has been separated from his childhood."

"His mother! Has he, then, still a mother?"

"He has, but she has long believed him lost to her for ever. Imagine her
delight at seeing him again, cleared from the unworthy charge now
brought against him. You see I was right in saying that his greatest
troubles were over; do not mention his mother to him. I entrust you with
the secret, because you take so generous an interest in the fate of
Germain that it is but due to your devotedness that you should be
tranquillised as to his future fate."

"Oh, thank you, M. Rodolph! I promise you to guard the secret as
carefully as you could do."

Rigolette then proceeded with the perusal of Germain's letter; it
continued thus:

    "'Should you deign, mademoiselle, to cast your eyes over these
    notes, you will find that I have been unfortunate all my life,
    always unhappy, except during the hours I have passed with you;
    you will find sentiments I should never have ventured to express
    by words fully revealed in a sort of memorandum, entitled "My
    Only Days of Happiness." Nearly every evening, after quitting
    you, I thus poured forth the cheering thoughts with which your
    affection inspired me, and which only sweetened the bitterness
    of a cup full even to overflowing. That which was but friendship
    in you, was, in my breast, the purest, the sincerest love; but
    of that love I have never spoken. No, I reserved its full
    disclosure till the moment should arrive when I could be but as
    an object of your sorrowing recollection. No, never would I have
    sought to involve you in a destiny as thoroughly miserable as my
    own. But, when your eye peruses these pages, there will be
    nothing to fear from the power of my ill-starred fate. I shall
    have been your faithful friend, your adoring lover, but I shall
    no longer be dangerous to your future happiness in either sense.
    I have but one last wish and desire, and I trust that you will
    kindly accomplish it. I have witnessed the noble courage with
    which you labour day by day, as well as the care and management
    requisite to make your hard-earned gain suffice for your
    moderate wants. Often have I shuddered at the bare idea of your
    being reduced by illness (brought on, probably, by overattention
    to your work) to a state too frightful to dwell upon. And it is
    no small consolation to me to believe it in my power to spare
    you, not only a considerable share of personal inconvenience,
    but also to preserve you from evils your unsuspicious nature
    dreams not of.'

"What does that last part mean, M. Rodolph?" asked Rigolette, much
surprised.

"Proceed with the letter; we shall see by and by."

Rigolette thus resumed:

    "'I know upon how little you can live, and of what service even
    a small sum would be to you in any case of emergency. I am very
    poor myself, but still, by dint of rigid economy, I have managed
    to save fifteen hundred francs, which are placed in the hands of
    a banker; it is all I am worth in the world, but by my will,
    which you will find with this, I have ventured to bequeath it to
    you; and I trust you will not refuse to accept this last proof
    of the sincere affection of a friend and brother, from whom
    death will have separated you when this meets your eye.'

"Oh, M. Rodolph," cried Rigolette, bursting into tears, "this is too
much! Kind, good Germain, thus to consider my future welfare! What an
excellent heart he must have!"

"Worthy and noble-minded young man!" rejoined Rodolph, with deep
emotion. "But calm yourself, my good girl. Thank God, Germain is still
living! And, by anticipating the perusal of his last wishes, you will at
least have learned how sincerely he loved you,--nay, still loves you!"

"And only to think," said Rigolette, drying up her tears, "that I should
never once have suspected it! When first I knew M. Girandeau and M.
Cabrion, they were always talking to me of their violent love, and
flames, and darts, and such stuff; but finding I took no notice of them,
they left off wearying me with such nonsense. Now, on the contrary,
Germain never named love to me. When I proposed to him that we should be
good friends, he accepted the offer as frankly as it was made, and ever
after that we were always excellent companions and neighbours; but--now
I don't mind telling you, M. Rodolph, that I was not sorry Germain never
talked to me in the same silly strain."

"But still it astonished you, did it not?"

"Why, M. Rodolph, I ascribed it to his melancholy, and I fancied his low
spirits prevented his joking like the others."

"And you felt angry with him, did you not, for always being so sad?"

"No," said the grisette, ingenuously; "no, I excused him, because it was
the only fault he had. But now that I have read his kind and feeling
letter, I cannot forgive myself for ever having blamed him even for that
one thing."

"In the first place," said Rodolph, smiling, "you find that he had many
and just causes for his sadness; and secondly, that, spite of his
melancholy, he did love you deeply and sincerely."

"To be sure; and it seems a thing to be proud of, to be loved by so
excellent a young man!"

"Whose love you will, no doubt, return one of these days?"

"I don't know about that, M. Rodolph, though it is very likely, for poor
Germain is so much to be pitied. I can imagine myself in his place.
Suppose, just when I fancied myself despised and forsaken by all the
world, some one whom I loved very dearly should evince for me more
regard than I had ventured to hope for, don't you think it would make me
very happy?" Then, after a short silence, Rigolette continued, with a
sigh, "On the other hand, we are both so poor that, perhaps, it would
be very imprudent. Ah, well, M. Rodolph, I must not think of such
things. Perhaps, too, I deceive myself. One thing, however, is quite
sure, and that is, that so long as Germain remains in prison I will do
all in my power for him. It will be time enough when he has regained his
liberty for me to determine whether 'tis love or friendship I feel for
him. Until then it would only torment me needlessly to try to make up my
mind what I had better do. But it is getting late, M. Rodolph. Will you
have the goodness to collect all those papers, while I make up a parcel
of linen? Ah, I forgot the little bag containing the little
orange-coloured cravat I gave him. No doubt it is here--in this drawer.
Oh, yes, this is it. Oh, see, what a pretty bag! How nicely embroidered!
Poor Germain! I declare he has kept such a trifle as this little
handkerchief with as much care as though it had been some holy relic. I
well remember the last time I had it around my throat; and when I gave
it to him, poor fellow, how very pleased he was!"

At this moment some one knocked at the door.

"Who's there?" inquired Rodolph.

"Want to speak to Ma'am Mathieu," replied a harsh, hoarse voice, and in
a tone which is peculiar to the lowest orders. (Madame Mathieu was the
matcher of precious stones to whom we have before referred.)

This voice, whose accent was peculiar, awoke some vague recollections in
Rodolph's breast; and, desirous of elucidating them, he took the light,
and went himself to open the door. He found himself confronted by a man
who was one of the frequenters of the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, and
recognised him instantly, so deeply was the print of vice stamped upon
him, so completely marked on his beardless and youthful features. It was
Barbillon.

Barbillon, the pretended hackney-coachman, who had driven the
Schoolmaster and the Chouette to the hollow way of Bouqueval,--Barbillon,
the assassin of the husband of the unhappy milkwoman, who had set the
labourers of the farm at Arnouville on against La Goualeuse. Whether
this wretch had forgotten Rodolph's face, which he had never seen but
once at the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, or that the change of dress
prevented him from recognising the Chourineur's conqueror, he did not
evince the slightest surprise at his appearance.

"What do you want?" inquired Rodolph.

"Here's a letter for Ma'am Mathieu, and I must give it to her myself,"
was Barbillon's reply.

"She does not live here,--it's opposite," said Rodolph.

"Thank ye, master. They told me the left-hand door; but I've mistook."

Rodolph did not recollect the name of the diamond-matcher, which Morel
the lapidary had only mentioned once or twice, and thus had no motive
for interesting himself in the female to whom Barbillon came with his
message; but yet, although ignorant of the ruffian's crimes, his face
was so decidedly repulsive that he remained at the threshold of the
door, curious to see the person to whom Barbillon brought the letter.

Barbillon had scarcely knocked at the door opposite to Germain's, than
it opened, and the jewel-matcher, a stout woman of about fifty, appeared
with a candle in her hand.

"Ma'am Mathieu?" inquired Barbillon.

"That's me, my man."

"Here's a letter, and I waits for an answer."

And Barbillon made a step forward to enter the doorway, but the woman
made him a sign to remain where he was, and unsealed the letter, which
she read by the light of the candle she held, and then replied with an
air of satisfaction:

"Say it's all right, my man, and I will bring what is required. I will
be there at the same hour as usual. My respects to the lady."

"Yes, missus. Please to remember the porter!"

"Oh, you must ask them as sent you; they are richer than I am." And she
shut the door.

Rodolph returned to Germain's room, when he saw Barbillon run quickly
down the staircase. The ruffian found on the boulevard a man of
low-lived, brutal appearance, waiting for him in front of a shop.
Although the passers-by could hear (it is true they could not
comprehend), Barbillon appeared so delighted that he could not help
saying to his companion:

"Come and 'lush a drain of red tape,' Nicholas; the old mot swallows the
bait, hook and all. She'll show at the Chouette's. Old Mother Martial
will lend a hand to peel her of the swag, and a'terwards we can box the
'cold meat' in your 'barkey.'"[2]

  [2] "Come and let's have some brandy together, Nicholas. The
  old woman falls easily into the snare. She will come to the
  Chouette's; Mother Martial will help us to take her jewels from
  her forcibly, and then we can remove the dead body away in your
  boat."

"Let's mizzle,[3] then; for I must get back to Asnières early, or else
my brother Martial will smell summut."

  [3] "Let's be quick, then."

And the two robbers, after having exchanged these words in their own
slang, went towards the Rue St. Denis.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some minutes afterwards Rigolette and Rodolph left Germain's, got into
the hackney-coach, and reached the Rue du Temple.

The coach stopped.

At the moment when the door opened, Rodolph recognised by the light of
the dram-shop lamps his faithful Murphy, who was waiting for him at the
door of the entrance.

The squire's presence always announced some serious and sudden event,
for it was he alone who knew at all times where to find the prince.

"What's the matter?" inquired Rodolph, quickly, whilst Rigolette was
collecting several things out of the vehicle.

"A terrible circumstance, monseigneur!"

"Speak, in heaven's name!"

"M. the Marquis d'Harville--"

"You alarm me!"

"Had several friends to breakfast with him this morning. He was in high
spirits, had never been more joyous, when a fatal imprudence--"

"Pray come to the point--pray!"

"And playing with a pistol, which he did not believe to be loaded--"

"Wounded himself seriously."

"Monseigneur!"

"Well?"

"Something dreadful!"

"What do you mean?"

"He is dead!"

"D'Harville! Ah, how horrible!" exclaimed Rodolph, in a tone so agonised
that Rigolette, who was at the moment quitting the coach with the
parcels, said:

"Alas! what ails you, M. Rodolph?"

"Some very distressing information I have just told my friend,
mademoiselle," said Murphy to the young girl, for the prince was so
overcome that he could not reply.

"Is it, then, some dreadful misfortune?" said Rigolette, trembling all
over.

"Very dreadful, indeed!" replied the squire.

"Yes, most awful!" said Rodolph, after a few moment's silence; then
recollecting Rigolette, he said to her, "Excuse me, my dear neighbour,
if I do not go up to your room with you. To-morrow I will send you my
address, and an order to go to see Germain in his prison. I will soon
see you again."

"Ah, M. Rodolph, I assure you that I share in the grief you now
experience! I thank you very much for having accompanied me; but I
shall soon see you again, sha'n't I?"

"Yes, my child, very soon."

"Good evening, M. Rodolph," added Rigolette, and then disappeared down
the passage with the various things she had brought away from Germain's
room.

The prince and Murphy got into the hackney-coach, which took them to the
Rue Plumet. Rodolph immediately wrote the following note to Clémence:

      "MADAME:--I have this instant learned the sudden blow which has
    struck you, and deprived me of one of my best friends. I forbear
    any attempt to portray my horror and my regret. Yet I must
    mention to you certain circumstances unconnected with this cruel
    event. I have just learned that your stepmother, who has been,
    no doubt, in Paris for several days, returns this evening to
    Normandy, taking with her Polidori. No doubt but this fact will
    convince you of the peril which threatens your father; and pray
    allow me to give you some advice, which I think requisite. After
    the appalling event of this morning, every one must but too
    easily conceive your anxiety to quit Paris for some time; go,
    therefore, go at once, to Aubiers, so that you may arrive there
    before your stepmother, or, at least, as soon as she. Make
    yourself easy, madame, for I shall watch at a distance, as well
    as close, the abominable projects of your stepmother. Adieu,
    madame; I write these few lines to you in great haste. My heart
    is lacerated when I remember yesterday evening, when I left
    him,--him,--more tranquil and more happy than he had been for a
    very long time.

      "Believe, madame, in my deep and lasting devotion,

                                                    "RODOLPH."

Following the prince's advice, three hours after she had received this
letter, Madame d'Harville, accompanied by her daughter, was on the road
to Normandy. A post-chaise, despatched from Rodolph's mansion, followed
in the same route. Unfortunately, in the troubled state into which this
complication of events and the hurry of her departure had driven her,
Clémence had forgotten to inform the prince that she had met
Fleur-de-Marie at St. Lazare.

Our readers may, perhaps, remember that, on the previous evening, the
Chouette had been menacing Madame Séraphin, and threatening to unfold
the whole history of La Goualeuse's existence, affirming that she knew
(and she spoke truth) where the young girl then was. The reader may also
recollect that, after this conversation, the notary, Jacques Ferrand,
dreading the disclosure of his criminal course, believed that he had a
strong motive for effecting the disappearance of La Goualeuse, whose
existence, once known, would compromise him fatally. He had, in
consequence, written to Bradamanti, one of his accomplices, to come to
him that they might together arrange a fresh plot, of which
Fleur-de-Marie was to be the victim. Bradamanti, occupied by the no less
pressing interests of Madame d'Harville's stepmother, who had her own
sinister motives for taking the charlatan with her to M. d'Orbigny,
finding it, no doubt, more profitable to serve his ancient female ally,
did not attend to the notary's appointment, but set out for Normandy
without seeing Madame Séraphin.

The storm was gathering over the head of Jacques Ferrand. During the day
the Chouette had returned to reiterate her threats; and to prove that
they were not vain, she declared to the notary that the little girl,
formerly abandoned by Madame Séraphin, was then a prisoner in St.
Lazare, under the name of La Goualeuse; and that if he did not give ten
thousand francs (400_l._) in three days, this young girl would receive
the papers which belonged to her, and which would instruct her that she
had been confided in her infancy to the care of Jacques Ferrand.
According to his custom, the notary denied all boldly, and drove the
Chouette away as an impudent liar, although he was perfectly convinced,
and greatly alarmed at the dangerous drift of her threats. Thanks to his
numerous connections, the notary found means to ascertain that very day
(during the conversation of Fleur-de-Marie and Madame d'Harville) that
La Goualeuse was actually a prisoner in St. Lazare, and so marked for
her good conduct that they were expecting her discharge every moment.
Thus informed, Jacques Ferrand, having determined on his deadly scheme,
felt that, in order to carry it into execution, Bradamanti's help was
more than ever indispensable; and thereon came Madame Séraphin's vain
attempts to see the doctor. Having at length heard, in the evening, of
the departure of the charlatan, the notary, driven to act by the
imminence of his fears and danger, recalled to mind the Martial family,
those freshwater pirates established near the bridge of Asnières, with
whom Bradamanti had proposed to place Louise, in order to get rid of her
undetected. Having absolutely need of an accomplice to carry out his
deadly purposes against Fleur-de-Marie, the notary took every precaution
not to be compromised in case a fresh crime should be committed; and,
the day after Bradamanti's departure for Normandy, Madame Séraphin went
with all speed to the Martials.




CHAPTER III.

L'ILE DU RAVAGEUR.


The following scenes took place during the evening of the day in which
Madame Séraphin, in compliance with Jacques Ferrand the notary's orders,
went to the Martials, the freshwater pirates established at the point of
a small islet of the Seine, not far from the bridge of Asnières.

The Father Martial had died, like his own father, on the scaffold,
leaving a widow, four sons, and two daughters. The second of these sons
was already condemned to the galleys for life, and of the rest of this
numerous family there remained in the Ile du Ravageur (a name which was
popularly given to this place; why, we will hereafter explain) the
Mother Martial; three sons, the eldest (La Louve's lover) twenty-five
years of age, the next twenty, and the youngest twelve; two girls, one
eighteen years of age, the second nine.

The examples of such families, in whom there is perpetuated a sort of
fearful inheritance of crime, are but too frequent. And this must be so.
Let us repeat, unceasingly, society thinks of punishing, but never of
preventing, crime. A criminal is sentenced to the galleys for life;
another is executed. These felons will leave young families; does
society take any care or heed of these orphans,--these orphans, whom it
has made so, by visiting their father with a civil death, or cutting off
his head? Does it substitute any careful or preserving guardianship
after the removal of him whom the law has declared to be unworthy,
infamous,--after the removal of him whom the law has put to death? No;
"the poison dies with the beast," says society. It is deceived; the
poison of corruption is so subtle, so corrosive, so contagious, that it
becomes almost invariably hereditary; but, if counteracted in time, it
would never be incurable. Strange contradiction! Dissection proves that
a man dies of a malady that may be transmitted, and then, by
precautionary measures, his descendants are preserved from the affection
of which he has been the victim. Let the same facts be produced in the
moral order of things; let it be demonstrated that a criminal almost
always bequeaths to his son the germ of a precocious depravity. Will
society do for the safety of this young soul what the doctor does for
the body, when it is a question of contending against hereditary
vitiation? No; instead of curing this unhappy creature, we leave him to
be gangrened, even to death; and then, in the same way as the people
believe the son of the executioner to be an executioner, perforce, also,
they will believe the son of a criminal also a criminal. And then we
consider that the result of an inheritance inexorably fatal, which is
really a corruption caused by the egotistical neglect of society. Thus,
if, in spite of the evil mark on his name, the orphan, whom the law has
made so, remains, by chance, industrious and honest, a barbarous
prejudice will still reflect on him his father's offences; and thus
subjected to undeserved reprobation, he will scarcely find employment.
And, instead of coming to his aid, to save him from discouragement,
despair, and, above all, the dangerous resentments of injustice, which
sometimes drive the most generous disposition to revolt to ill, society
will say:

"Let him go wrong if he will,--we shall watch him. Have we not gaolers,
turnkeys, and executioners?"

Thus for him who (and it is as rare as it is meritorious) preserves
himself pure in spite of the worst examples, is there any support, any
encouragement? Thus for him who, plunged from his birth in a focus of
domestic depravity, is vitiated quite young, what hope is there of cure?

"Yes, yes, I will cure him, the orphan I have made," replies society;
"but in my own way,--by and by. To extirpate the smallpox, to cut out
the imposthume, it must come to a head."

A criminal desires to speak.

"Prisons and galleys, they are my hospitals. In incurable cases there is
the executioner. As to the cure of my orphan," adds society, "I will
reflect upon it. Let the germ of hereditary corruption ripen; let it
increase; let it extend its ravages far and wide. When our man shall be
rotten to the heart, when crime oozes out of him at every pore, when a
robbery or desperate murder shall have placed him at the same bar of
infamy at which his father stood, then we will cure this inheritor of
crime,--as we cured his progenitor. At the galleys or on the scaffold
the son will find his father's seat still warm."

Society thus reasons; and it is astonished, and indignant, and
frightened, to see how robberies and murders are handed down so fatally
from generation to generation.

The dark picture which is now to follow--The Freshwater Pirates--is
intended to display what the inheritance of evil in a family may be when
society does not come legally or officially to preserve the unfortunate
victims of the law from the terrible consequences of the sentence
executed against the father.[4]

  [4] In proportion as we advance in this work, its moral aim is
  attacked with so much bitterness, and, as we think, with so much
  injustice, that we ask permission to dwell a little on the
  serious and honourable idea which hitherto has sustained and
  guided us. Many serious, delicate, and lofty minds, being
  desirous of encouraging us in our endeavours, and having
  forwarded to us the flattering testimonials of their approval, it
  is due, perhaps, to these known and unknown friends to reply over
  again to the blind accusations which have reached, we may say,
  even to the bosom of the legislative assembly. To proclaim the
  odious immorality of our work is to proclaim decidedly, it
  appears to us, the odiously immoral tendencies of the persons who
  honour us with the deepest sympathies. It is in the name of these
  sympathies, as well as in our own, that we shall endeavour to
  prove, by an example selected from amongst others, that this work
  is not altogether destitute of generous and practical ideas. We
  gave, some time back, the sketch of a model farm founded by
  Rodolph, in order to encourage, teach, and remunerate poor,
  honest, and industrious labourers. We add to this: Honest men who
  are unfortunate deserve, at least, as much interest as criminals;
  yet there are numerous associations intended for the patronage of
  young prisoners, or those discharged, but there is no society
  founded for the purpose of giving succour to poor young persons
  whose conduct has been invariably exemplary. So that it is
  absolutely necessary to have committed an offence to become
  qualified for these institutions, which are, unquestionably, most
  meritorious and salutary. And we make a peasant of the Bouqueval
  farm to say:

  "It is humane and charitable not to make the wicked desperate,
  but it is also requisite that the good should not be without
  hope. If a stout, sturdy, honest fellow, desirous of doing well,
  and of learning all he can, were to present himself at the farm
  for young ex-thieves, they would say to him, 'My lad, haven't you
  stolen some trifle, or been somewhat dissolute?' 'No!' 'Well,
  then, this is no place for you.'"

  This discordance of things had struck minds much superior to our
  own, and, thanks to them, what we considered as an utopianism was
  realised. Under the superintendence of one of the most
  distinguished and most honourable men of the age, M. le Comte
  Portalis, and under the able direction of a real philanthropist
  with a generous heart and an enlightened and practical mind, M.
  Allier, a society has been established for the purpose of
  succouring poor and honest persons of the Department of the
  Seine, and of employing them in agricultural colonies. This
  single and sole result is sufficient to affirm the moral idea of
  our work. We are very proud and very happy to have been met in
  the midst of our ideas, our wishes, and our hopes by the founders
  of this new work of charity; for we are one of the most obscure,
  but most convinced, propagators of these two great truths,--that
  it is the duty of society to prevent evil, and to encourage and
  recompense good, as much as in it lies.

  Whilst we are speaking of this new work of charity, whose just
  and moral idea ought to have a salutary and fruitful result, let
  us hope that its founders will perchance think of supplying
  another vacancy, by extending hereafter their tutelary patronage,
  or, at least, their solicitude, over young children whose fathers
  have been executed, or condemned to an infamous sentence
  involving civil death, and who, we will repeat, are made orphans
  by the act and operation of the law. Such of these unfortunate
  children as shall be already worthy of interest from their
  wholesome tendencies and their misery will still more deserve
  particular notice, in consequence of their painful, difficult,
  and dangerous position. Let us add: The family of a condemned
  criminal, almost always victims of cruel repulses, apply in vain
  for labour, and are compelled, in order to escape universal
  reprobation, to fly from the spot where they have hitherto found
  work. Then, exasperated and enraged by injustice, already branded
  as criminals, for faults of which they are innocent, frequently
  at the end of all honourable resource, these unfortunates would
  sink and die of famine if they remained honest. If they have, on
  the other hand, already undergone an almost inevitable
  corruption, ought we not to try and rescue them whilst there is
  yet time? The presence of these orphans of the law in the midst
  of other children protected by the society of whom we have
  spoken, would be, moreover, a useful example to all. It would
  show that if the guilty is unfailingly punished, his family lose
  nothing, but rather gain in the esteem of the world, if by dint
  of courage and virtues they achieve the reëstablishing of a
  tarnished name. Shall we say that the legislature desires to
  render the chastisement still more terrible by virtually striking
  the criminal father in the fortune of his innocent son? That
  would be barbarous, immoral, irrational. Is it not, on the
  contrary, of the highest moral consequence to prove to the people
  that there is no hereditary succession of evil; that the original
  stain is not ineffaceable?

  Let us venture to hope that these reflections will appear
  deserving of some attention from the new Society of Patronage.
  Unquestionably it is painful to think that the state never takes
  the initiative in these questions so vital and so deeply
  interesting to social organisation.

The ancestor of the Martial family who first established himself on this
islet, on payment of a moderate rent, was a _ravageur_ (a
river-scavenger). The ravageurs, as well as the _débardeurs_ and
_déchireurs_ of boats, remain nearly the whole of the day plunged in
water up to the waist in the exercise of their trade. The _débardeurs_
bring ashore the floating wood. The _déchireurs_ break up the rafts
which have brought the wood. Equally aquatic as these other two
occupations, the business of a _ravageur_ is different. Going into the
water as far as possible, the _ravageur_, or mud-lark, draws up, by aid
of a long drag, the river sand from beneath the mud; then, collecting it
in large wooden bowls, he washes it like a person washing for gold dust,
and extracts from it metallic particles of all kinds,--iron, copper,
lead, tin, pewter, brass,--the results of the relics of all sorts of
utensils. The _ravageurs_, indeed, often find in the sand fragments of
gold and silver jewelry, brought into the Seine either by the sewers
which are washed by the stream, or by the masses of snow or ice
collected in the streets, and which are cast into the river. We do not
know by what tradition or custom these persons, usually honest and
industrious, are called by a name so formidable. Martial, the father,
the first inhabitant of this islet, being a _ravageur_ (and a sad
exception to his comrades), the inhabitants of the river's banks called
it the Ile du Ravageur.

The dwelling of these freshwater pirates was placed at the southern end
of the island. In daytime there was visible, on a sign-board over the
door:

         "AU RENDEZVOUS DES RAVAGEURS.
      GOOD WINE, GOOD EELS, AND FRIED FISH.
         BOATS LET BY THE DAY OR HOUR."

We thus see that the head of this depraved family added to his visible
or hidden pursuits those of a public-house keeper, fisherman, and
letter of boats. The felon's widow continued to keep the house, and
reprobates, vagrants, escaped convicts, wandering wild-beast showmen,
and scamps of every description came there to pass Sundays and other
days not marked with a red letter in the calendar, in parties of
pleasure. Martial (La Louve's lover), the eldest son of the family, the
least guilty of all the family, was a river poacher, and now and then,
as a real champion, and for money paid, took the part of the weak
against the strong. One of his brothers, Nicholas, the intended
accomplice of Barbillon in the murder of the jewel-matcher, was in
appearance a _ravageur_, but really a freshwater pirate in the Seine and
its banks. François, the youngest son of the executed felon, rowed
visitors who wished to go on the river in a boat. We have alluded to
Ambroise Martial, condemned to the galleys for burglary at night with
attempt to murder. The eldest daughter, nicknamed Calabash
(_Calebasse_), helped her mother in the kitchen, and waited on the
company. Her sister, Amandine, nine years of age, was also employed in
the house according to her years and strength.

At the period in question it was a dull night out of doors; heavy, gray,
opaque clouds, driven by the wind, showed here and there in the midst of
their openings a few patches of dark blue spotted with stars. The
outline of the islet, bordered by high and ragged poplars, was strongly
and darkly defined in the clear haze of the sky and in the white
transparency of the river. The house, with its irregular gables, was
completely buried in the shade; two windows in the ground floor only
were lighted, and these windows showed a deep red light, which was
reflected like long trails of fire in the little ripples which washed
the landing-place close to the house. The chains of the boats which were
moored there made a continual clashing, that mingled unpleasantly with
the gusts of the wind in the branches of the poplars, and the hoarse
murmurs of the main stream.

A portion of the family was assembled in the kitchen of the house. This
was a large low-roofed apartment. Facing the door were two windows,
under which a long stove extended. To the left hand there was a high
chimney; on the right a staircase leading to the upper story. At the
side of this staircase was the entrance to a large room, containing
several tables for the use of the guests at the cabaret. The light of a
lamp, joined to the flame of the fire, was strongly reflected by a
number of saucepans and other copper utensils suspended against the
wall, or ranged on shelves with a quantity of earthenware; and a large
table stood in the middle of the kitchen. The felon's widow, with three
of her children, was seated in the corner near the fireplace.

This woman, tall and meagre, seemed about five and forty years of age.
She was dressed in black, with a mourning handkerchief tied about her
head, concealing her hair, and surrounding her flat, livid, and wrinkled
brows; her nose was long and straight; her cheek-bones prominent; her
cheeks furrowed; her complexion bilious and sallow; the corners of her
mouth, always curved downwards, rendered still harsher the expression of
her countenance, as chilling, sinister, and immovable as a marble mask.
Her gray eyebrows surmounted her dull blue eyes.

The felon's widow was employed with needlework, as well as her two
daughters. The eldest girl was tall and forbidding like her mother, with
her features, calm, harsh, and repulsive, her thin nose, her ill-formed
mouth, and her pale look. Her yellow complexion, which resembled a ripe
quince, had procured for her the name of Calabash (_Calebasse_). She was
not in mourning, but wore a brown gown, whilst a cap of black tulle did
not conceal two bands of scanty hair of dull and dingy light brown.

François, the youngest of the Martial sons, was sitting on a low stool
repairing an _aldrel_, a thin-meshed net forbidden to be used on the
Seine. In spite of the tan of his features, this boy seemed in perfect
health; a forest of red hair covered his head; his face was round, his
lips thick, his forehead projecting, his eyes quick and piercing. He was
not like his mother or his elder sister, but had a subdued and sly look,
as from time to time, through the thick mass of hair that fell over his
eyes, he threw a stealthy and fearful glance at his mother, or exchanged
a look of intelligence and affection with his little sister, Amandine.

The latter was seated beside her brother, and was occupied, not in
marking, but in unmarking, some linen stolen on the previous evening.
She was nine years old, and was as like her brother as her sister was
like her mother. Her features, without being more regular, were less
coarse than those of François. Although covered with freckles, her
complexion was remarkably clear, her lips thick and red, her hair also
red, but silky, and her eyes, though small, were of a clear bright blue.
When Amandine's look met that of her brother, she turned a glance
towards the door, and then François replied by sigh; after which,
calling his sister's attention by a slight gesture, he counted with the
end of his needle ten loops of the net. This was meant to imply, in the
symbolical language of children, that their brother Martial would not
return until ten o'clock that evening.

Seeing these two women so silent and ill-looking, and the two poor
little mute, frightened, uneasy children, we might suppose they were two
executioners and two victims. Calabash, perceiving that Amandine had
ceased from her occupation for a moment, said, in a harsh tone:

"Come, haven't you done taking the mark out of that shirt?"

The little girl bowed her head without making any reply, and, by the aid
of her fingers and scissors, hastily finished taking out the red cotton
threads which marked the letters in the linen.

After a few minutes Amandine, addressing the widow timidly, showed her
the shirt, and said:

"Mother, I have done it."

Without making any reply, the widow threw her another piece of linen.
The child did not catch it quickly enough, and it fell on the ground.
Her tall sister gave her, with her hand as hard as wood, a sharp slap on
the arm, saying:

"You stupid brat!"

Amandine resumed her seat, and set to work actively, after having
exchanged with her brother a glance of her eye, into which a tear had
started.

The same silence continued to reign in the kitchen. Without, the wind
still moaned and dashed about the sign in front of the house. This
dismal creaking, and the dull boiling of a pot placed over the fire,
were the only sounds that were heard. The two children observed, with
secret fright, that their mother did not speak. Although she was
habitually taciturn, this complete silence, and a certain drawing in of
the lips, announced to them that the widow was in what they called her
white passion, that is to say, was a prey to concentrated irritation.

The fire was going out for want of fuel.

"François, a log," said Calabash.

The young mender of forbidden nets looked into a nook beside the
chimney, and replied:

"There are no more there."

"Then go to the wood-pile," said Calabash.

François murmured some unintelligible words, but did not stir.

"Do you hear me, François?" inquired Calabash, harshly.

The felon's widow laid on her knees a towel she was also unmarking, and
looked at her son. He had lowered his head, but he guessed he felt, if
we may use the expression, the fierce look his mother cast upon him,
and, fearful of encountering her dreaded countenance, the boy remained
without stirring.

"I say, are you deaf, François?" said Calabash, in an irritated tone.
"Mother, you see!"

The tall sister seemed to be happy in finding fault with the two
children, and to seek for them the punishment which the widow pitilessly
inflicted. Amandine, without being observed, gently touched her
brother's elbow, to make him quietly do what Calabash desired. François
did not stir. The elder sister still looked at her mother as demanding
the punishment of the offender, and the widow understood her. With her
long lean finger she pointed to a stick of stout and pliant willow
placed in a recess near the chimney. Calabash stooped forward, took up
this staff of chastisement, and handed it to her mother. François had
seen his mother's gesture, and, rising suddenly, sprung out of the reach
of the threatening stick.

"Do you want mother to break your back?" exclaimed Calabash.

The widow, still holding the willow stick in her hand, pinching her pale
lips together more and more, looked at François with a fixed eye, but
without uttering a syllable. By the slight tremor of Amandine's hands,
with her head bent downwards, and the redness which suddenly overspread
her neck, it was easy to see that the child, although habituated to such
scenes, was alarmed at the fate that threatened her brother, who had
taken refuge in a corner of the kitchen, and seemed frightened and
irritated.

"Mind yourself, mother's going to begin, and then it will be too late!"
said the tall sister.

"I don't care!" replied François, turning pale. "I'd rather be beaten as
I was the day before yesterday, than--go to the wood-pile--and at
night--again."

"And why?" asked Calabash, impatiently.

"I am--afraid of the wood-pile--I--" answered the boy, shuddering as he
spoke.

"Afraid--you stupid! And of what?"

François shook his head, but did not reply.

"Will you answer? What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know. But I am frightened."

"Why, you've been there a hundred times, and last night, too."

"I won't go there any more."

"Mother's going to begin."

"So much the worse for me," exclaimed the lad. "But she may beat me,
kill me, and I'll not go near the wood-pile--not at night."

"Once more--why not?" inquired Calabash.

"Why, because--"

"Because--?"

"Because there's some one--"

"There's some one--"

"Buried there!" said François, with a shudder.

The felon's widow, in spite of her impassiveness, could not repress a
sudden start; her daughter did the same. It seemed as though the two
women were struck with an electric shock.

"Some one buried by the wood-pile?" said Calabash, shrugging her
shoulders.

"I tell you that just now, whilst I was piling up some wood, I saw in a
dark corner near the wood-pile a dead man's bone; it was sticking a
little way out of the ground where it was damp, just by the corner,"
added François.

"Do you hear him, mother? Why, the boy's a fool!" said Calabash, making
a signal to the widow. "They are mutton-bones I put there for
washing-lye."

"It was not a mutton-bone," replied the boy, with alarm, "it was a dead
person's bones,--a dead man's bones. I saw quite plainly a foot that
stuck out of the ground."

"And, of course, you told your brother, your dear friend Martial, of
your grand discovery, didn't you?" asked Calabash, with brutal irony.

François made no reply.

"Nasty little spy!" said Calabash, savagely; "because he is as cowardly
as a cur, and would as soon see us scragged, as our father was scragged
before us."

"If you call me a spy, I'll tell my brother Martial everything!" said
François, much enraged. "I haven't told him yet, for I haven't seen him
since; but, when he comes here this evening, I'll--"

The child could not finish; his mother came up to him, calm and
inexorable as ever. Although she habitually stooped a little, her figure
was still tall for a woman. Holding the willow wand in one hand, with
the other the widow took her son by the arm, and, in spite of alarm,
resistance, prayers, and tears of the child, she dragged him after her,
and made him ascend the staircase at the further end of the kitchen.
After a moment's interval, there was heard heavy trampling, mingled with
cries and sobs. Some minutes afterwards this noise ceased. A door shut
violently; the felon's widow descended. Then, as impassive as ever, she
put the stick in its usual place, seated herself close to the fireplace,
and resumed her occupation, without saying a word.




CHAPTER IV.

THE FRESHWATER PIRATE.


After a silence of several minutes, the criminal's widow said to her
daughter:

"Go and get some wood; we will set the wood-pile to rights when Nicholas
and Martial return home this evening."

"Martial! Do you mean to tell him also that--"

"The wood, I say!" repeated the widow, abruptly interrupting her
daughter, who, accustomed to yield to the imperious and iron rule of her
mother, lighted a lantern, and went out.

During the preceding scene, Amandine, deeply disquieted concerning the
fate of François, whom she tenderly loved, had not ventured either to
lift up her eyes, or dry her tears, which fell, drop by drop, on to her
lap. Her sobs, which she dared not give utterance to, almost suffocated
her, and she strove even to repress the fearful beatings of her heart.
Blinded by her fast gathering tears, she sought to conceal her emotion
by endeavouring to pick the mark from the chemise given to her, but,
from the nervous trembling of her hand, she ran the scissors into her
finger sufficiently deep to cause considerable effusion of blood; but
the poor child thought much less of the pain she experienced than of the
certain punishment which awaited her for staining the linen with her
blood. Happily for her, the widow was too deeply absorbed in profound
reflection to take any notice of what had occurred. Calabash now
returned, bearing a basket filled with wood. To the inquiring look of
her mother, she returned an affirmative nod of the head, which was
intended to acquaint her with the fact of the dead man's foot being
actually above the ground. The widow compressed her lips, and continued
the work she was occupied upon; the only difference perceptible in her
being that she plied her needle with increased rapidity. Calabash,
meanwhile, renewed the fire, superintended the state of the cookery
progressing in the saucepan beside the hearth, and then resumed her seat
near her mother.

"Nicholas is not here yet," said she to her parent. "It is to be hoped
that the old woman who this morning engaged him to meet a gentleman from
Bradamanti has not led him into any scrape. She had such a very offhand
way with her; she would neither give any explanation as to the nature of
the business Nicholas was wanted for, nor tell her name, or where she
came from."

The widow shrugged her shoulders.

"You do not consider Nicholas is in any danger, I see, mother. And,
after all, I dare say you are quite right! The old woman desired him to
be on the Quai de Billy, opposite the landing-place, about seven o'clock
in the evening, and wait there for a person who wished to speak with
him, and who would utter the word 'Bradamanti' as a sort of countersign.
Certainly there is nothing very perilous in doing so much. No doubt
Nicholas is late from having to-day found, as he did yesterday,
something on the road. Look at this capital linen which he contrived to
filch from a boat, in which a laundress had just left it!" So saying,
she pointed to one of the pieces of linen Amandine was endeavouring to
pick the mark out of. Then, addressing the child, she said, "What do
folks mean when they talk of filching?"

"I believe," answered the frightened child, without venturing to look
up, "it means taking things that are not ours."

"Oh, you little fool! It means stealing, not taking. Do you
understand?--stealing!"

"Thank you, sister!"

"And when one can steal as cleverly as Nicholas, there is no need to
want for anything. Look at that linen he filched yesterday; how
comfortably it set us all up; and that, too, with no other trouble than
just taking out the marks; isn't it true, mother?" added Calabash, with
a burst of laughter, which displayed her decayed and irregular teeth,
yellow and jaundiced as her complexion.

The widow received this pleasantry with cold indifference.

"Talking of fitting ourselves up without any expense," continued
Calabash, "it strikes me we might possibly do so at another shop. You
know quite well that an old man has come, within the last few days, to
live in the country-house belonging to M. Griffon, the doctor of the
hospital at Paris. I mean that lone house about a hundred steps from the
river's side, just opposite the lime-kilns,--eh, mother? You understand
me, don't you?"

The widow bowed her head, in token of assent.

"Well, Nicholas was saying yesterday that it was very likely a good job
might be made out of it," pursued Calabash. "Now I have ascertained,
this very morning, that there is good booty to be found there. The best
way will be to send Amandine to watch the place a little; no one will
take notice of a child like her; and she could pretend to be just
playing about, and amusing herself; all the time she can take notice of
everything, and will be able to tell us all she sees or hears. Do you
hear what I say?" added Calabash, roughly addressing Amandine.

"Yes, sister," answered the trembling child; "I will be sure to do as
you wish me."

"Yes, that is what you always say; but you never do more than promise,
you little slink! That time that I desired you to take a five-franc
piece out of the grocer's till at Asnières, while I managed to keep the
man occupied at the other end of the shop, you did not choose to obey
me; and yet you might have done it so easily; no one ever mistrusts a
child. Pray what was your reason for not doing as you were bid?"

"Because, sister, my heart failed me, and I was afraid."

"And yet, the other day, you took a handkerchief out of the peddler's
pack, when the man was selling his goods inside the public-house. Pray
did he find it out, you silly thing?"

"Oh, but, sister, you know the handkerchief was for you, not me; and you
made me do it. Besides, it was not money."

"What difference does that make?"

"Oh, why, taking a handkerchief is not half so wicked as stealing
money!"

"Upon my word," said Calabash, contemptuously, "these are mighty fine
notions! I suppose it is Martial stuffs your head with all this rubbish.
I suppose you will run open-mouthed to tell him every word we have
said,--eh, little spy? But Lord bless you! We are not afraid of you or
Martial either; you can neither eat us nor drink us, that is one good
thing." Then, addressing herself to the widow, Calabash continued, "I
tell you what, mother, that fellow will get himself into no good by
trying to rule, and domineer, and lay down the law here, as he does;
both Nicholas and myself are determined not to submit to it. He sets
both Amandine and François against everything either you or I order them
to do. Do you think this can last much longer?"

"No!" said the mother, in a harsh, abrupt voice.

"Ever since his Louve has been sent to St. Lazare, Martial has gone on
like a madman, savage as a bear with every one. Pray is it our fault?
Can we help his sweetheart being put in prison? Only let her show her
face here when she comes out, and I'll serve her in such a way she
sha'n't forget one while! I'll match her! I'll--"

Here the widow, who had been buried in profound reflection, suddenly
interrupted her daughter by saying:

"You think something profitable might be got out of the old fellow who
lives in the doctor's house, do you not?"

"Yes, mother!"

"He looks poor and shabby as any common beggar!"

"And, for all that, he is a nobleman."

"A nobleman?"

"True as you're alive! And, what's more, he carries a purse full of
gold, spite of his always going into Paris, and returning, on foot,
leaning on an old stick, just for all the world like a poor wretch that
had not a sou in the world."

"How do you know that he has gold?"

"A little while ago I was at the post-office at Asnières, to inquire
whether there was any letter for us from Toulon--"

At these words, which recalled the circumstance of her son's confinement
in the galleys, the brows of the widow were contracted with a dark
frown, while a half repressed sigh escaped her lips. Unheeding these
signs of perturbation, Calabash proceeded:

"I was waiting my turn, when the old man who lives at the doctor's house
entered the office. I knew him again directly, by his white hair and
beard, his dark complexion, and thick black eyebrows. He does not look
like one that would be easily managed, I can tell you; and, spite of his
age, he has the appearance of a determined old fool that would die
sooner than yield. He walked straight up to the postmistress. 'Pray,'
said he, 'have you any letters from Angers for M. le Comte de Remy?'
'Yes,' replied the woman, 'here is one.' 'Then it is for me,' said the
old man; 'here is my passport.' While the postmistress was examining it,
he drew out a green silk purse, to pay the postage; and, I promise you,
one end was stuffed with gold till it looked as large as an egg. I know
it was gold, for I saw the bright, yellow pieces shining through the
meshes of the purse; and I am quite certain there must have been at
least forty or fifty louis in it!" cried Calabash, her eyes glowing with
a covetous eagerness to possess herself of such a treasure. "And only to
think," continued she, "of a person, with all that money in his pocket,
going about like an old beggar! No doubt he is some old miser, too rich
to be able to count his hoards. One good thing, mother, we know his
name; that may assist us in gaining admittance into the house. As soon
as Amandine can find out for us whether he has any servants or not--"

A loud barking of dogs here interrupted Calabash.

"Listen, mother," cried she; "no doubt the dogs hear the sound of a boat
approaching; it must be either Martial or Nicholas."

At the mention of Martial's name, the features of Amandine expressed a
sort of troubled joy. After waiting for some minutes, during which the
anxious looks of the impatient child were fixed on the door, she saw, to
her extreme regret, Nicholas, the future accomplice of Barbillon, make
his appearance. The physiognomy of the youth was at once ignoble and
ferocious; small in figure, short in stature, and mean in appearance, no
one would have deemed him a likely person to pursue the dangerous and
criminal path he trod. Unhappily, a sort of wild, savage energy supplied
the place of that physical force in which the hardened youth was
deficient. Over his blue loose frock he wore a kind of vest, without
sleeves, made of goatskin, covered with long brown hair. As he entered,
he threw on the ground a lump of copper, which he had with difficulty
carried on his shoulder.

"A famous good night I have made of it, mother!" said he, in a hoarse
and hollow voice, after he had freed himself from his burden. "Look
there! There's a prize. Well, I've got three more lumps of copper, quite
as big as that, in my boat, a bundle of clothes, and a case filled with
something, I know not what, for I did not waste my time in opening it.
Perhaps I have been robbed on my way home; we shall see."

"And the man you were to meet on the Quai de Billy?" inquired Calabash,
while the widow regarded her son in silence.

The only reply made by the young man consisted in his plunging his hand
into the pocket of his trousers, and jingling a quantity of silver.

"Did you take all that from him?" cried Calabash.

"No, I didn't; he shelled out two hundred francs of his own accord; and
he will fork out eight hundred more as soon as I have--But that's
enough; let's, first of all, unload my boat; we can jabber afterwards.
Is not Martial here?"

"No," said his sister.

"So much the better; we will put away the swag before he sees it;
leastways, if he can be kept from knowing about it."

"What! Are you afraid of him, you coward?" asked Calabash, provokingly.

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders significantly; then replied:

"Afraid of him? No, I should rather think not! But I have a strong
suspicion he means to sell us,--that is my only fear; as for any other
sort of dread, my weazen-slicer (knife) has rather too keen an edge for
that!"

"Ah, when he is not here, you are full of boast and brag; but only let
him show his face, and you are quiet as a mouse!"

This reproach seemed quite thrown away upon Nicholas, who, affecting not
to have heard it, exclaimed:

"Come, come! Let's unload the boat at once. Where is François, mother?
He could help us a good deal."

"Mother has locked him up, after having preciously flogged him; and, I
can tell you, he will have to go to bed without any supper."

"Well and good as far as that goes; but still, he might lend a hand in
unloading the boat,--eh, mother? Because, then myself and Calabash could
fetch all in at once."

The widow raised her hand, and pointed with her finger towards the
ceiling. Her daughter perfectly comprehended the signal, and departed at
once to fetch François.

The countenance of the widow Martial had become less cloudy since the
arrival of Nicholas, whom she greatly preferred to Calabash, but by no
means entertaining for him the affection she felt for her Toulon son, as
she designated him; for the maternal love of this ferocious woman
appeared to increase in proportion to the criminality of her offspring.
This perverse preference will serve to account for the widow's
indifference towards her two younger children, neither of whom exhibited
any disposition to evil, as well as her perfect hatred of Martial, her
eldest son, who, although not leading an altogether irreproachable life,
might still have passed for a perfectly honest and well-conducted person
if placed in comparison with Nicholas, Calabash, or his brother, the
felon at Toulon.

"Which road did you take to-night?" inquired the widow of her son.

"Why, as I returned from the Quai de Billy, where, you know, I had to go
to meet the gentleman who appointed to see me there, I spied a barge
moored alongside the quay; it was as dark as pitch. 'Halloa!' says I,
'no light in the cabin? No doubt,' says I, 'all hands are ashore. I'll
just go on board, and have a look; if I meet any one, it's easy to ask
for a bit of string, and make up a fudge about wanting to splice my
oar.' So up the side I climbs, and ventures into the cabin. Not a soul
was there; so I began collecting all I could find: clothes, a great box,
and, on the deck, four quintals of copper. So, you may guess, I was
obliged to make two journeys. The vessel was loaded with copper and
iron; but here comes François and Calabash. Now, then, let's be off to
the boat. Here, you young un, you Amandine! Look sharp, and make
yourself useful; you can carry the clothes; we must get new things, you
know, before we can throw aside our old ones."

Left alone, the widow busied herself in preparations for the family
supper. She placed on the table bottles, glasses, earthenware, plates,
with forks and spoons of silver; and, by the time this occupation was
completed, her offspring returned heavily laden.

Little François staggered beneath the weight of copper which he carried
on his shoulders, and Amandine was almost buried beneath the mass of
stolen garments which she bore on her head, while Nicholas and Calabash
brought in between them a wooden case, on the top of which lay the
fourth lump of copper.

"The case,--the case!" cried Calabash, with savage eagerness. "Come,
let's rip it open, and know what's in it."

The lumps of copper were flung on the ground. Nicholas took the heavy
hatchet he carried in his belt, and introduced its strong iron head
between the lid and the box which he had set down in the middle of the
kitchen, and endeavoured with all his strength to force it open. The red
and flickering light of the fire illumined this scene of pillage, while,
from without, the loud gusts of the night wind increased in violence.

Nicholas, meanwhile, attired in his goatskin vest, stooped over the box,
and essayed with all his might to wrench off the top, breaking out into
the most horrible and blasphemous expressions, as he found the solidity
of the fastenings resist all his endeavours to arrive at a knowledge of
its contents; and Calabash, her eyes inflamed by covetousness, her
cheeks flushed by the excitement of plunder, knelt down beside the case,
on which she leaned her utmost weight, in order to give more power to
the action of the lever employed by Nicholas. The widow, separated from
the group by the table, on the other side of which she was standing, in
her eagerness to behold the spoils, threw herself almost across the
table, the better to gaze on the booty; her longing eyes sparkled with
eagerness to learn the value of it. And finally--though unhappily, too
true to human nature--the two children, whose naturally good
inclinations had so often triumphed over the sea of vice and domestic
corruption by which they were surrounded, even they, forgetting at once
both their fears and their scruples, were alike infected by the same
fatal curiosity.

Huddling close to each other, their eyes glittering with excitement, the
breathing short and quick, François and Amandine seemed of all the party
most impatient to ascertain the contents of the case, and the most
irritated and out of patience with the slow progress made by Nicholas in
his attempts to break it open. At length the lid yielded to the powerful
and repeated blows dealt on it by the vigorous arm of the young man, and
as its fragments fell on the ground a loud, exulting cry rose from the
joyful and almost breathless group, who, joining in one wild mass, from
the mother to the little girl, rushed forward, and with savage haste
threw themselves on the opened box, which, forwarded, doubtless, by some
house in Paris to a fashionable draper and mercer residing near the
banks of the river, contained a large assortment of the different
materials employed in female attire.

"Nicholas has not done amiss!" cried Calabash, unfolding a piece of
mousseline-de-laine.

"No, faith!" returned the plunderer, opening, in his turn, a parcel of
silk handkerchiefs; "I shall manage to pay myself for my trouble."

"Levantine, I declare!" cried the widow, dipping into the box, and
drawing forth a rich silk. "Ah, that is a thing that fetches a price as
readily as a loaf of bread."

"Oh, Bras Rouge's receiver, who lives in the Rue du Temple, will buy all
the finery, and be glad of it. And Father Micou, the man who lets
furnished lodgings in the Quartier St. Honoré, will take the rest of the
swag."

"Amandine," whispered François to his little sister, "what a beautiful
cravat one of those handsome silk handkerchiefs Nicholas is holding in
his hand would make, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, yes; and what a sweet pretty _marmotte_ it would make for me!"
replied the child, in rapture at the very idea.

"Well, it must be confessed, Nicholas," said Calabash, "that it was a
lucky thought of yours to go on board that barge,--famous! Look, here
are shawls, too! How many, I wonder? One, two, three. And just see here,
mother! This one is real Bourre de Soie."

"Mother Burette would give at least five hundred francs for the lot,"
said the widow, after closely examining each article.

"Then, I'll be sworn," answered Nicholas, "if she'll give that, the
things are worth at least fifteen hundred francs. But, as the old
saying is, 'The receiver's as bad as the thief.' Never mind; so much the
worse for us! I'm no hand at splitting differences; and I shall be quite
flat enough this time to let Mother Burette have it all her own way, and
Father Micou also, for the matter of that; but then, to be sure, he is a
friend."

"I don't care for that, he'd cheat you as soon as another; I'm up to the
old dealer in marine stores. But then these rascally receivers know we
cannot do without them," continued Calabash, putting on one of the
shawls, and folding it around her, "and so they take advantage of it."

"There is nothing else," said Nicholas, coming to the bottom of the box.

"Now, let us put everything away," said the widow.

"I shall keep this shawl for myself," exclaimed Calabash.

"Oh, you will, will you?" cried Nicholas, roughly; "that depends whether
I choose to let you or not. You are always laying your clutches on
something or other; you are Madame Free-and-Easy!"

"You are so mighty particular yourself--about taking whatever you have a
fancy to, arn't you?"

"Ah, that's as different as different can be! I filch at the risk of my
life; and if I had happened to have been nabbed on board the barge, you
would not have been trounced for it."

"La! Well, don't make such a fuss,--take your shawl! I'm sure I don't
want it; I was only joking about it," continued Calabash, flinging the
shawl back into the box; "but you never can stand the least bit of fun."

"Oh, I don't speak because of the shawl; I am not stingy enough to
squabble about a trumpery shawl. One more or less would make no
difference in the price Mother Burette would give for the things; she
buys in the lump, you know," continued Nicholas; "only I consider that,
instead of calling out you should keep the shawl, it would have been
more decent to have asked me to give it you. There--there it is--keep
it--you may have it; keep it, I say, or else I'll just fling it into the
fire to make the pot boil."

These words entirely appeased Calabash, who forthwith accepted the shawl
without further scruple.

Nicholas appeared seized with a sudden fit of generosity, for, ripping
off the fag end from one of the pieces of silk, he contrived to separate
two silk handkerchiefs, which he threw to Amandine and François, who had
been contemplating them with longing looks, saying:

"There! that's for you brats; just a little taste to give you a relish
for prigging; it's a thing you'll take to more kindly if it's made
agreeable to you. And now, get off to bed. Come, look sharp, I've got a
deal to say to mother. There--you shall have some supper brought
up-stairs to you."

The delighted children clapped their hands with joy, and triumphantly
waved the stolen handkerchiefs which had just been presented to them.

"What do you say now, you little stupids?" said Calabash to them; "will
you ever go and be persuaded by Martial again? Did he ever give you
beautiful silk handkerchiefs like those, I should be glad to know?"

François and Amandine looked at each other, then hung down their heads,
and made no answer.

"Answer, can't you?" persisted Calabash, roughly. "I ask you whether you
ever received such presents from Martial?"

"No," answered François, gazing with intense delight on his bright red
silk handkerchief, "Brother Martial never gives us anything."

To which Amandine replied, in a low yet firm voice:

"Ah, François, that is because Martial has nothing to give anybody."

"He might have as much as other people if he chose to steal it, mightn't
he, François?" said Nicholas, brutally.

"Yes, brother," replied François. Then, as if glad to quit the subject,
he resumed his ecstatic contemplation of his handkerchief, saying:

"Oh, what a real beauty it is! What a fine cravat it will make for
Sundays, won't it?"

"That it will," answered Amandine. "And just see, François, how charming
I shall look with my sweet pretty handkerchief tied around my head,--so,
brother."

"What a rage the little children at the lime-kilns will be in when they
see you pass by!" said Calabash, fixing her malignant glances on the
poor children to ascertain whether they comprehended the full and
spiteful meaning of her words,--the hateful creature seeking, by the aid
of vanity, to stifle the last breathings of virtue within their young
minds. "The brats at the lime-kilns," continued she, "will look like
beggar children beside you, and be ready to burst with envy and jealousy
at seeing you two looking like a little lady and gentleman with your
pretty silk handkerchiefs."

"So they will," cried François. "Ah, and I like my new cravat ever so
much the better, Sister Calabash, now you have told me that the children
at the kilns will be so mad with me for being smarter than they; don't
you, Amandine?"

"No, François, I don't find that makes any difference. But I am quite
glad I have got such a nice new pretty _marmotte_ as that will make, all
the same."

"Go along with you, you little mean-spirited thing!" cried Calabash,
disdainfully; "you have not a grain of proper pride in you." Then,
snatching from the table a morsel of bread and cheese, she thrust them
into the children's hands, saying, "Now, get off to bed,--there is a
lanthorn; take care you don't set fire to anything, and be sure to put
it out before you go to sleep."

"And hark ye," added Nicholas, "remember that if you dare to say one
word to Martial of the box, the copper, or the clothes, I'll make you
dance upon red-hot iron; and, besides that, your pretty silk
handkerchiefs shall be taken from you."

After the departure of the children, Nicholas and his sister concealed
the box, with its contents, the clothes, and lumps of copper, in a sort
of cellar below the kitchen, the entrance to which was by a low flight
of steps not far from the fireplace.

"That'll do!" cried the hardened youth. "And now, mother, give us a
glass of your very best brandy; none of your poor, every-day stuff, but
some of the real right sort, and plenty of it. Faith! I think I've
earned a right to eat and to drink whatever you happen to have put by
for grand occasions. Come, Calabash, look sharp, and let's have supper.
Never mind Martial, he may amuse himself with picking the bones we may
leave; they are good enough for him. Now, then, for a bit of gossip over
the affair of the individual I went to meet on the Quai de Billy,
because that little job must be settled at once if I mean to pouch the
money he promised me. I'll tell you all about it, mother, from beginning
to end. But first give me something to moisten my throat. Give me some
drink, I say! Devilish hard to be obliged to ask so many times,
considering what I have done for you all to-day! I tell you I can stand
treat, if that's what you are waiting for."

And here Nicholas again jingled the five-franc pieces he had in his
pocket; then flinging his goatskin waistcoat and black woollen cap into
a distant part of the room, he seated himself at table before a huge
dish of ragout made of mutton, a piece of cold veal, and a salad. As
soon as Calabash had brought wine and brandy, the widow, still gloomy
and imperturbable, took her place at one side of the table, having
Nicholas on her right hand and her daughter on her left; the other side
of the table had been destined for Martial and the two younger children.
Nicholas then drew from his pocket a long and wide Spanish knife, with a
horn handle and a trenchant blade. Contemplating this murderous weapon
with a sort of savage pleasure, he said to the widow:

"There's my bread-earner,--what an edge it has! Talking of bread,
mother, just hand me some of that beside you."

"And talking of knives, too," replied Calabash, "François has found
out--you know what--in the wood-pile!"

"What do you mean?" asked Nicholas, not understanding her.

"Why, he saw--one of the feet!"

"Phew!" whistled Nicholas; "what, of the man?"

"Yes," answered the widow, concisely, at the same time placing a large
slice of meat on her son's plate.

"That's droll enough," returned the young ruffian; "I'm sure the hole
was dug deep enough; but I suppose the ground has sunk in a good deal."

"It must all be thrown into the river to-night," said the widow.

"That is the surest way to get rid of further bother," said Nicholas.

"Yes," chimed in Calabash, "throw it in the river, with a heavy stone
fastened to it, with part of an old boat-chain."

"We are not quite such fools as that either," returned Nicholas, pouring
out for himself a brimming glass of wine. Then, holding the bottle up,
he said, addressing the widow: "Come, mother, let's touch glasses, and
drink to each other. You seem a cup too low, and it will cheer you up."

The widow drew back her glass, shook her head, and said to her son:

"Tell me of the man you met on the Quai de Billy."

"Why, this is it," said Nicholas, without ceasing to eat and drink:
"When I got to the landing-place, I fastened my boat, and went up the
steps of the quay as the clock was striking seven at the military
bakehouse at Chaillot. You could not see four yards before you, but I
walked up and down by the parapet wall for a quarter of an hour, when I
heard footsteps moving softly behind me. I stopped, and a man,
completely wrapped up in a mantle, approached me, coughing as he
advanced. As I paused, he paused; and all I could make out of him was
that his cloak hid his nose, and his hat fell over his eyes."

We will inform our readers that this mysterious personage was Jacques
Ferrand, the notary, who, anxious to get rid of Fleur-de-Marie, had,
that same morning, despatched Madame Séraphin to the Martials, whom he
hoped to find the ready instruments of his fresh crime.

"'Bradamanti,' said the man to me," continued Nicholas; "that was the
password agreed upon by the old woman, that I might know my man.
'Ravageur,' says I, as was agreed. 'Is your name Martial?' he asked.
'Yes, master.' 'A woman was at your isle to-day: what did she say to
you?' 'That you wished to speak to me on the part of M. Bradamanti.'
'You have a boat?' 'We have four, that's our number: boatmen and
ravageurs, from father to son, at your service.' 'This is what I want
you to do if you are not afraid--' 'Afraid of what, master?' 'Of seeing
a person accidentally drowned. Only you must assist with the accident.
Do you understand?' 'Perfectly, master; we must make some individual
have a draught of the Seine, as if by accident? I'll do it; only, as the
dish to be dressed is a dainty one, why, the seasoning will cost rather
dear.' 'How much for two?' 'For two? What! are there two persons who are
to have a mess of broth in the river?' 'Yes.' 'Five hundred francs a
head, master; that's not too dear.' 'Agreed, for a thousand francs.'
'Money down, master?' 'Two hundred francs now, and the rest afterwards.'
'Then you doubt me, master?' 'No; you may pocket the two hundred
francs, without completing the bargain.' 'And you may say, after it's
done, "Don't you wish you may get it?"' 'That as may be; but does it
suit you? yes or no. Two hundred francs down, and on the evening of the
day after to-morrow, here, at nine o'clock, I will give you the eight
hundred francs.' 'And who will inform you that I have done the trick
with these two persons?' 'I shall know; that is my affair. Is it a
bargain?' 'Yes, master.' 'Here are two hundred francs. Now listen to me;
you will know again the old woman who was at your house this morning?'
'Yes, master.' 'To-morrow, or next day at latest, you will see her come,
about four o'clock in the evening, on the bank in face of your island
with a young fair girl. The old woman will make a signal to you by
waving her handkerchief.' 'Yes, master.' 'What time does it take to go
from the bank-side to your island?' 'Twenty minutes, quite.' 'Your boats
are flat-bottomed?' 'Flat as your hand, master.' 'Then you must make,
very skilfully, a sort of large hole in the bottom of one of these
boats, so that, when you open it, the water may flow in rapidly. Do you
understand?' 'Quite well, master; how clever you are! I have by me a
worn-out old boat, half rotten, that I was going to break up, but it
will just do for this one more voyage.' 'You will then leave the island
with this boat, with the hole prepared; let a good boat follow you,
conducted by some one of your family. Go to the shore, accost the old
woman and the fair young girl, and take them on board the boat with the
hole in it; then go back towards your island; but, when you are at some
distance from the bank, pretend to stoop for some purpose, open the
hole, and leap into the other boat, whilst the old woman and the fair
young girl--' 'Drink out of the same cup,--that's it,--eh, master?' 'But
are you sure you will not be interrupted? Suppose some customers should
come to your house?' 'There is no fear, master. At this time, and
especially in winter, no one comes, it is our dead time of year; and, if
they come, that would not be troublesome; on the contrary, they are all
good friends.' 'Very well. Besides, you in no way compromise yourselves;
the boat will be supposed to have sunk from old age, and the old woman
who brings the young girl will disappear with her. In order to be quite
assured that they are drowned (by accident, mind! quite by accident),
you can, if they rise to the surface, or if they cling to the boat,
appear to do all in your power to assist them, and--' 'Help them--to
sink again! Good, master!' 'It will be requisite that the passage be
made after sunset, in order that it may be quite dark when they fall
into the water.' 'No, master; for if one does not see clear, how shall
we know if the two women swallow their doses at one gulp, or want a
second?' 'True; and, therefore, the accident will take place before
sunset.' 'All right, master; but the old woman has no suspicion, has
she?' 'Not the slightest. When she arrives, she will whisper to you:
"The young girl is to be drowned; a little while before you sink the
boat, make me a signal, that I may be ready to escape with you." You
will reply to the old woman in such a way as to avoid all suspicion.'
'So that she may suppose the young 'un only is going to swallow the
dose?' 'But which she will drink as well as the fair girl.' 'It's
"downily" arranged, master.' 'But mind the old woman has not the
slightest suspicion.' 'Be easy on that score, master; she will be done
as nicely as possible.' 'Well, then, good luck to you, my lad! If I am
satisfied, perhaps I shall give you another job.' 'At your service,
master.' Then," said the ruffian, in conclusion, "I left the man in the
cloak, and 'prigged the swag' I've just brought in."

We may glean from Nicholas's recital that the notary was desirous, by a
twofold crime, of getting rid at once of Fleur-de-Marie and Madame
Séraphin, by causing the latter to fall into the snare which she
thought was only spread for the Goualeuse. It is hardly necessary to
repeat that, justly alarmed lest the Chouette should inform
Fleur-de-Marie at any moment that she had been abandoned by Madame
Séraphin, Jacques Ferrand believed he had a paramount interest in
getting rid of this young girl, whose claims might mortally injure him
both in his fortune and in his reputation. As to Madame Séraphin, the
notary, by sacrificing her, got rid of one of his accomplices
(Bradamanti was the other), who might ruin him, whilst they ruined
themselves, it is true; but Jacques Ferrand believed that the grave
would keep his secrets better than any personal interests.

The felon's widow and Calabash had listened attentively to Nicholas, who
had not paused except to swallow large quantities of wine, and then he
began to talk with considerable excitement.

"That is not all," he continued. "I have begun another affair with the
Chouette and Barbillon of the Rue aux Fêves. It is a capital job, well
planted; and if it does not miss fire, it will bring plenty of fish to
net, and no mistake. It is to clean out a jewel-matcher, who has
sometimes as much as fifty thousand francs in jewelry in her basket."

"Fifty thousand francs!" cried the mother and daughter, whose eyes
sparkled with cupidity.

"Yes--quite. Bras Rouge is in it with us. He yesterday opened upon the
woman with a letter which we carried to her--Barbillon and I--at her
house, Boulevard St. Denis. He's an out-and-outer, Bras Rouge is! As he
appears--and, I believe, is--well-to-do, nobody mistrusts him. To make
the jewel-matcher bite he has already sold her a diamond worth four
hundred francs. She'll not be afraid to come towards nightfall to his
cabaret in the Champs Elysées. We shall be concealed there. Calabash may
come with us, and take care of my boat along the side of the Seine. If
we are obliged to carry her off, dead or alive, that will be a
convenient conveyance, and one that leaves no traces. There's a plan for
you! That beggar Bras Rouge is nothing but a good 'un!"

"I have always distrusted Bras Rouge," said the widow. "After that
affair of the Rue Montmartre your brother Ambroise was sent to Toulon,
and Bras Rouge was set at liberty."

"Because he's so downy there's no proofs against him. But betray
others?--never!"

The widow shook her head, as if she were only half convinced of Bras
Rouge's probity. After a few moments' reflection she said:

"I like much better that affair of the Quai de Billy for to-morrow or
next day evening,--the drowning the two women. But Martial will be in
the way as usual."

"Will not the devil's thunder ever rid us of him?" exclaimed Nicholas,
half drunk, and striking his long knife savagely on the table.

"I have told mother that we had enough of him, and that we could not go
on in this way," said Calabash. "As long as he is here we can do nothing
with the children."

"I tell you that he is capable of one day denouncing us,--the villain!"
said Nicholas. "You see, mother, if you would have believed me," he
added, with a savage and significant air, "all would have been settled!"

"There are other means--"

"This is the best!" said the ruffian.

"Now? No!" replied the widow, with a tone so decided that Nicholas was
silent, overcome by the influence of his mother, whom he knew to be as
criminal, as wicked, but still more determined than himself.

The widow added, "To-morrow he will quit the island for ever."

"How?" inquired Nicholas and Calabash at the same time.

"When he comes in pick a quarrel with him,--but boldly, mind,--out to
his face, as you have never yet dared to do. Come to blows, if
necessary. He is powerful, but you will be two, for I will help you.
Mind, no steel,--no blood! Let him be beaten, but not wounded."

"And what then, mother?" asked Nicholas.

"We shall then explain afterwards. We will tell him to leave the island
next day; if not, that the scenes of the night before will occur over
and over again. I know him; these perpetual squabbles disgust him; until
now we have let him be too quiet."

"But he is as obstinate as a mule, and is likely enough to insist upon
staying, because of the children," observed Calabash.

"He's a regular hound; but a row don't frighten him," said Nicholas.

"One? No!" said the widow. "But every day--day by day--it is hell in
earth, and he will give way."

"Suppose he don't?"

"Then I have another sure means to make him go away,--this very night or
to-morrow at farthest," replied the widow, with a singular smile.

"Really, mother!"

"Yes, but I prefer rather to annoy him with a row; and, if that don't
do, why, then, it must be the other way."

"And if the other way does not succeed, either, mother?" said Nicholas.

"There is one which always succeeds," replied the widow.

Suddenly the door opened, and Martial entered. It blew so strong without
that they had not heard the barkings of the dogs at the return of the
first-born son of the felon's widow.




CHAPTER V.

THE MOTHER AND SON.


Unaware of the evil designs of his family, Martial entered the kitchen
slowly.

Some few words let fall by La Louve in her conversation with
Fleur-de-Marie have already acquainted the reader with the singular
existence of this man. Endowed with excellent natural instincts,
incapable of an action positively base or wicked, Martial did not,
however, lead a regular life: he poached on the water; but his strength
and his boldness inspired so much fear that the keepers of the river
shut their eyes on this irregularity.

To this illegal occupation Martial joined another that was equally
illicit. A redoubtable champion, he willingly undertook--and more from
excess of courage, from love of the thing, than for gain--to avenge in
pugilistic or single-stick encounters those victims who had been
overcome by too powerful opponents.

We should add that Martial was very particular in the selection of those
causes which he pleaded by strength of fist, and usually took the part
of the weak against the strong.

La Louve's lover was very much like François and Amandine. He was of
middle height, stout, and broad-shouldered; his thick red hair, cropped
short, came in five points over his open brow; his close, harsh, short
beard, his broad, bluff cheeks, his projecting nose, flattened at the
extremity, his blue and bold eyes, gave to his masculine features a
singularly resolute expression.

He was covered with an old glazed hat; and, despite the cold, he had
only a worn-out blouse over his vest, and a pair of velveteen trousers,
which had seen considerable service. He held in his hand a very thick,
knotted stick, which he put down beside him near the dresser.

A large dog, half terrier, half hound, with crooked legs and a black
hide, marked with bright red, came in with Martial, but he remained
close to the door, not daring to approach the fire, nor the guests who
were sitting at table, experience having proved to old Miraut (that was
the name of Martial's poaching companion) that he, as well as his
master, did not possess much of the sympathy of the family.

"Where are the children?" were Martial's first words, as he sat down to
table.

"Where they ought to be," replied Calabash, surlily.

"Where are the children, mother?" said Martial again, without taking the
slightest notice of his sister's reply.

"Gone to bed," replied the widow, in a harsh tone.

"Haven't they had their supper, mother?"

"What's that to you?" exclaimed Nicholas, brutally, after having
swallowed a large glass of wine to increase his courage, for his
brother's disposition and strength had a very strong effect on him.

Martial, as indifferent to the attacks of Nicholas as to those of
Calabash, then said to his mother, "I'm sorry the children are gone to
bed so soon."

"So much the worse," responded the widow.

"Yes, so much the worse; for I like to have them beside me when I am at
supper."

"And we, because they were troublesome and annoyed us, have sent them
off," cried Nicholas; "and if you don't like it, why, you can go after
them."

Martial, astonished, looked steadfastly at his brother. Then, as if
convinced of the futility of a quarrel, he shrugged his shoulders, cut
off a slice of bread and a piece of meat.

The dog had come up towards Nicholas, although keeping at a very
respectful distance; and the ruffian, irritated at the disdain with
which his brother treated him, and hoping to wear out his patience by
ill-using his dog, gave Miraut a savage kick, which made the poor brute
howl fearfully. Martial turned red, clasped in his hand the knife he
held, and struck violently on the table with the handle; but, again
controlling himself, he called the dog to him, saying, quietly, "Here,
Miraut!" The hound came, and crouched at his master's feet.

This composure quite upset Nicholas's plans, who was desirous of pushing
his brother to extremities, in order to produce an explosion. So he
added, "I hate dogs--I do; and I won't have this dog remain here."
Martial's only reply was to pour out a glass of wine, and drink it off
slowly. Exchanging a rapid glance with Nicholas, the widow encouraged
him by a signal to continue his hostilities towards Martial, hoping, as
we have said, that a violent quarrel would arise that would lead to a
rupture and complete separation.

Nicholas, then, taking up the willow stick which the widow had used to
beat François, went up to the dog, and, striking him sharply, said, "Get
out, you brute, Miraut!"

Up to this time Nicholas had often shown himself sulkily offensive
towards Martial, but he had never dared to provoke him with so much
audacity and perseverance. La Louve's lover, thinking they were desirous
of driving him to extremities for some secret motive, quelled every
impulse of temper.

At the cry of the beaten dog, Martial rose, opened the door of the
kitchen, made the dog go out, and then returned, and went on with his
supper. This incredible patience, so little in harmony with Martial's
usual demeanour, puzzled and nonplussed his aggressors, who looked at
each other with amazement. He, affecting to appear wholly unconscious of
what was passing around him, ate away with great appetite, keeping
profound silence.

"Calabash, take the wine away," said the widow to her daughter.

She hastened to comply, when Martial said, "Stay, I haven't done my
supper."

"So much the worse," said the widow, taking the bottle away herself.

"Oh, that's another thing!" answered La Louve's lover. And pouring out a
large glass of water, he drank it, smacking his tongue, and exclaiming,
"Capital water!"

This excessive calmness irritated the burning anger of Nicholas, already
heated by copious libations; but still he hesitated at making a direct
attack, well knowing the vast power of his brother. Suddenly he cried
out, as if delighted at the idea, "Martial, you were quite right to turn
the dog out. It is a good habit to begin to give way, for you have but
to wait a bit, and you will see us kick your sweetheart out just as we
have driven away your dog."

"Oh, yes; for if La Louve is impudent enough to come to the island when
she leaves gaol," added Calabash, who quite understood Nicholas's
motive, "I'll serve her out."

"And I'll give her a dip in the mud by the hovel at the end of the
island," continued Nicholas; "and, if she gets out, I'll give her a few
rattlers over the nob with my wooden shoe, the----"

This insult addressed to La Louve, whom he loved with savage ardour,
triumphed over the pacific resolutions of Martial; he frowned, and the
blood mounted to his cheeks, whilst the veins in his brow swelled and
distended like cords. Still, he had so much control over himself as to
say to Nicholas, in a voice slightly altered by his repressed wrath:

"Take care of yourself! You are trying to pick a quarrel, and you will
find a bone to pick that will be too tough for you."

"A bone for me to pick?"

"Yes; and I'll thrash you more soundly than I did last time."

"What! Nicholas," said Calabash, with a sardonic grin, "did Martial
thrash you? Did you hear that, mother? I'm not astonished that Nicholas
is so afraid of him."

"He walloped me, because, like a coward, he took me off my guard,"
exclaimed Nicholas, turning pale with rage.

"You lie! You attacked me unexpectedly; I knocked you flat, and then
showed you mercy. But if you talk of my mistress,--I say, mind you, of
my mistress,--this time I look it over,--you shall carry my marks for
many a long day."

"And suppose I choose to talk of La Louve?" inquired Calabash.

"Why, I'll pull your ears to put you on your guard; and if you begin
again, why, so will I."

"And suppose I speak of her?" said the widow, slowly.

"You?"

"Yes,--I!"

"You?" said Martial, making a violent effort over himself; "you?"

"You'll beat me, too, I suppose,--won't you?"

"No; but, if you speak to me unkindly of La Louve, I'll give Nicholas a
hiding he shall long remember. So now, mind! It is his affair as well as
yours."

"You?" exclaimed the ruffian, rising, and drawing his dangerous Spanish
knife; "you give me a hiding?"

[Illustration: _The Brigand dashed at his brother._
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.]

"Nicholas, no steel!" cried the widow, quickly, leaving her seat, and
trying to seize her son's arm; but he, drunk with wine and passion,
repulsed his mother savagely, and rushed at his brother.

Martial receded rapidly, laid hold of the thick, knotted stick which he
had put down by the dresser, as he entered, and betook himself to the
defensive.

"Nicholas, no steel!" repeated the widow.

"Let him alone!" cried Calabash, taking up the ravageur's hatchet.

Nicholas, still brandishing his formidable knife, watched for a moment
when he could spring on his brother.

"I tell you," he exclaimed, "you and your trollop, La Louve, that I'll
slash your eyes out; and here goes to begin! Help, mother! Help,
Calabash! Let's make cold meat of the scamp; he's been in our way too
long already!" And, believing the moment favourable for his attack, the
brigand dashed at his brother with his uplifted knife.

Martial, who was a dexterous cudgeller, retreated a pace rapidly,
raising his stick, which, as quick as lightning, cut a figure of eight,
and fell so heavily on the right forearm of Nicholas that he, seized
with a sudden and overpowering pain, dropped his trenchant weapon.

"Villain, you have broken my arm!" he shouted, grasping with his left
hand the right arm, which hung useless by his side.

"No; for I felt my stick rebound!" replied Martial, kicking, as he
spoke, the knife underneath the dresser.

Then, taking advantage of the pain which Nicholas was suffering, he
seized him by the collar, and thrust him violently backwards, until he
had reached the door of the little cellar we have alluded to, which he
opened with one hand, whilst, with the other, he thrust his brother into
it, and locked him in, all stupefied as he was with this sudden attack.

Then, turning round upon the two women, he seized Calabash by the
shoulders, and, in spite of her resistance, her shrieks, and a blow from
the hatchet, which cut his head slightly, he shut her up in the lower
room of the cabaret, which communicated with the kitchen.

Then addressing the widow, who was still stupefied with this
manoeuvre, as skilful as it was sudden, Martial said to her, calmly,
"Now, mother, you and I are alone."

"Yes, we are alone," replied the widow, and her usually immobile
features became excited, her sallow skin grew red, a gloomy fire lighted
up her dull eye, whilst anger and hate gave to her countenance a
terrible expression. "Yes, we two are alone now!" she repeated, in a
menacing voice. "I have waited for this moment; and at length you shall
know all that I have on my mind."

"And I will tell you all I have on my mind."

"If you live to be a hundred years old, I tell you you shall remember
this night."

"I shall remember it, unquestionably. My brother and sister have tried
to murder me, and you have done nothing to prevent them. But come, let
me hear what you have against me?"

"What have I?"

"Yes."

"Since your father's death you have acted nothing but a coward's part."

"I?"

"Yes, a coward's! Instead of remaining with us to support us, you went
off to Rambouillet, to poach in the woods with that man who sells game
whom you knew at Bercy."

"If I had remained here, I should have been at the galleys like
Ambroise, or on the point of going there like Nicholas. I would not be a
robber like the rest, and that is the cause of your hatred."

"And what track are you following now? You steal game, you steal
fish,--thefts without danger,--a coward's thefts!"

"Fish, like game, is no man's property. To-day belongs to one, to-morrow
to another. It is his who can take it. I don't steal. As to being a
coward--"

"Why, you fight--and for money--men who are weaker than yourself."

"Because they have beaten men weaker than themselves."

"A coward's trade,--a coward's trade!"

"Why, there are more honest pursuits, it is true. But it is not for you
to tell me this!"

"Then why did you not take up with those honest trades, instead of
coming here skulking and feeding out of my saucepans?"

"I give you the fish I catch, and what money I have. It isn't much, but
it's enough; and I don't cost you anything. I have tried to be a
locksmith to earn more; but when one has from one's infancy led a
vagabond life on the river and in the woods, it is impossible to confine
oneself to one spot. It is a settled thing, and one's life is decided.
And then," added Martial, with a gloomy air, "I have always preferred
living alone on the water or in the forest. There no one questions me;
whilst elsewhere men twit me about my father, who was (can I deny it?)
guillotined,--of my brother, a galley-slave,--of my sister, a thief!"

"And what do you say of your mother?"

"I say--"

"What?"

"I say she is dead."

"You do right; it is as if I were, for I renounce you, dastard! Your
brother is at the galleys; your grandfather and your father finished
their lives daringly on the scaffold, mocking the priest and the
executioner! Instead of avenging them you tremble!"

"Avenging them?"

"Yes, by showing yourself a real Martial, spitting at the headsman's
knife and the red cassock, and ending like father, mother, brother,
sister--"

Accustomed as he was to the savage excitement of his mother, Martial
could not forbear shuddering. The countenance of the widow as she
uttered the last words was fearful. She continued, with increasing
wrath:

"Oh, coward! and even worse than coward! You wish to be honest! Honest?
Why, won't you ever be despised, repulsed, as the son of an assassin or
the brother of a felon? But you, instead of rousing your revenge and
wrath, this makes you frightened! Instead of biting, you run away! When
they guillotined your father, you left us,--coward! And you knew we
could not leave the island to go into the city, because they call after
us, and pelt us with stones, like mad dogs. Oh, they shall pay for it, I
can tell you,--they shall pay for it!"

"A man?--ten men would not make me afraid! But to be called after by all
the world as the son and brother of criminals! Well, I could not endure
it. I preferred going into the woods and poaching with Pierre, who sells
game."

"Why didn't you remain in the woods?"

"I returned because I got into trouble with a keeper, and besides on the
children's account, because they are of an age to take to evil from
example."

"And what is that to you?"

"To me? Why, I will not allow them to become depraved like Ambroise,
Nicholas, and Calabash."

"Indeed!"

"And if they were left with you, then they would not fail to become so.
I went apprentice to try and gain a livelihood, so that I might take
them into my own care and leave the island with the children; but in
Paris everything was known, and it was always, 'You son of the
guillotined!' or, 'You brother of the felon!' I had battles daily, and I
grew tired of it."

"But you didn't grow tired of being honest,--that answered so well!
Instead of having the pluck to come to us, and do as we do,--as the
children will do, in spite of you,--yes, in spite of you! You think to
cajole them with your preaching! But we are always here. François is
already one of us, or nearly. Let the occasion serve, and he'll be one
of the band."

"I tell you, no!"

"You will see,--yes! I know what I say. He has vice in him; but you
spoil him. As to Amandine, as soon as she is fifteen she will begin on
her own account! Ah, they throw stones at us! Ah, they pursue us like
mad dogs! They shall see what our family is made of! Except you,
dastard; for here you are the only one who brings down shame upon
us!"[5]

  [5] These frightful facts are, unfortunately, not exaggerated.
  The following is from the admirable report of M. de Bretignères
  on the Penitentiary Colony of Mettray (March 12, 1843):

"The civil condition of our colonists it is important to state. Amongst
them we count thirty-two natural children; thirty-four whose fathers and
mothers are re-married; fifty-one whose parents are in prison; 124 whose
parents have not been pursued by justice, but are in the utmost
distress. These figures are eloquent, and full of instruction. They
allow us to go from effects to causes, and give us the hope of arresting
the progress of an evil whose origin is thus arrived at. The number of
parents who are criminals enable us to appreciate the education which
the children have received under the tutelage of such instructors.
Taught evil by their fathers, the sons have become wicked by their
orders, and have believed they were acting properly in following their
example. Arrested by the hand of the law, they resign themselves to
share the destiny of their family in prison, to which they only bring
the emulation of vice; and it is absolutely necessary that a ray of
divine light should still exist within these rude and coarse natures, in
order that all the germs of honesty should not be utterly destroyed."

"That's a pity!"

"And as you may be spoiled amongst us, why, to-morrow you shall leave
this place, and never return to it."

Martial looked at his mother with surprise, then, after a moment's
silence, said, "Was it for this that you tried to get up a quarrel with
me at supper?"

"Yes, to show you what you might expect if you would stay here in spite
of us,--a hell upon earth,--I tell you, a hell! Every day a quarrel and
blows--struggles. And we shall not be alone as we were this, evening;
we shall have friends who will help us. And you will not hold out for a
week."

"Do you think to frighten me?"

"I only tell you what will happen."

"I don't heed it. I shall stay!"

"You will stay?"

"Yes."

"In spite of us?"

"In spite of you, of Calabash, of Nicholas, and all blackguards like
him."

"Really, you make me laugh."

From the lips of this woman, with her repulsive and ferocious look,
these words were horrible.

"I tell you I will remain here until I find the means of gaining my
livelihood elsewhere with the children. Alone, I should not long be
unemployed, for I could return to the woods; but, on their account, I
may be some time in finding what I am seeking for. In the meanwhile,
here I remain."

"Oh, you remain until the moment when you can take away the children?"

"Exactly as you say."

"Take away the children?"

"When I say to them 'Come!' they will come; and quickly too, I promise
you."

The widow shrugged her shoulders, and replied:

"Listen! I told you a short time since that, even if you were to live
for a hundred years, you should recollect this night. I will explain
those words. But, before I do so, have you quite made up your mind?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes! A thousand times over, yes!"

"In a little while, however, you will say 'No! No! No! A thousand times,
no!' Listen to me attentively! Do you know the trade your brother
follows?"

"I have my suspicions; but I do not wish to know."

"You shall know. He steals!"

"So much the worse for him!"

"And for you!"

"For me?"

"He commits robberies at night, with forcible entry,--burglary; a case
of the galleys. We receive what he plunders. If we are discovered, we
shall be sentenced to the same punishment as he is, as receivers, and
you too. They will sweep away the whole family, and the children will be
turned out into the streets, where they will learn the trade of their
father and grandfather as well as here."

"I apprehended as a receiver,--as your accomplice? Where's the proofs?"

"No one knows how you live. You are vagabondising on the water; you have
the reputation of a bad fellow; you dwell with us, and who will believe
that you are ignorant of our thefts and receivings?"

"I will prove the contrary."

"We will accuse you as our accomplice."

"Accuse me! And why?"

"To pay you off for staying amongst us against our will."

"Just now you tried to make me frightened in one way, now you are trying
another tack. But it won't do. I will prove that I never robbed. I
remain."

"Ah! You remain? Listen then, again! Do you remember last year a person
who passed the Christmas night here?"

"Christmas night?" said Martial, trying to recall his memory.

"Try and remember,--try!"

"I do not recollect."

"Don't you recollect that Bras Rouge brought here in the evening a
well-dressed man, who was desirous of concealing himself?"

"Yes, now I remember. I went up to bed and left him taking his supper
with you. He passed the night here, and, before daybreak, Nicholas took
him to St. Ouen."

"You are sure Nicholas took him to St. Ouen?"

"You told me so next morning."

"On Christmas night you were here?"

"Yes; and what of that?"

"Why, that night this man, who had a good deal of money about him, was
murdered in this house."

"Mur--! He! Here?"

"And robbed and buried by the little wood-pile."

"It is not true!" cried Martial, becoming pale with horror, and unable
to believe in this fresh crime of his family. "You mean to frighten me.
Once more, it is not true?"

"Ask François what he saw this morning in the wood-pile."

"François! And what did he see?"

"A man's foot sticking out of the ground. Take a lantern; go and
convince your eyes!"

"No," said Martial, wiping his brow, which had burst forth in a cold
sweat. "No, I do not believe you. You say it to--"

"To prove to you that, if you remain here in spite of us, you risk every
moment being apprehended as an accomplice in robbery and murder. You
were here on Christmas night, and we shall declare that you helped us to
do this job. How will you prove the contrary?"

"Merciless wretch!" said Martial, hiding his face in his hands.

"Now will you go?" said the widow, with a devilish smile.

Martial was overwhelmed. He, unfortunately, could not doubt what his
mother had said to him. The wandering life he led, his dwelling with so
criminal a family, must induce the most horrible suspicions of him, and
these suspicions would be converted into certainty in the eyes of
justice, if his mother, brother, and sister declared him to be their
accomplice. The widow was rejoiced at the depression of her son:

"You have one means of getting out of the difficulty: denounce us!"

"I ought, but I will not; and you know that right well."

"That is why I have told you all this. Now, will you go?"

Martial, wishing to soften this hag, said to her, in a subdued voice:

"Mother, I do not believe you are capable of this murder!"

"As you please; but go!"

"I will go on one condition."

"No condition at all!"

"You shall put the children apprentices somewhere in the country."

"They shall remain here!"

"But, mother, when you have made them like Nicholas, Calabash, Ambroise,
my father,--what good will that be to you?"

"To make good 'jobs' by their assistance. We are not too many now.
Calabash will remain here with me to keep the cabaret. Nicholas is
alone. Once properly instructed, François and Amandine will help him.
They have already been pelted with stones,--young as they are,--and they
must revenge themselves!"

"Mother, you love Calabash and Nicholas, don't you?"

"Well, if I do, what then?"

"Suppose the children imitate them, and their crimes are detected?"

"Well, what then?"

"They will come to the scaffold, like my father."

"What then? What then?"

"And does not their probable fate make you tremble?"

"That fate will be mine, neither better nor worse. I rob, they rob; I
kill, they kill. Whoever takes the mother will take the young ones; we
will not leave each other. If our heads fall, theirs will fall in the
same basket, and we shall all take leave at once! We will not retreat!
You are the only coward in the family, and we drive you from us!"

"But the children,--the children!"

"The children will grow up, and, but for you, they would have been quite
formed already. François is almost ready, and, when you are gone,
Amandine will make up for lost time."

"Mother, I entreat of you, consent to having the children sent away from
here, and put in apprenticeship at a distance."

"I tell you that they are in apprenticeship here!"

The felon's widow uttered these last words so immovably that Martial
lost all hope of mollifying this soul of bronze.

"Since it is so," he replied, "hear me in my turn, mother,--I remain!"

"Ha! ha!"

"Not in this house. I shall be assassinated by Nicholas, or poisoned by
Calabash. But, as I have no means of lodging elsewhere, I and the
children will occupy the hovel at the end of the island; the door of
that is strong, and I will make it still more secure. Once there, I will
barricade myself, and, with my gun, my stick, and my dog, I am afraid of
no one. To-morrow morning I will take the children with me. During the
day they will be with me, either in my boat or elsewhere; and, at night,
they shall sleep near me in the hovel. We can live on the fish I catch
until I find some means of placing them, and find it I will."

"Oh! That's it, is it?"

"Neither you, nor my brother, nor Calabash can prevent this, can you? If
your robberies and murders are discovered during my abode on the island,
so much the worse; but I'll chance it. I will declare that I came back
and remained here in consequence of the children, to prevent them from
becoming infamous. They will decide. The children shall not remain
another day in this abode; and I defy you and your gang to drive me from
this island!"

The widow knew Martial's resolution, and the children, who loved their
eldest brother as much as they feared her, would certainly follow him
unhesitatingly whenever and wherever he called them. As to himself, well
armed and most determined, always on his guard, in his boat during the
day, and secure and barricaded in the hovel on the island at night, he
had nothing to fear from the malevolence of his family.

Martial's project, then, might be realised in every particular; but the
widow had many reasons for preventing its execution. In the first place,
as honest work-people sometimes consider the number of their children as
wealth, in consequence of the services which they derive from them, the
widow relied on Amandine and François to assist her in her atrocities.
Then, what she had said of her desire to avenge her husband and son was
true. Certain beings, nurtured, matured, hardened in crime, enter into
open revolt, into war of extermination, against society, and believe
that, lay fresh crimes, they shall avenge themselves for the just
penalties which have been exacted from them and those belonging to them.
Then, too, the sinister designs of Nicholas against Fleur-de-Marie, and
afterwards against the jewel-matcher, might be thwarted by Martial's
presence.

The widow had hoped to effect an immediate separation between herself
and Martial, either by keeping up and aiding Nicholas's quarrel, or by
disclosing to him that, if he obstinately persisted in remaining in the
island, he ran the risk of being suspected as an accomplice in many
crimes.

As cunning as she was penetrating, the widow, perceiving that she had
failed, saw that she must have recourse to treachery to entrap her son
in her bloody snare, and she therefore replied, after a lengthened
pause, with assumed bitterness:

"I see your plan. You will not inform against us yourself, but you will
contrive that the children shall do so."

"I?"

"They know now that there is a man buried here; they know that Nicholas
has robbed. Once apprenticed they would talk, we should be apprehended,
and we should all suffer,--you with us. That is what would happen if I
listened to you, and allowed you to place the children elsewhere. Yet
you say you do not wish us any harm? I do not ask you to love me; but do
not hasten the hour of our apprehension!"

The milder tone of the widow made Martial believe that his threats had
produced a salutary effect on her, and he fell into the fearful snare.

"I know the children," he replied; "and I am sure that, in desiring them
to say nothing, not a word will they say. Besides, in one way or
another, I shall be always with them, and I will answer for their
silence."

"Can we answer for the chatter of children, especially in Paris, where
people are so curious and so gossiping? It is as much that they should
not betray us, as that they should assist us in our plans, that I desire
to keep them here."

"Don't they go sometimes to the villages, and even to Paris? Who could
prevent them from talking if they were inclined to talk? If they were a
long way off, why, so much the better; for what they would then say
would do us no harm."

"A long way off,--and where?" inquired the widow, looking steadfastly at
her son.

"Let me take them away,--where is no consequence to you."

"How will you and they live?"

"My old master, the locksmith, is a worthy man, and I will tell him as
much as he need know, and, perhaps, he will lend me something for the
sake of the children; with that I will go and apprentice them a long way
off. We will leave in two days, and you will hear no more of us."

"No, no! I prefer their remaining with me. I shall then be perfectly
sure of them."

"Then I will take up my quarters in the hovel on the island until
something turns up. I have a way and a will of my own, and you know it."

"Yes, I know it. Oh, how I wish you were a thousand miles away! Why
didn't you remain in your woods?"

"I offer to rid you of myself and the children."

"What! Would you leave La Louve here, whom you love so much?" asked the
widow, suddenly.

"That's my affair. I know what I shall do. I have my plans."

"If I let you take away Amandine and François, will you never again set
foot in Paris?"

"Before three days have passed, we shall have departed, and be as dead
to you."

"I prefer that to having you here, and always distrusting you and them.
So, since I must give way, take them, and be off as quickly as possible,
and never let me see you more!"

"Agreed!"

"Agreed! Give me the key of the cellar, that I may let Nicholas out!"

"No; let him sleep his liquor off, and I'll give you the key to-morrow
morning."

"And Calabash?"

"Ah, that's another affair! Let her out when I have gone. I can't bear
the sight of her."

"Go, and may hell confound you!"

"That's your farewell, mother?"

"Yes."

"Fortunately your last!" said Martial.

"My last!" responded the widow.

Her son lighted a candle, then opened the kitchen door, whistled to his
dog, who ran in, quite delighted at being admitted, and followed his
master to the upper story of the house.

"Go,--your business is settled!" muttered the widow, shaking her
clenched hand at her son, as he went up the stairs; "but it is your own
act."

Then, by Calabash's assistance, who brought her a bundle of false keys,
the widow unlocked the cellar door where Nicholas was, and set him at
liberty.




CHAPTER VI.

FRANÇOIS AND AMANDINE.


François and Amandine slept in a room immediately over the kitchen, and
at the end of a passage which communicated with several other apartments
that were used as "company rooms" for the guests who frequented the
cabaret. After having eaten their frugal supper, instead of putting out
their lantern, as the widow had ordered them, the two children watched,
leaving their door ajar, for their brother Martial's passing on his way
to his own chamber.

Placed on a crippled stool, the lantern shed its dull beams through the
transparent horn. Walls of plaster, with here and there brown deal
boards, a flock-bed for François, a little old child's bed, much too
short, for Amandine, a pile of broken chairs and dismembered benches,
mementoes of the turbulent visitors to the cabaret of the Isle du
Ravageur,--such was the interior of this dog-hole.

Amandine, seated at the edge of the bed, was trying how to dress her
head _en marmotte_, with the stolen silk handkerchief, the gift of her
brother Nicholas. François was on his knees, holding up a piece of
broken glass to his sister, who, with her head half turned, was employed
in spreading out the large rosette which she had made in tying the two
ends of the kerchief together. Wonder-struck at this head-dress,
François for an instant neglected to present the bit of glass in such a
way that her face could be reflected in it.

"Lift the looking-glass higher," said Amandine; "I can't see myself at
all now! There, that's it,--that'll do! Hold it so a minute! Now I've
done it! Well, look! How have I done my head?"

"Oh, capitally,--excellently! What a handsome rosette! You'll make me
just such a one for my cravat, won't you?"

"Yes, directly. But let me walk up and down a little. You can go before
me--backwards--holding the glass up, just in that way. There--so! I can
then see myself as I walk."

François then went through this difficult manoeuvre to the great
satisfaction of Amandine, who strutted up and down in all her pride and
dignity, under the large bow of her head attire.

Very simple and unsophisticated under any other circumstances, this
coquetry became guilt when displayed in reference to the produce of a
robbery of which François and Amandine were not ignorant. Another proof
of the frightful facility with which children, however well disposed,
become corrupted almost imperceptibly when they are continually immersed
in a criminal atmosphere.

Then, the sole mentor of these unfortunate children, their brother
Martial, was by no means irreproachable himself, as we have already
said. Incapable, it is true, of a theft or a murder, still he led a
vagabond and ill-regulated life. Undoubtedly his mind revolted at the
crimes of his family. He loved these two children very fondly, and
protected them from ill-treatment, endeavouring to withdraw them from
the pernicious influences of the family; but not taking his stand on the
foundations of rigorous and sound morality, his advice was but an
ineffective safeguard to these children. They refused to commit certain
bad actions, not from honest sentiments, but in order to obey Martial,
whom they loved, and to disobey their mother, whom they dreaded and
hated.

As to ideas of right and wrong, they had none, familiarised as they were
with the infamous examples which they had every day under their eyes;
for, as we have said, this country cabaret, haunted by the refuse of the
lowest order, was the theatre of most disgraceful orgies and most
disgusting debaucheries; and Martial, opposed as he was to thefts and
murders, appeared perfectly indifferent to these infamous saturnalia.

It may be supposed, therefore, that the instincts of morality in these
children were doubtful and precarious, especially those of François, who
had reached that dangerous time of life when the mind pauses, and,
oscillating between good and evil, might be in a moment lost or saved.

       *       *       *       *       *

"How well you look in that handkerchief, sister!" said François; "it is
very pretty. When we go to play on the shore by the chalk-burner's
lime-kiln you must dress yourself in this manner, to make the children
jealous who pelt us with stones and call us little guillotines. And I
shall put on my nice red cravat, and we will say to them, 'Never mind,
you haven't such pretty silk handkerchiefs as we have!'"

"But, I say, François," said Amandine, after a moment's reflection, "if
they knew that the handkerchiefs we wear were stolen, they would call us
little thieves."

"Well, and what should we care if they did call us little thieves?"

"Why, not at all, if it were not true. But now--"

"Since Nicholas gave us these handkerchiefs, we didn't steal them!"

"No; but he took them out of a barge; and Brother Martial says no one
ought to steal."

"But, as Nicholas states, that is no affair of ours."

"Do you think so, François?"

"Of course I do."

"Still, it seems to me that I would rather the person who really owns
them had given them to us. What do you say, François?"

"Oh, it's all one to me! They were given to us, and so they're ours."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Why, yes--yes; make yourself easy about that."

"So much the better, then, for we are not doing what Brother Martial
forbids, and we have such nice handkerchiefs!"

"But, Amandine, if he had known the other day that Calabash had made you
take the plaid handkerchief from the peddler's pack whilst his back was
turned?"

"Oh, François, don't talk about it; I have been so very sorry. But I was
really forced to do it, for my sister pinched me until the blood came,
and looked at me so--oh, in such a way! And yet my heart failed me
twice, and I thought I never could do it. The peddler didn't find it
out; yet, if they had caught me, François, I should have been sent to
prison."

"But you weren't caught; so it's just the same as if you had not
stolen."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes."

"And in prison how unhappy we must be."

"On the contrary--"

"How do you mean on the contrary?"

"Why, you know the fat cripple who lodges at Father Micou's, the man who
buys all Nicholas's things, and keeps a lodging-house in the Passage de
la Brasserie?"

"A fat cripple?"

"Why, yes, who came here the end of last autumn from Father Micou, with
a man who had monkeys and two women."

"Ah, yes, a stout, lame man, who spent such a deal of money."

"I believe you; he paid for everybody. Don't you recollect the rows on
the water when I pulled them, and the man with the monkeys brought his
organ, that they might have music in the boat?"

"Yes; and in the evening the beautiful fireworks they let off,
François?"

"And the fat cripple was not stingy, either. He gave me ten sous for
myself. He drank nothing but our best wine, and they had chickens at
every meal. He spent full eighty francs."

"So much as that, François?"

"Oh, yes!"

"How rich he must be!"

"Not at all. What he spent was money he had gained in prison, from which
he had just come."

"Gained all that money in prison?"

"Yes; he said he had seven hundred francs beside, and that, when that
was all gone, he should try another good 'job;' and if he were taken, he
didn't care, because he should go back to his jolly 'pals in the Stone
Jug,' as he said."

"Then he wasn't afraid of prison, François?"

"On the contrary; he told Calabash that they were a party of friends and
merrymakers all together; and that he had never had a better bed and
better food than when he was in prison. Good meat four times a week,
fire all the winter, and a lump of money when he left it; whilst there
are fools of honest workmen who are starving with cold and hunger, for
want of work."

"Are you sure he said that, François,--the stout lame man?"

"I heard him, for I was rowing him in the punt whilst he told his story
to Calabash and the two women, who said that it was the same thing in
the female prisons they had just left."

"But then, François, it can't be so bad to steal, if people are so well
off in prison."

"Oh, the deuce! I don't know. Here it is only Brother Martial who says
it is wrong to steal; perhaps he is wrong."

"Never mind if he is, François. We ought to believe him, for he loves us
so much!"

"Yes, he loves us; and, when he is by, there is no fear of our being
beaten. If he had been here this evening, our mother would not have
thrashed me so. An old beast! How savage she is! Oh, how I hate
her--hate her! And how I wish I was grown up, that I might pay her back
the thumps she gives us, especially to you, who can't bear them as well
as I can."

"Oh, François, hold your tongue; it quite frightens me to hear you say
that you would beat mother!" cried the poor little child, weeping, and
throwing her arms around her brother's neck, and kissing him
affectionately.

"It's quite true, though," answered François, extricating himself gently
from Amandine. "Why are my mother and Calabash always so savage to us?"

"I do not know," replied Amandine, wiping her eyes with the back of her
hand. "It is, perhaps, because they sent Brother Ambroise to the
galleys, and guillotined our father, that they are unjust towards us."

"Is that our fault?"

"Oh, no! But what would you have?"

"_Ma foi!_ If I am always to have beatings,--always, always, at last I
should rather steal, as they do, I should. What do I gain by not being a
thief?"

"Ah, what would Martial say to that?"

"Ah, but for him, I should have said yes a long time ago, for I am tired
of being thumped for ever; why, this evening, my mother was more savage
than ever; she was like a fury! It was pitch dark. She didn't say a
word; and I felt nothing but her clammy hand holding me by the scruff of
my neck, whilst with the other she beat me; and whilst she did so, her
eyes seemed to glare in the dark."

"Poor François! for only having said you saw a dead man's bone by the
wood-pile."

"Yes, a foot that was sticking out of the ground," said François,
shuddering with fright; "I am quite sure of it."

"Perhaps there was a burying-ground there once."

"Perhaps; but then, why did mother say she'd be the death of me, if I
said a word about the bone to our Brother Martial? I rather think it is
some one who has been killed in a quarrel, and that they have buried him
there, that no one might know anything about it."

"You are right; for don't you remember that such a thing did nearly
happen once?"

"When?"

"Don't you remember once when M. Barbillon wounded with a knife that
tall man, who is so very thin, that he showed himself for money?"

"Oh, the walking skeleton, as they call him? Yes; and mother came and
separated them; if she hadn't, I think Barbillon would have killed the
tall, thin man. Did you see how Barbillon foamed at the mouth? and his
eyes seemed ready to start from his head. Oh, he does not mind who he
cuts and slashes with his knife,--he's such a headstrong, passionate
fellow!"

"So young and so wicked, François?"

"Tortillard is much younger, and he would be quite as wicked as he, if
he were strong enough."

"Oh, yes, he's very, very wicked! The other day he beat me, because I
would not play with him."

"He beat you, did he? Then, the first time he comes--"

"No, no, François; it was only in jest."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, quite sure."

"Very well, then, for, if not--But I don't know how he manages, the
scamp! But he always has so much money. He's so lucky! When he came
here with the Chouette, he showed us pieces of gold of twenty francs;
and didn't he look knowing as he said, 'Oh, you might have the same, if
you were not such little muffs!'"

"Muffs?"

"Yes; in slang that means fools, simpletons."

"Yes, to be sure."

"Forty francs in gold! What a many fine things I could buy with that!
Couldn't you, Amandine?"

"That I could."

"What should you buy?"

"Let's see," said the little girl, bending her head, and meditating. "I
should first buy Brother Martial a good thick outside coat, that would
keep him warm in his boat."

"But for yourself,--for yourself."

"I should like a crucifixion, like those image-sellers had on Sunday,
you know, under the church porch at Asnières."

"Yes; and, now I think of it, we must not tell mother or Calabash that
we went into a church."

"To be sure, for she has always forbidden us to go into a church. What a
pity! For church is such a nice place inside, isn't it, François?"

"Yes; and what beautiful silver candlesticks!"

"And the picture of the holy Virgin, how kind she looks!"

"And did you look at the fine lamps, and the handsome cloth on the large
table at the bottom, when the priest was saying mass with his two
friends, dressed like himself, and who gave him water and wine?"

"Tell me, François, do you remember last year, at the Fête-Dieu, when we
saw from here the little communicants, with their white veils, pass over
the bridge?"

"What nice nosegays they had!"

"How they sang in a soft tone, holding the ribands of their banners!"

"And how the silver lace of their banners shone in the sunshine! What a
deal of money it must have cost!"

"Oh, how beautiful it was! Wasn't it, François?"

"I believe you! And the communicants with their bows of white satin on
the arm, and their wax candles, with red velvet and gold on the part by
which they hold them."

"And the little boys had their banners, too, hadn't they, François? Ah,
François, how I was thumped that day for asking our mother why we did
not go in the procession, like the other children!"

"And it was then she forbade us from ever going into a church when we
should go into the town, or to Paris; 'Unless it was to rob the
poor-box, or the pockets of the people who were hearing mass,' Calabash
said, grinning, and showing her nasty yellow teeth. Oh, what a bad thing
she is!"

"Oh, and as for that, they should kill me before I would rob in a
church; and you, too, François?"

"There, or anywhere; what difference does it make, when once one has
made up one's mind?"

"Why, I don't know; but I should be so frightened, I could never do it."

"Because of the priests?"

"No; but because of the portrait of the holy Virgin, who seems so kind
and good."

"What consequence is a portrait? It won't eat or drink, you silly
child!"

"That's very true; but then I really couldn't. It is not my fault."

"Talking of priests, Amandine, do you remember that day when Nicholas
gave me two such hard boxes on the ear, because he saw me make a bow to
the curate, who passed on the bank? I had seen everybody salute him, and
so I saluted him; I didn't think I was doing any wrong."

"Yes; but then, you know, Brother Martial said, as Nicholas did, that
there was no occasion to salute the priests."

At this moment François and Amandine heard footsteps in the passage.
Martial was going to his chamber, without any mistrust, after his
conversation with his mother, believing that Nicholas was safely locked
up until the next morning. Seeing a ray of light coming from out the
closet in which the children slept, Martial came into the room. They
both ran to him, and he embraced them affectionately.

"What! Not in bed yet, little gossips?"

"No, brother, we waited until you came, that we might see you, and wish
you good night," said Amandine.

"And then we heard you speaking very loud below, as if there were a
quarrel," added François.

"Yes," said Martial, "I had some dispute with Nicholas, but it was
nothing. Besides, I am glad to see you awake, as I have some good news
for you."

"For us, brother?"

"Should you like to go away from here, and come with me a long way off?"

"Oh, yes, brother!"

"Yes, brother!"

"Well, then, in two or three days we shall all three leave the island."

"Oh, how delightful!" exclaimed Amandine, clapping her hands with joy.

"And where shall we go to?" inquired François.

"You will see, Mr. Inquisitive; no matter; but where you will learn a
good trade, which will enable you to earn your living, be sure of that."

"Then I sha'n't go fishing with you any more, brother?"

"No, my boy, you will be put apprentice to a carpenter or locksmith. You
are strong and handy, and with a good heart; and working hard, at the
end of a year you may already have earned something. But you don't seem
to like it: why, what ails you now?"

"Why, brother,--I--"

"Come, come! Speak out."

"Why, I'd rather not leave you, but stay with you, and fish, and mend
your nets, than go and learn a trade."

"Really?"

"Why, to be shut up in a workshop all day is so very dull; and then it
must be so tiresome to be an apprentice."

Martial shrugged his shoulders.

"So, then, you would rather be an idler, a scamp, a vagabond,--eh?" said
he, in a stern voice; "and then, perhaps, a thief?"

"No, brother; but I should like to live with you elsewhere, as we live
here, that's all."

"Yes, that's it; eat, drink, sleep, and amuse yourself with fishing,
like an independent gentleman,--eh?"

"Yes, I should like it."

"Very likely; but you must prefer something else. You see, my poor dear
lad, that it is quite time I took you away from here; for, without
perceiving it, you have become as idle as the rest. My mother was
right,--I fear you have vice in you. And you, Amandine, shouldn't you
like to learn some business?"

"Oh, yes, brother; I should like very much to learn anything rather than
stay here. I should dearly like to go with you and François."

"But what have you got on your head, my child?" inquired Martial,
observing Amandine's very fine head-dress.

"A handkerchief that Nicholas gave me."

"And he gave me one, too," said François, with an air of pride.

"And where did these handkerchiefs come from? I should be very much
surprised to learn that Nicholas bought them to make you a present of."

The two children lowered their eyes, and made no reply. After a second,
François said, with a resolute air, "Nicholas gave them to us. We do not
know where they came from, do we, Amandine?"

"No, no, brother," replied Amandine, stammering, and turning very red,
not daring to look Martial in the face.

"Don't tell lies," said Martial, harshly.

"We don't tell lies," replied François, doggedly.

"Amandine, my child, tell the truth," said Martial, mildly.

"Well, then, to tell the whole truth," replied Amandine, timidly, "these
fine handkerchiefs came out of a box of things that Nicholas brought in
this evening in his boat."

"And which he had stolen?"

"I think so, brother,--out of a barge."

"So then, François, you lie?" said Martial.

The boy bent down his head, but made no reply.

"Give me this handkerchief, Amandine; and yours, too, François."

The little girl took off her head-dress, gave a last look at the large
bow, which was not untied, and gave the handkerchief to Martial,
repressing a sigh of regret. François drew his slowly out of his pocket,
and then gave it to his brother, as his sister had done.

"To-morrow morning," he said, "I will return these handkerchiefs to
Nicholas. You ought not to have taken them, children. To profit by a
robbery is as if one robbed oneself."

"It is a pity those handkerchiefs were so pretty!" said François.

"When you have learned a trade, and earn money by your work, you will
buy some as good. Go to bed, my dears,--it is very late."

"You are not angry, brother?" said Amandine, timidly.

"No, no, my love, it is not your fault. You live with ill-disposed
persons, and you do as they do unconsciously. When you are with honest
persons, you will do as they do; and you'll soon be with such, or the
devil's in it. So now, good night!"

"Good night, brother!"

Martial kissed the children. They were now alone.

"What's the matter with you, François,--you seem very sorrowful!" said
Amandine.

"Why, brother has taken my nice handkerchief; and besides, didn't you
hear what he said?"

"What?"

"He means to take us with him, and put us apprentice."

"And ain't you glad?"

"_Ma foi_, no!"

"Would you rather stay here and be beaten every day?"

"Why, if I am beaten I am not made to work. I am all day in the boat,
fishing, or playing, or waiting on the customers, who sometimes give me
something, as the stout lame man did. It is much more amusing than to be
from morning till night shut up in a workshop working like a dog."

"But didn't you understand? Why, brother said that if we remained here
longer we should become evil-disposed."

"Ah! bah! That's all one to me, since the other children call us already
little thieves,--little guillotines! And then to work is too tiresome!"

"But here they are always beating us, brother!"

"They beat us because we listen to Martial more than to any one else."

"Oh, he is so kind to us!"

"Yes, he is kind,--very kind,--I don't say he ain't; and I am very fond
of him. No one dares to be unkind to us when he is by. He takes us out
with him,--that's true; but that's all; he never gives us anything."

"Why, he has nothing. What he gains he gives our mother to pay for his
eating, drinking, and lodging."

"Nicholas has something. You may be sure if we attend to what he and
mother say, they would not make our lives so uncomfortable, but give us
pretty things, as they did to-day. They would not distrust us, and we
should have money like Tortillard."

"But we must steal for that; and how that would grieve dear, good
Martial!"

"Well, so much the worse!"

"Oh, François! And then we should be taken up and put into prison."

"To be in a prison or shut up in a workshop all day is the same thing.
Besides, the Gros-Boiteux says they amuse themselves very much in
prison."

"But how sorry Martial would be; only think of that! And then it is on
our account that he returned here, and remains with us! For himself only
he would not have any difficulty, but could go again and be a poacher in
the woods which he is so very fond of."

"Oh, if he'll take us with him into the woods," said François, "that
would be better than anything else. I should be with him I am so fond
of, and should not work at any business that would tire me."

The conversation of François and Amandine was interrupted. Some one
outside double-locked their door.

"They have fastened us in," said François.

"Oh, what can it be for, brother? What are they going to do to us?"

"It is Martial, perhaps."

"Listen, listen,--how his dog barks!" said Amandine, listening.

After a few minutes, François added:

"It sounds as if some one were knocking at his door with a hammer.
Perhaps they want to force it open!"

"Yes; but how the dog barks still!"

"Listen, François! It is as if they were nailing something. Oh, dear,
oh, dear, how frightened I am! What are they doing to our brother? And
how the dog howls still!"

"Amandine, I hear nothing now," said François, going towards the door.

The two children held their breath, and listened anxiously.

"They are coming from my brother's room," said François, in a low voice;
"I hear them walking in the passage."

"Let us throw ourselves on our beds; mother would kill us if she found
us out of bed," said Amandine, terrified.

"No," said François, still listening; "they have just passed by our
door, and are running down the staircase."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear, what can it be?"

"Ah, now they are opening the kitchen door."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, yes; I know the sound."

"Martial's dog is still howling," said Amandine, listening. Suddenly she
exclaimed, "François, our brother calls us."

"Martial?"

"Yes; don't you hear him? Don't you hear him now?"

And at this moment, in spite of the thickness of the two closed doors,
the powerful voice of Martial, who called to the children from his room,
reached them.

"Indeed, we can't go to him; we are locked in," said Amandine. "They
must be doing something wrong to him, as he calls us."

"Oh, as to that, if I could hinder them," exclaimed François,
resolutely, "I would, even if they were to cut me to pieces!"

"But our brother does not know that they have double-locked our door,
and he will believe that we would not go to his help. Call out to him
that we are locked in, François."

The lad was just going to do as his sister bade him, when a violent blow
was struck outside the shutter of the window of the room in which the
two children were.

"They are coming in by the window to kill us!" cried Amandine, and, in
her fright, she threw herself on her bed and hid her head between her
hands.

François remained motionless, although he shared his sister's terror.
However, after the violent blow we have mentioned, the shutter was not
opened, and the most profound silence reigned throughout the house.
Martial had ceased calling to the children.

A little assured, and excited by intense curiosity, François ventured to
open the window a little way, and tried to look out through the leaves
of the blind.

"Mind, brother!" said Amandine, in a low voice, and sitting up when she
heard François open the shutter.

"Can you see anything?" she added.

"No, the night is too dark."

"Don't you hear anything?"

"No, the wind is too high."

"Come in, then; come in."

"Oh, now I see something!"

"What?"

"The light of a lantern, which moves backwards and forwards."

"Who's carrying it?"

"I can only see the light. Ah, she comes nearer,--she is speaking!"

"Who?"

"Listen,--listen! It is Calabash."

"What does she say?"

"She says the ladder must be fixed securely."

"Oh, it was then in taking away the high ladder that was placed against
our shutter that they made that noise just now."

"I don't hear anything now."

"What have they done with the ladder?"

"I can't see it now."

"Can you hear anything?"

"No."

"François, perhaps they are going to use it to enter our Brother
Martial's room by the window!"

"Very likely."

"If you could open our window a little more you might see."

"I am afraid."

"Only a little bit."

"Oh, no, no! If mother saw us!"

"It is so dark, there is no danger."

François, much against his will, did as his sister requested, and
pushing the shutter back, looked out.

"Well, brother?" said Amandine, surmounting her fears, and approaching
François on tiptoe.

"By the gleam of the lantern," said he, "I see Calabash, who is holding
the foot of the ladder, which is resting against Martial's window."

"Well?"

"Nicholas is going up the ladder with his axe in his hand. I see it
glitter."

"Ah, you are not in bed, then, but watching us!" exclaimed the widow,
addressing François and his sister from outside. As she was returning to
the kitchen she saw the light, which escaped through the open window.

The unfortunate children had neglected putting out the lantern.

"I am coming," added the widow, in a terrible voice; "I am coming to
you, you little spies!"

Such were the events which passed in the Isle du Ravageur on the evening
of the day before that on which Madame Séraphin was to take
Fleur-de-Marie thither.




CHAPTER VII.

A LODGING-HOUSE.


The Passage de la Brasserie, a dark street, narrow, and but little
known, although situated in the centre of Paris, runs at one end into
the Rue Traversière St. Honoré, and at the other into the Cour St.
Guillaume.

Towards the middle of this damp thoroughfare, muddy, dark, and
unwholesome, and where the sun but rarely penetrates, there was a
furnished house (commonly called a _garni_, lodging-house, in
consequence of the low price of the apartments). On a miserable piece of
paper might be read, "Chambers and small rooms furnished." To the right
hand, in a dark alley, was the door of a store, not less obscure, in
which constantly resided the principal tenant of this _garni_.

Father Micou was ostensibly a dealer in old metal ("marine stores"), but
secretly purchased and received stolen metal, iron, lead, brass, and
tin. When we mention that Father Micou was connected in business and
friendship with the Martial family, we give a tolerable idea of his
morality. The tie that binds--the sort of affiliation, the mysterious
communion, which connects--the malefactors of Paris, is at once curious
and fearful. The common prisons are the great centres whence flow, and
to which reflow, incessantly those waves of corruption which gradually
gain on the capital, and leave there such pernicious waifs and strays.

Father Micou was a stout man, about fifty years of age, with a mean and
cunning countenance, a mulberry nose, and wine-flushed cheeks. He wore
a fur cap and an old green long-skirted coat. Over his small stove, near
which he was standing, there was a board fastened to the wall, and
bearing a row of figures, to which were affixed the keys of the chambers
of the absent lodgers. The panes of glass in the door which opened on to
the street were so painted that from the outside no one could see what
was going on within.

The whole of this extensive store was very dark. From the damp walls
there hung rusty chains of all sizes; and the floor was strewed with
iron and other metals. Three blows struck at the door in a particular
way attracted the attention of the landlord, huckster, receiver.

"Come in!" he cried.

It was Nicholas, the son of the felon's widow. He was very pale, his
features looked even more evil than they did on the previous evening,
and yet he feigned a kind of overgaiety during the following
conversation. (This scene takes place on the day after his quarrel with.
Martial.)

"Ah, is it you, my fine fellow?" said Micou, cordially.

"Yes, Father Micou, I have come to see you on a trifle of business."

"Then shut the door,--shut the door."

"My dog and cart are there outside with the stuff."

"What do you bring me, double tripe (sheet lead)?"

"No, Father Micou."

"What is it, scrapings? but no, you're too downy now, you've left off
work. Perhaps it is a bit of hard (iron)?"

"No, Daddy Micou, it's some flap (sheet copper). There must be, at
least, a hundred and fifty pounds weight, as much as my dog could
stagger along with."

"Go and fetch the flap, and let's weigh it."

"You must lend a hand, daddy, for I've hurt my arm."

And, at the recollection of his contest with his brother Martial, the
ruffian's features expressed, at once, the resentment of hatred and
savage joy, as if his vengeance were already satisfied.

"What's the matter with your arm, my man?"

"Nothing,--only a sprain."

"You must heat an iron in the fire, and plunge it red-hot into the
water, then put your arm in the water as hot as you can bear it. It is
an iron-dealer's remedy, but none the worse for that."

"Thank ye, Father Micou."

"Go and fetch the flap, and I'll come and help you, idle-bones."

At twice the copper was brought out of the cart, drawn by an enormous
dog, and conveyed into the shop.

"That cart of yours is a good idea," said the worthy Micou, as he
adjusted the wooden frames of an enormous pair of scales that hung from
a beam in the ceiling.

"Yes; when I've anything to bring, I put my dog and cart into the punt,
and harness them as we come along. A hackney-coach might, perhaps, tell
a tale, but my dog never chatters."

"And they're all pretty well at home,--eh?" inquired the receiver,
weighing the copper; "mother and sister, both pretty bobbish?"

"Yes, Father Micou."

"And the little uns?"

"Yes, the little uns, too. And your nephew, André, where is he?"

"Don't mention him; he was out on a spree yesterday. Barbillon and
Gros-Boiteux brought him back this morning. He is out for a walk now
towards the General Post-office in the Rue St. Jacques Rousseau. And
your brother, Martial, is he just such a rum un as ever?"

"_Ma foi!_ I don't know."

"Don't know?"

"No," replied Nicholas, assuming an indifferent air; "we have seen
nothing of him for the last two days. Perhaps he's gone poaching in the
woods again; unless his boat, which was very, very old, has sunk in the
river, with him in it."

"At which you would not be dreadfully affected, you bad lot, for you
can't bear your brother, I know."

"True; we have strange likes and dislikes. How many pounds of metal d'ye
make?"

"You're right to a hair, just a hundred and fifty pounds, my lad."

"And you owe me--"

"Just thirty francs."

"Thirty francs! when copper is twenty sous a pound? Thirty francs!"

"Say thirty-five francs, and there's an end of the matter, or go to the
devil with you! you, and your copper, and your dog, and your cart."

"But, Father Micou, you are really chiselling me down; that's not the
right thing by no means."

"If you'll tell me how you came by your copper, I'll give you fifteen
sous a pound for it."

"That's the old strain. You are all alike, a regular lot of cheats. How
can you bear to 'do' your friends in this way? But that's not all; if I
swap with you for some things, you ought to give me good measure."

"To a hair's turn. What do you want? Chains and hooks for your punts?"

"No, I want four or five sheets of stout iron, as if to line shutters
with."

"I've just the thing, a quarter of an inch thick; a pistol-ball wouldn't
go through it."

"Just what I want."

"What size?"

"Why, altogether about seven or eight feet square."

"Good, and what else?"

"Three bars of iron, from three to four feet long, and two inches
square."

"I have just broken up an iron wicket; nothing can be better for you.
What next?"

"Two strong hinges and a latch, so that I can open or shut an opening
two feet square when I wish."

"A trap, you mean?"

"No, a valve."

"I don't understand what you can want with a valve."

"Never you mind; I know what I want."

"That's all right; you have only to choose; there's a heap of hinges.
What's the next thing?"

"That's all."

"And not much, either."

"Get it all ready, Father Micou, and I'll take it as I come back; for
I've got some other places to call at."

"With your cart? Why, you dog, I saw a bundle underneath. What, some
little trifle you have taken from the world's wardrobe? Ah, you sly
rogue!"

"Just as you say, Father Micou; but you don't deal in such things. Don't
keep me waiting for the iron goods, for I must be back at the island
before noon."

"I'll be ready. It is only eight, and, if you are not going far, come
back in an hour, and you shall find everything prepared,--money and
goods. Won't you take a drain?"

"Thank ye, I won't say no, for I think you owe it me."

Father Micou took from an old closet a bottle of brandy, a cracked
glass, and a cup without a handle, and filled them.

"Here's to you, Daddy Micou!"

"And to you likewise, my boy, and the ladies at home!"

"Thank ye. And the lodging-house goes on well, eh?"

"Middling,--middling. I have always some lodgers for whom I am always
fearing a visit from the commissary; but they pay in proportion."

"How d'ye mean?"

"Why, are you stupid? I sometimes lodge as I buy, and don't ask them for
their passport, any more than I ask you for your bill of parcels."

"Good; but to them you let as dear as you have bought cheaply of me."

"I must look out. I have a cousin who has a handsome furnished house in
the Rue St. Honoré. His wife is a milliner in a large way, and employs,
perhaps, twenty needlewomen, either in the house, or having the work at
home."

"I say, old boy, I dare say there's some pretty uns among 'em?"

"I believe you. There's two or three that I have seen bring home work
sometimes,--my eyes, ain't they pretty, though? One little one in
particular, who works at home, and is always a-laughing, and they calls
her Rigolette, oh, my pippin, what a pity one ain't twenty years old all
over again!"

"Halloa, daddy, how you are going it!"

"Oh, it's all right, my boy,--all right!"

"'Walker!' old boy. And you say your cousin--"

"Does uncommon well with his house, and, as it is the same number as
that of the little Rigolette--"

"What, again?"

"Oh, it's all right and proper."

"'Walker!'"

"He won't have any lodgers but those who have passports and papers; but
if any come who haven't got 'em, he sends me those customers."

"And they pays accordingly?"

"In course."

"But they are all in our line who haven't got their riglar papers?"

"By no manner of means! Why, very lately, my cousin sent me a
customer,--devil burn me if I can make him out! Another drain?"

"Just one; the liquor's good. Here's t'ye again, Daddy Micou!"

"Here's to you again, my covey! I was saying that the other day my
cousin sent me a customer whom I can't make out. Imagine a mother and
daughter, who looked very queer and uncommon seedy; they had their whole
kit in a pocket-handkerchief. Well, there warn't much to be expected out
of this, for they had no papers, and they lodge by the fortnight; yet,
since they've been here, they haven't moved any more than a dormouse. No
men come to see them; and yet they're not bad-looking, if they weren't
so thin and pale, particularly the daughter, about sixteen,--with such a
pair of black eyes,--oh, such eyes!"

"Halloa, dad! You're off again. What do these women do?"

"I tell you I don't know; they must be respectable, and yet, as they
receive letters without any address, it looks queer."

"What do you mean?"

"They sent, this morning, my nephew André to the _Poste-Restante_ to
inquire for a letter addressed to 'Madame X. Z.' The letter was expected
from Normandy, from a town called Aubiers. They wrote that down on
paper, so that André might get the letter by giving these particulars.
You see, it does not look quite the thing for women to take the name of
'X.' and 'Z.' And yet they never have any male visitors."

"They won't pay you."

"Oh, my fine fellow, they don't catch an old bird like me with chaff.
They took a room without a fireplace, and I made them pay the twenty
francs down for the fortnight. They are, perhaps, ill, for they have not
been down for the last two days. It is not indigestion that ails them,
for I don't think they have cooked anything since they came here."

"If you had all such customers, Father Micou--"

"Oh, they go and come. If I lodge people without passports, why, I also
have different people. I have now two travelling gents, a postman, the
leader of the band at the Café des Aveugles, and a lady of fortune,--all
most respectable persons, such as save the reputation of a house, if the
commissary is inclined to look a little too closely into things; they
are not night-lodgers, but tenants of the broad sunshine."

"When it comes into your alley, Father Micou."

"You're a wag. Another drain, yes, just one more."

"Well, it must be my last, for then I must cut. By the way, doesn't
Robin, the Gros-Boiteux, lodge here still?"

"Yes, up-stairs, on the same landing as the mother and daughter. He's
pretty nearly run through his money he earned in gaol."

"I say, mind your eye,--he's outlawed."

"I know it, but I can't get rid of him. I think he's got something in
hand, for little Tortillard came here the other night along with
Barbillon. I'm afraid he'll do something to my lodgers, so, when his
fortnight is up, I shall bundle him, telling him his room is taken for
an ambassador, or the husband of Madame Saint-Ildefonse, my independent
lady."

"An independent lady?"

"I believe you! Three rooms and a cabinet in the front,--nothing
less,--newly furnished, to say nothing of an attic for her servant.
Eighty francs a month, and paid in advance by her uncle, to whom she
gives one of her spare rooms when he comes up from the country. But I
believe his country-house is about the Rue Vivienne, or the Rue St.
Honoré."

"I twig! She's independent because the old fellow pays."

"Hush! Here's her maid."

A middle-aged woman, wearing a white apron of very doubtful cleanliness,
entered the dealer's warehouse.

"What can I do for you, Madame Charles?"

"Father Micou, is your nephew within?"

"He has gone to the post-office; but I expect him in immediately."

"M. Badinot wishes him to take this letter to its address instantly.
There's no answer, but it is in great haste."

"In a quarter of an hour he will be on his way thither, madame."

"He must make great haste."

"He shall, be assured."

The servant went away.

"Is she the maid of one of your lodgers, Father Micou?"

"She is the _bonne_ of my independent lady, Madame Saint-Ildefonse. But
M. Badinot is her uncle; he came from the country yesterday," said the
respectable Micou, who was looking at the letter, and then added,
reading the address, "Look, now, what grand acquaintances! Why, I told
you they were high folks; he writes to a viscount."

"Oh, bah!"

"See here, then, 'To Monsieur the Vicomte de Saint-Remy, Rue de
Chaillot. In great haste. Private.' I hope, when we lodge independent
persons who have uncles who write to viscounts, we may allow some few of
our other lodgers higher up in the house to be without passports, eh?"

"I believe you. Well, then, Father Micou, we shall soon be back. I shall
fasten my dog and cart to your door, and carry what I have; so be ready
with the goods and the money, so that I may cut at once."

"I'll be ready. Four good iron plates, each two feet square, three bars
of iron two feet long, and two hinges for your valve. This valve seems
very odd to me; but it's no affair of mine. Is that all?"

"Yes, and my money?"

"Oh, you shall have your money. But now I look at you in the light--now
I get a good view of you--"

"Well?"

"I don't know--but you seem as if something was the matter."

"I do?"

"Yes."

"Oh, nonsense! If anything ails me it is that I'm hungry."

"You're hungry? Like enough; but it rather looks as if you wanted to
appear very lively, whilst all the while there's something that worries
you; and it must be _something_, for it ain't a trifle that puts you
out."

"I tell you you're mistaken, Father Micou," said Nicholas, shuddering.

"Why, you quite tremble!"

"It's my arm that pains me."

"Well, don't forget my prescription, that will cure you."

"Thank ye, I'll soon be back." And the ruffian went on his way.

The receiver, after having concealed the lumps of copper behind his
counter, occupied himself in collecting the various things which
Nicholas had requested, when another individual entered his shop. It was
a man about fifty years of age, with a keen, sagacious face, a thick
pair of gray whiskers, and gold spectacles. He was extremely well
dressed; the wide sleeves of his brown paletot, with black velvet cuffs,
showing his hands covered with thin coloured kid gloves, and his boots
bore evidence of having been on the previous evening highly polished.

It was M. Badinot, the independent lady's uncle, that Madame
Saint-Ildefonse, whose social position formed the pride and security of
Père Micou. The reader may, perchance, recollect that M. Badinot, the
former attorney, struck off that respectable list, then a Chevalier
d'Industrie, and agent in equivocal matters, was the spy of Baron de
Graün, and had given that diplomatist many and very precise particulars
as to many personages connected with this tale.

"Madame Charles has just given you a letter to send?" said M. Badinot,
to the dealer in _et ceteras_.

"Yes, sir; my nephew I expect every moment, and he shall go directly."

"No, give me the letter again, I have changed my mind. I shall go myself
to the Comte de Saint-Remy," said M. Badinot, pronouncing this
aristocratic name very emphatically, and with much importance.

"Here's the letter, sir; have you any other commission?"

"No, Père Micou," said M. Badinot, with a protecting air, "but I have
something to scold you about."

"Me, sir?"

"Very much, indeed."

"About what, sir?"

"Why, Madame de Saint-Ildefonse pays very expensively for your first
floor. My niece is a lodger to whom the greatest respect ought to be
paid; she came highly recommended to your house, and, having a great
aversion to the noise of carriages, she hoped she should be here as if
she were in the country."

"So she is; it is quite like a village here. You ought to know,
sir,--you who live in the country,--this is a real village."

"A village! Very like, indeed! Why, there is always such an infernal din
in the house."

"Still, it is impossible to find a quieter house. Above the lady, there
is the leader of the band at the Café des Aveugles, and a gentleman
traveller; over that, another traveller; over that--"

"I am not alluding to those persons; they are very quiet, and appear
very respectable. My niece has no fault to find with them; but in the
fourth, there is a stout lame man, whom Madame de Saint-Ildefonse met
yesterday tipsy on the stairs; he was shrieking like a savage, and she
nearly had a fit, she was so much alarmed. If you think that, with such
lodgers, your house resembles a village--"

"Sir, I assure you I only wait the opportunity to turn this stout lame
man out-of-doors; he has paid his last fortnight in advance, otherwise I
should already have turned him out."

"You should not have taken in such a lodger."

"But, except him, I hope madame has nothing to complain of. There is a
twopenny postman, who is the cream of honest fellows, and overhead,
beside the chamber of the stout lame man, a lady and daughter, who do
not move any more than dormice."

"I repeat, Madame de Saint-Ildefonse only complains of this stout lame
man, who is the nightmare of the house; and I warn you that, if you keep
such a fellow in your house, you will find all your respectable lodgers
leave you."

"I will send him away, you may be assured. I have no wish to keep him."

"You will only do what's right, for else your house will be forsaken."

"Which will not answer my purpose at all; so, sir, consider the stout
lame man as gone, for he has only four more days to stay here."

"Which is four days too many; but it is your affair. At the first
outbreak, my niece leaves your house."

"Be assured, sir--"

"It is all for your own interest,--and look to it, for I am not a man
of many words," said M. Badinot, with a patronising air, and he went
out.

Need we say that this female and her young daughter, who lived so
lonely, were the two victims of the notary's cupidity? We will now
conduct the reader to the miserable retreat in which they lived.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE.[6]


Let the reader picture to himself a small chamber on the fourth floor of
the wretched house in the Passage de la Brasserie. Scarcely could the
faint glimmers of early morn force their pale rays through the narrow
casements forming the only window to this small apartment; the three
panes of glass that apology for a window contained were cracked and
almost the colour of horn, a dingy and torn yellow paper adhered in some
places to the walls, while from each corner of the cracked ceiling hung
long and thick cobwebs; and to complete the appearance of wretchedness
so evident in this forlorn spot, the flooring was broken away, and, in
many places, displayed the beams which supported it, as well as the lath
and plaster forming the ceiling of the room beneath. A deal table, a
chair, an old trunk, without hinges or lock, a truckle-bed, with a
wooden headboard, covered by a thin mattress, coarse sheets of
unbleached cloth, and an old rug,--such was the entire furniture of this
wretched chamber.

  [6] "The average punishment awarded to such as are convicted
  of breach of trust is two months' imprisonment and a fine of
  twenty-five francs."--_Art. 406 and 408 of the "Code Penal."_

On the chair sat the Baroness de Fermont, and in the bed reposed her
daughter, Claire de Fermont. Such were the names of these two victims of
the villainy of Jacques Ferrand. Possessing but one bed, the mother and
child took it by turns to sleep. Too much uneasiness and too many bitter
cares prevented Madame de Fermont from enjoying the blessing of repose;
but her daughter's young and elastic nature easily yielded to the
natural impulse which made her willingly seek in short slumbers a
temporary respite from the misery by which she was surrounded during her
waking hours. At the present moment she was sleeping peacefully.

Nothing could be imagined more touchingly affecting than the picture of
misery imposed by the avarice of the notary on two females hitherto
accustomed to every comfort, and surrounded in their native city by that
respect which is ever felt for honourable and honoured families.

Madame de Fermont was about six and thirty years of age, with a
countenance at once expressive of gentleness and intelligence, mingled
with an indescribably noble and majestic air. Her features, which had
once boasted extreme beauty, were now pale and careworn; her dark hair
was separated on her forehead, and formed two thick, lustrous bandeaux,
which, after shading her pallid countenance, were twisted in with her
back hair, whose tresses the hand of sorrow had already mingled with
gray. Dressed in an old shabby black dress, patched and pieced in
various places, Madame de Fermont, her head supported by her hand, was
surveying her child with looks of ineffable tenderness.

Claire was but sixteen years of age, and her gentle and innocent
countenance, thin and sorrowful as that of her mother, looked still more
pallid as contrasted with the coarse, unbleached linen which covered her
bolster, filled only with sawdust. The once brilliant complexion of the
poor girl had sickened beneath the privations she endured; and, as she
slept, the long, dark lashes which fringed her large and lustrous eyes
stood out almost unnaturally upon her sunken cheek; the once fresh and
rosy lips were now dry, cracked, and colourless, yet, half opened as
they were, they displayed the faultless regularity of her pearly teeth.

The harsh contact of the rough linen which covered her bed had caused a
temporary redness about the neck, shoulders, and arms of the poor girl,
whose fine and delicate skin was marbled and spotted by the friction
both of the miserable sheets and rug. A sensation of uneasiness and
discomfort seemed to pervade even her slumbers; for the clearly defined
eyebrows, occasionally contracted, as though the sleeper were under the
influence of an uneasy dream, and the pained expression observable on
the features, foretold the deadly nature of the disease at work within.

Madame de Fermont had long ceased to find relief in tears, but, like her
suffering daughter, she found that weakness, languor, and dejection,
which is ever the precursor of severe illness, rapidly and daily
increasing; but, unwilling to alarm Claire, and wishing, if possible,
even to conceal the frightful truth from herself, the wretched mother
struggled against the first approaches of her malady, while, from a
similar feeling of devotion and affection, Claire sought to hide from
her parent the extreme suffering she herself experienced.

To attempt to describe the tortures endured by the tender mother, as,
during the greater part of the night, she watched her slumbering child,
her thoughts alternately dwelling on the past, the present, and the
future, would be to paint the sharpest, bitterest, wildest agony that
ever crossed the brain of a loving and despairing mother; to give
alternately her reminiscences of bygone happiness, her shuddering dread
of impending evil, her fearful anticipations, her bitter regrets, and
utter despondency, mingled with bursts of frenzied rage against the
author of all her sorrows, vain supplications, eager, earnest prayers,
ending at last fearfully and dreadfully in openly expressed mistrust of
the omnipotence and justice of the Great Being who could thus remain
insensible to the cry which arose from a mother's breaking heart, to
that holy plea whose sound should reach the throne of grace,--"Pity,
pity, for my child!"

"How cold she is!" cried the poor mother, lightly touching with her icy
hand the equally chill arm of her child; "how very, very cold! and
scarcely an hour ago just as hot! Alas, 'tis the cruel fever which has
seized upon her! Happily the dear creature is as yet unconscious of her
malady! Gracious heaven, she is becoming cold as death itself! What
shall I do to bring warmth to her poor frame? The bed-coverings are so
slight! A good thought! I will throw my old shawl over her. But no, no!
I dare not remove it from the door over which I have hung it, lest those
men so brutally intoxicated should endeavour, as they did yesterday, to
look into the room through the disjointed panels or openings in the
framework.

"What a horrible place we have got into! Oh, if I had but known by what
description of persons it was inhabited before I paid the fortnight in
advance! Certainly, we would not have remained here. But, alas, I knew
it not; and when we have no vouchers for our respectability, it is so
difficult to obtain furnished lodgings. Who could ever have thought I
should have been at a loss,--I who quitted Angers in my own carriage,
deeming it unfit my daughter should travel by any public conveyance? How
could I have imagined that I should experience any difficulty in
obtaining every requisite testimonial of my honour and honesty?"

Then bursting into a fit of anger, she exclaimed, "'Tis too, too hard,
that because this unprincipled, hard-hearted notary chooses to strip us
of all our possessions, I have no means of punishing him! Yes; had I
money I might sue him legally for his misconduct. But would not that be
to bring obloquy and contempt on the memory of my good, my noble-minded
brother; to have it publicly proclaimed that he consummated his ruin by
taking away his own life, after having squandered my fortune and that of
my child; to hear him accused of reducing us to want and wretchedness?
Oh, never,--never! Still, however dear and sacred is the memory of a
brother, should not the welfare of my child be equally so?

"And wherefore, too, should I give rise to useless tales of family
misery, unprovided as I am with any proofs against the notary? Oh, it
is, indeed, a cruel,--a most cruel case. Sometimes, too, when irritated,
goaded by my reflections almost to madness, I find myself indulging in
bitter plaints against my brother, and think his conduct more culpable
than even the notary's, as though it were any alleviation of my woes to
have two names to execrate instead of one. But quickly do I blush at my
own base and unworthy suspicions of one so good, so honourable, so
noble-minded as my poor brother! This infamous notary knows not all the
fearful consequences of his dishonesty. He fancies he has but taken from
us our worldly goods, while he has plunged a dagger in the hearts of two
innocent, unoffending victims, condemned by his villainy to die by
inches. Alas, I dare not breathe into the ear of my poor child the full
extent of my fears, lest her young mind should be unable to support the
blow!

"But I am ill,--very, very ill; a burning fever is in my veins; and 'tis
only with the greatest energy and resolution I contrive to resist its
approaches. But too certainly do I feel aware that the germs of a
possibly mortal disease are in me. I am aware of its gaining ground
hourly. My throat is parched, my head burns and throbs with racking
pains. These symptoms are even more dangerous than I am willing to own
even to myself. Merciful God! If I were to be ill,--seriously, fatally
ill,--if I should die! But no, no!" almost shrieked Madame Fermont, with
wild excitement; "I cannot,--I will not die! To leave Claire at sixteen
years of age, alone, and without resource, in the midst of Paris!
Impossible! Oh, no, I am not ill; I have mistaken the effects of sorrow,
cold, and want of rest, for the precursory symptoms of illness. Any
person similarly placed would have experienced the same. It is nothing,
nothing worth noticing. There must be no weakness on my part. 'Tis by
yielding to such dismal anticipations that one becomes really attacked
by the very malady we dread. And besides, I have not time to be ill. Oh,
no! On the contrary, I must immediately exert myself to find employment
for Claire and myself, since the wretch who gave us the prints to colour
has dared to--"

After a short silence, Madame de Fermont, leaving her last sentence
unfinished, indignantly added:

"Horrible idea! To ask the shame of my child in return for the work he
doles out to us, and to harshly withdraw it because I will not suffer my
poor Claire to go to his house unaccompanied, and work there during the
evening alone with him! Possibly I may succeed in obtaining work
elsewhere, either in plain or ornamental needlework. Yet it is so very
difficult when we are known to no one; and very recently I tried in
vain. Persons are afraid of entrusting their materials to those who live
in such wretched lodgings as ours. And yet I dare not venture upon
others more creditable; for what would become of us were the small sum
we possess once exhausted? What could we do? We should be utterly
penniless; as destitute as the veriest beggar that ever walked the
earth.

"And then to think I once was among the richest and wealthiest! Oh, let
me not think of what has been; such considerations serve but to increase
the already excited state of my brain. It will madden me to recollect
the past; and I am wrong--oh, very wrong--thus to dwell on ideas that
sadden and depress instead of raising and invigorating my enfeebled
mind. Had I gone on thus weakly indulging regrets, I might, indeed, have
fallen ill,--for I am by no means so at present. No, no," continued the
unfortunate parent, placing her fingers upon the wrist of her left
hand, "my fever has left me,--my pulse beats tranquilly."

Alas! the quick, irregular, and hurried pulsation perceptible beneath
the parched yet icy skin allowed not of such flattering hopes; and,
after pausing in deep and heartfelt wretchedness for a short space, the
unhappy Madame de Fermont thus continued:

"Wherefore, O God of Mercies, thus visit with thine anger two wretched
and helpless creatures, utterly unconscious of having merited thy
displeasure? What has been the crime that has thus drawn down such heavy
punishments upon our heads? Was not my child a model of innocent piety,
as her father was of honour? Have I not ever scrupulously fulfilled my
duties both as wife and mother? Why, then, permit us to become the
victims of a vile, ignoble wretch,--my sweet, my innocent child more
especially? Oh, when I remember that, but for the nefarious conduct of
this notary, the rising dawn of my daughter's existence would have been
clear and unclouded, I can scarcely restrain my tears. But for his base
treachery we should now be in our own home, without further care or
sorrow than such as arose from the painful and unhappy circumstances
attending the death of my poor brother. In two or three years' time I
should have begun to think of marrying my sweet Claire, that is, if I
could have found any one worthy of so good, so pure-minded, and so
lovely a creature as herself. Who would not have rejoiced in obtaining
such a bride? And further, after having merely reserved to myself a
trifling annuity, sufficient to have enabled me to live somewhere in the
neighbourhood, I intended, on her marriage, to bestow on her the whole
of my remaining possessions, amounting to at least one hundred thousand
crowns; for I should have been enabled to lay by something. And, when a
lovely and beautiful young creature, like my Claire, gifted with all the
advantages of a superior education, can, in addition, boast of a dowry
of more than one hundred thousand crowns--"

Then, as she again returned to the realities of her present position,
altogether overcome by the painful contrast, Madame de Fermont
exclaimed, almost frantically:

"Still, it is not to be supposed that, because the notary so wills it, I
shall sit tamely by and see my only and beloved child reduced to the
most abject misery, entitled as she is to a life of the most unalloyed
felicity. If I can obtain no redress from the laws of my country, I will
not permit the infamous conduct of this man to escape unpunished. For if
I am driven to desperation, if I find no means of extricating my
daughter and myself from the deplorable condition to which the villainy
of this man has brought us, I cannot answer for myself, or what I may
do. I may be driven by madness to retaliate on this man, even by taking
his life. And what if I did, after all I have endured, after all the
scalding tears he has caused me to shed, who could blame me? At least I
should be secure of the pity and sympathy of all mothers who loved their
children as I do my Claire. Yes; but, then, what would be her
position,--left alone, friendless, unexperienced, and destitute? Oh, no,
no, that is my principal dread; therefore do I fear to die.

"And for that same reason dare I not harm the traitor who has wrought
our ruin. What would become of her at sixteen?--pure and spotless as an
angel, 'tis true. But then she is so surpassingly lovely; and want,
desolation, cold, and misery are fearful things to oppose alone and
unaided. How fearful a conflict might be presented to one of her tender
years, and into how terrible an abyss might she not fall? Oh,
want,--fatal word! As I trace it, a crowd of sickening images rise
before me, and distract my senses. Destitution, dreadful as it is to
all, is still more formidable to those who have lived surrounded not
only with every comfort, but even luxury. One thing I cannot pardon
myself for, and that is that, in the face of all these overwhelming
trials, I have not yet been able to subdue my unfortunate pride; and I
feel persuaded that nothing but the sight of my child, actually
perishing before my eyes for want of bread, could induce me to beg. How
weak, how selfish and cowardly! Still--"

Then, as her thoughts wandered to the source of all her present
sufferings and anguish, she mournfully continued:

"The notary has reduced me to a state of beggary; I must, therefore,
yield to the stern necessity of my situation. There must be an end of
all delicacy as well as scruples. They might have been well enough in
bygone days; but my duty is now to stretch forth my hand to solicit
charitable aid for both my daughter and myself. And if I fail in
procuring work, I must make up my mind to implore the charity of my
fellow creatures, since the roguery of the notary has left me no
alternative. Doubtless in that, as in other trades, there is an art, an
expertness to be acquired, and which experience alone can bestow. Never
mind," continued she, with a sort of feverish wildness, "one must learn
one's craft, and only practice can make perfect. Surely mine must be a
tale to move even the most unfeeling. I have to tell of misfortunes
alike severe and unmerited,--of an angelic child, but sixteen years of
age, exposed to every evil of life. But then it requires a practised
hand to set forth all these qualifications, so as best to excite
sympathy and compassion. No matter; I shall manage it, I feel quite
sure. And, after all," exclaimed the half distracted woman, with a
gloomy smile, "what have I so much to complain of? Fortune is perishable
and precarious; and the notary will, at least, if he has taken my money,
have compelled me to adopt a trade."

For several minutes Madame de Fermont remained absorbed in her
reflections, then resumed more calmly:

"I have frequently thought of inquiring for some situation. What I seem
to covet is just such a place as a female has here who is servant to a
lady living on the first floor. Had I that situation I might probably
receive wages sufficient to maintain Claire; and I might even, through
the intervention of the mistress I served, be enabled to obtain
occupation for my daughter, who then would remain here. Neither should I
be obliged to quit her. Oh, what joy, could it be so arranged! But no,
no, that would be happiness too great for me to expect; it would seem
like a dream. And then, again, if I obtained the place, the poor woman
now occupying it must be turned away. Possibly she is as poor and
destitute as ourselves. Well, what if she be? No scruple has arisen to
save us from being stripped of our all, and my child's preservation
outweighs all fastidious notions of delicacy in my breast. The only
difficulty consists in obtaining an introduction to the lady on the
first floor, and contriving to dispossess the servant of a place which
would be to me the very perfection of ease and comfort."

Several loud and hasty knocks at the door startled Madame de Fermont,
and made her daughter spring up with a sudden cry.

"For heaven's sake, dear mother," asked poor Claire, trembling with
fear, "what is the matter?" And then, without giving her agitated parent
time to recover herself, the terrified girl threw her arms around her
mother's neck, as if she sought for safety in that fond, maternal bosom,
while Madame de Fermont, pressing her child almost convulsively to her
breast, gazed with terror at the door.

"Mamma, mamma," again moaned Claire, "what was that noise that awoke me?
And why do you seem so much alarmed?"

"I know not, my child, what it was. But calm yourself, there is nothing
to fear; some one merely knocked at the door,--possibly to bring us a
letter from the post-office."

At this moment the worm-eaten door shook and rattled beneath the blows
dealt against it by some powerful fist.

"Who is there?" inquired Madame de Fermont, in a trembling tone.

A harsh, coarse, and vulgar voice replied, "Holloa, there! What, are you
so deaf there's no making you hear? Holloa, I say, open your door; and
let's have a look at you. Hip, hip, holloa! Come, sharp's the word; I'm
in a hurry."

"I know you not," exclaimed Madame de Fermont, striving to command
herself sufficiently to speak with a steady voice; "what is it you seek
here?"

"Not know me? Why, I'm your opposite neighbour and fellow lodger, Robin.
I want a light for my pipe. Come, cut about. Whoop, holloa! Don't go to
sleep again, or I must come in and wake you."

"Merciful heavens!" whispered the mother to her daughter, "'tis that
lame man, who is nearly always intoxicated."

"Now, then, are you going to give me a light? Because, I tell you
fairly, one I will have if I knock your rickety old door to pieces."

"I have no light to give you."

"Oh, bother and nonsense! If you have no candle burning you must have
the means of lighting one. Nobody is without a few lucifer matches, be
they ever so poor. Do you or do you not choose to give me a light?"

"I beg of you to go away."

"You don't choose to open your door, then? Once,--twice,--mind, I will
have it."

"I request you to quit my door immediately, or I will call for
assistance."

"Once,--twice,--thrice,--you will not? Well, then, here goes! Now I'll
smash your old timbers, into morsels too small for you to pick up.
Hu!--hu!--hallo! Well done! Bravo!"

And suiting the action to the word, the ruffian assailed the door so
furiously that he quickly drove it in, the miserable lock with which it
was furnished having speedily broken to pieces.

The two women shrieked loudly; Madame de Fermont, in spite of her
weakness, rushed forward to meet the ruffian at the moment when he was
entering the room, and stopped him.

"Sir, this is most shameful; you must not enter here," exclaimed the
unhappy mother, keeping the door closed as well as she could. "I will
call for help." And she shuddered at the sight of this man, with his
hideous and drunken countenance.

"What's all this? What's all this?" said he. "Oughtn't neighbours to be
obliging? You ought to have opened; I shouldn't have broken anything."

Then with the stupid obstinacy of intoxication, he added, reeling on his
tottering legs:

"I wanted to come in, and I will come in; and I won't go out until I've
lighted my pipe."

"I have neither fire nor matches. In heaven's name, sir, do go away."

"That's not true. You tell me that I may not see the little girl who's
in bed. Yesterday you stopped up all the holes in the door. She's a
pretty chick, and I should like to see her. So mind, or I shall hurt you
if you don't let me enter quietly. I tell you I will see the little girl
in her bed, and I will light my pipe, or I'll smash everything before
me, and you into the bargain."

"Help, help, help!" exclaimed Madame de Fermont, who felt the door
yielding before the broad shoulders of the Gros-Boiteux.

Alarmed by her cries, the man retreated a step; and clenching his fist
at Madame de Fermont, he said:

"You shall pay me for this, mind. I will come back to-night and wring
your tongue out, and then you can't squall out."

And the Gros-Boiteux, as he was called at the Isle du Ravageur, went
down the staircase, uttering horrible threats.

Madame de Fermont, fearing that he might return, and seeing that the
lock was broken, dragged the table across the room, in order to
barricade it. Claire had been so alarmed, so agitated, at this horrible
scene, that she had fallen on her bed almost senseless, and overcome by
a nervous attack. Her mother, forgetting her own fears, ran to her,
embraced her, gave her a little water to drink, and by her caresses and
attentions revived her. When she saw her gradually recovering she said
to her:

"Calm yourself; don't be alarmed, my dearest child, this wicked man has
gone." Then the unfortunate mother exclaimed, in a tone of indescribable
indignation and grief, "And it is that notary who is the first cause of
all our sufferings."

Claire looked about her with as much astonishment as fear.

"Take courage, my child," said Madame de Fermont, embracing her
tenderly; "the wretch has gone."

"Oh, mamma, if he should come back again! You see, though you cried so
loud for help, no one came. Oh, pray let us leave this house, or I shall
die with fear!"

"How you tremble; you are quite in a fever."

"No, no," said the young girl, to reassure her mother, "it is
nothing--only fright,--and that will soon pass away. And you,--how do
you feel? Give me your hands. Oh, how they burn! It is, indeed, you who
are suffering; and you try to conceal it from me!"

"Don't think so; I feel better than I did. It is only the fright that
man caused me which makes me so. I was sleeping soundly in my chair,
and only awoke when you did."

"Yet, mamma, your poor eyes look so red and inflamed!"

"Why, you see, my dear, one does not sleep so refreshingly in a chair."

"And you really do not suffer?"

"No, no, I assure you. And you?"

"Nor I either. I only tremble with fear. Pray, mamma, let us leave this
house!"

"And where shall we go to? You know what trouble we had to find this
miserable chamber; for, unfortunately, we have no papers,--and, besides,
we have paid a fortnight in advance. They will not return our money; and
we have so very, very little left, that we must take all possible care
of it."

"Perhaps M. de Saint-Remy will answer you in a day or two."

"I cannot hope for that. It is so long since I wrote to him."

"He cannot have received your letter. Why did not you write to him
again? From here to Angers is not so far, and we should soon have his
answer."

"My poor child, you know how much that has cost me already!"

"But there's no risk; and he is so good in spite of his roughness.
Wasn't he one of the oldest friends of my father? And then he is a
relation of ours."

"But he is poor himself,--his fortune is very small. Perhaps he does not
reply to us that he may avoid the pain of a refusal."

"But he may not have received your letter, mamma!"

"And if he has received it, my dear,--one of two things, either he is
himself in too painful a position to come to our aid, or he feels no
interest in us. What, then, is the use of exposing ourselves to a
refusal or humiliation?"

"Come, come, courage, mamma; we have still a hope left. Perhaps this
very morning will bring us a kind answer."

"From M. d'Orbigny?"

"Yes; the letter of which you had made the rough copy was so simple and
touching. It showed our miserable condition so naturally that he will
have pity on us. Really, I don't know why, but something tells me you
are wrong to despair of him."

"He has so little motive for taking any interest in us. It is true he
formerly knew your father, and I have often heard my poor brother speak
of M. d'Orbigny as a man with whom he was on good terms before the
latter left Paris to retire into the country with his young wife."

"It is that which makes me hope. He has a young wife, and she will be
compassionate. And then in the country one can do so much good. He will
take you, I should think, as a housekeeper, and I could work in the
needle-room. Then M. d'Orbigny is very rich, and in a great house there
is always so much to do."

"Yes; but we have so little claim on his kind interest!"

"We are so unfortunate!"

"It is true that is a claim in the eyes of charitably disposed persons."

"Let us hope that M. d'Orbigny and his wife are so."

"Then if we do not have any or an unfavorable answer from him, I will
overcome my false shame, and write to the Duchesse de Lucenay."

"The lady of whom M. de Saint-Remy has spoken so often, and whose
kindness and generosity he so much, praised?"

"The same,--daughter of the Prince de Noirmont. He knew her when she was
very young, and treated her almost always as if she were his own child,
for he was on terms of the closest intimacy with the prince. Madame de
Lucenay must have many acquaintances, and, no doubt, could easily find
situations for us."

"No doubt, mamma. But I understand your delicacy; you do not know her,
whilst, at least, my father and my uncle both knew a little of M.
d'Orbigny."

"Well, but in case Madame de Lucenay cannot do anything for us, I have
still another resource."

"What is that, mamma?"

"A very poor one,--a very weak hope, perhaps. But why should I not try
it? M. de Saint-Remy's son is--"

"Has M. de Saint-Remy a son?" exclaimed Claire, interrupting her mother
with great astonishment.

"Yes, my dear, he has a son."

"Yet he never spoke of him when he used to come to Angers."

"True, and, for reasons which you cannot understand, M. de Saint-Remy,
having quitted Paris fifteen years ago, has not seen his son since that
period."

"Fifteen years without seeing his father! Is that possible?"

"Alas, yes! As you see, the son of M. de Saint-Remy, being very much
sought after in society, and very rich--"

"Very rich, whilst his father is poor?"

"All young M. de Saint-Remy's wealth came from his mother."

"What of that,--how could he leave his father?"

"His father would not accept anything from him."

"Why?"

"That is a question to which I cannot reply, my dear child; but I have
heard it said by my poor brother that this young man was reputed vastly
generous. Young and generous, he ought to be good. Learning from me that
my husband had been his father's intimate friend, perhaps he will
interest himself in trying to find us work or employment. He has such
high and extensive connections, that this would be no trouble to him."

"And then, perhaps, too, we could learn from him if M. de Saint-Remy,
his father, had not quitted Angers before you wrote to him: that would
account for his silence."

"I think, my dear, that M. de Saint-Remy has not kept up any connection
with--Still, we cannot but try."

"Unless M. d'Orbigny replies to you favourably, and I repeat, I don't
know why, but I have hopes, in spite of myself."

"It is now many days, my dear, since I wrote to him, telling him all the
causes of our misfortunes, and yet to this time we have no reply,--none.
A letter put in the post before four o'clock in the evening reaches
Aubiers next morning, and thus we might have had his answer five days
ago."

"Perhaps, before he replies, he is considering in what way he can best
be useful to us."

"May Heaven hear thee, my child!"

"It appears to me plain enough, mamma, if he could not do anything for
us, he could have written at once, and said so."

"Unless he will do nothing."

"Oh, mamma, is that possible? to refuse to answer us, and leave us in
hope for four days--eight days, perhaps; for when one is miserable we
always hope."

"Alas, my child, there is sometimes so much indifference for the
miseries persons have never known!"

"But your letter--"

"My letter cannot give him any idea of our actual disquietude, our
constant sufferings; my letter will not depict to him our unhappy life,
our constant humiliations, our existence in this horrid house,--the
fright we have but this instant experienced. My letter will not describe
the horrible future which is in store for us, if--But, my love, do not
let us talk of that. You tremble,--you are cold."

"No, mamma, don't mind me; but tell me, suppose all fails us, the
little money we have in the box is spent,--is it possible that, in a
city as rich as Paris, we shall both die of hunger and misery--for want
of work, and because a wicked man has taken from you all you had in the
world?"

"Oh, be silent, my unfortunate child!"

"But really, mamma, is it possible?"

"Alas!"

"But God, who knows all, who can do all, will he abandon us, who have
never offended him?"

"I entreat you, my dearest girl, do not give way to these distressing
ideas. I would prefer seeing you hope, without great reason, either.
Come, come, comfort me rather with your consoling ideas; I am but too
apt to be discouraged, as you well know."

"Yes, yes, let us hope, that is best. No doubt the porter's nephew will
return to-day from the _Poste-Restante_ with a letter. Another errand to
pay out of your little stock, and through my fault. If I had not been so
weak yesterday and to-day we should have gone to the post-office
ourselves, as we did the day before yesterday; but you will not leave me
here alone and go yourself."

"How could I, my dear? Only think, just now, that horrid man who burst
open the door! Suppose you had been alone?"

"Oh, mamma, pray don't talk of it; it quite frightens me only to think
of it."

At this moment some one knocked suddenly at the door.

"Heaven, it is he again!" exclaimed Madame de Fermont, still under her
first fears; and she pushed the table against the door with all her
strength. Her fears ceased when she heard the voice of Father Micou:

"Madame, my nephew, André, has come from the _Poste-Restante_. He has
brought a letter with an 'X' and a 'Z.' It comes a long way; there are
eight sous for postage, and commission makes twenty sous."

"Mamma, a letter from the country,--we are saved! It is from M. de
Saint-Remy or M. d'Orbigny. Poor mother! You will not suffer any more;
you will no longer be uneasy about me, you will be so happy! God is
just! God is good!" exclaimed the young girl, and a ray of hope lighted
up her mild and lovely face.

"Oh, sir, thank you; give it to me quickly!" said Madame de Fermont,
moving the table as well as she could, and half opening the door.

"Twenty sous," said the man, giving her the anxiously desired letter.

"I will pay you, sir."

"Oh, madame, there's no hurry, I am going up higher; in ten minutes I
shall be down again, and can call for the money as I pass."

"The letter is from Normandy, with the postmark of 'Les Aubiers.' It is
from Madame d'Orbigny!" exclaimed Madame de Fermont, examining the
address, "To Madame X. Z., _Poste-Restante_, à Paris."

"Well, mamma, am I right? Oh, how my heart beats!"

"Our good or bad fate is in it," said Madame de Fermont; and twice her
trembling hand was extended to break the seal; she had not courage.

How can we describe the terrible agony to which they are a prey who,
like Madame de Fermont, expect a letter which brings them either hope or
despair? The burning, fevered excitement of the player whose last pieces
of gold are hazarded on a card, and who, breathless, with inflamed eye,
awaits for a decisive cast which brings his ruin or his fortune,--this
emotion, violent as it is, may perhaps give some idea of the painful
anguish of which we speak. In a second the soul is elevated to the most
radiant hope or relapses into the most mortal discouragement. According
as he hopes to be aided, or fears to be refused, the unhappy wretch
suffers in turn emotions of a most contrary nature,--unutterable
feelings of happiness and gratitude to the generous heart which pities
his miserable condition--bitter and intense resentment against selfish
indifference!

When it is a question of deserving sufferers, those who give often would
perhaps give always, and those who always refuse would perhaps give
frequently, if they knew or saw that the hope of benevolent aid or the
fear of a haughty refusal--that their decision, indeed--can excite all
that is distressing or encouraging in the hearts of their petitioners.

"What weakness!" said Madame de Fermont, with a deep sigh, seating
herself by her daughter; "once again, my poor Claire, our destiny is in
this envelope; I burn with anxiety to know its contents, and yet I dare
not read it. If it be a refusal, alas, it will be soon enough!"

"And if it be a promise of assistance, then, mamma--If this poor little
letter contain consoling words, which shall assure us for the future, by
promising us a humble employment in the establishment of M. d'Orbigny,
every moment lost is a moment of happiness lost,--is it not?"

"Yes, my love; but on the other hand--"

"No, mamma, you are mistaken; I told you that M. d'Orbigny had only
delayed so long that he might mention something certain to you. Let me
see the letter, mamma. I am sure I can guess if it is good or bad by the
writing. And I am sure," said Claire, looking at the letter, "that it is
a kind and generous hand, accustomed to execute benevolence towards
those who suffer."

"I entreat you, Claire, not to give way to vain hopes; for, if you do, I
shall not have the courage to open the letter."

"My dear mother, without opening it, I can tell you almost word for word
what it contains. Listen: 'Madame,--Your fate and that of your daughter
are so worthy of interest, that I beg you will come to me, in case you
should like to undertake the superintendence of my house.'"

"Pray, my dearest, I beseech you, do not give way to vain hopes; the
disappointment would be terrible!" said Madame de Fermont, taking the
letter.

"Come, dear mamma," said Claire, smiling, and excited by one of those
feelings of certainty so natural to her age, "give me the letter; I have
courage to read it!"

"No," said Madame de Fermont, "I will read it! It is from the Comtesse
d'Orbigny."

"So much the better," replied Claire.

"We shall see." And Madame de Fermont read as follows in a trembling
voice:

      "'MADAME:--M. the Comte d'Orbigny, who has been a great invalid
    for some time, could not reply to you during my absence--'"

"You see, mamma, it was no one's fault."

"Listen, listen!

    "'On arriving from Paris this morning, I hasten to write to you,
    madame, after having discussed your letter with M. d'Orbigny. He
    recollects but very indistinctly the intimacy you allude to as
    having subsisted between him and your brother. As to the name of
    your husband, madame, it is not unknown to M. d'Orbigny; but he
    cannot recall to mind under what circumstances he has heard it.
    The spoliation of which you so unhesitatingly accuse M. Jacques
    Ferrand, whom we have the happiness to call our solicitor, is,
    in the eyes of M. d'Orbigny, a cruel calumny, whose effects you
    have by no means calculated upon. My husband, as well as myself,
    madame, know and admire the extreme probity of the respectable
    and pious individual whom you so blindly assail; and I am
    compelled to tell you, madame, that M. d'Orbigny, whilst he
    regrets the painful situation in which you are placed, and the
    real cause of which it is not his business to find out, feels it
    impossible to afford you the assistance requested. Accept,
    madame, with the expression of M. d'Orbigny's regrets, my best
    compliments.

                                       "'COMTESSE D'ORBIGNY.'"

The mother and daughter looked at each other perfectly stupefied, and
incapable of uttering a word. Father Micou rapped at the door, and said:

"Madame, may I come in for the postage and commission? It's twenty
sous."

"Ah, true, such good news is worth a sum on which we exist for two
days," said Madame de Fermont, with a bitter smile, laying the letter
down on her daughter's bed, and going towards an old trunk without a
lock, to which she stooped down and opened. "We are robbed!" exclaimed
the unhappy woman, with alarm. "Nothing--not a sou left!" she added, in
a mournful voice; and, overwhelmed, she supported herself on the trunk.

"What do you say, mamma,--the bag with the money in it?"

But Madame de Fermont, rising suddenly, opened the room door, and,
addressing the receiver, who was on the landing-place:

"Sir," she said, whilst her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were flushed
with indignation and alarm, "I had a bag of silver in this trunk; it was
stolen from me, no doubt, the day before yesterday, when I went out for
an hour with my daughter. The money must be restored, I tell you,--you
are responsible for it!"

"You've been robbed! That's false, I know. My house is respectable,"
said the fellow, in an insolent and brutal tone; "you only say that in
order not to pay me my postage and commission."

"I tell you, sir, that this money was all I possessed in the world; it
has been stolen from me, and I must have it found and restored, or I
will lodge an information. Oh, I will conceal nothing--I will respect
nothing--I tell you!"

"Very fine, indeed! You who have got no papers. Go and lay your
information,--go at once. Why don't you? I defy you, I do!"

The wretched woman was thunderstruck. She could not go out and leave
her daughter alone, confined to her bed as she was by the fright the
Gros-Boiteux had occasioned her in the morning, and particularly after
the threats with which the receiver of stolen goods had menaced her. He
added:

"This is a fudge! You'd as much a bag of silver there as a bag of gold.
Will you pay me for the letter,--will you or won't you? Well, it's just
the same to me. When you go by my door, I'll snatch off your old black
shawl from your shoulders. It's a precious shabby one; but I daresay I
can make twenty sous out of it."

"Oh, sir," exclaimed Madame de Fermont, bursting into tears, "I beseech
you have pity upon us! This small sum is all we possess, my daughter and
I, and, that stolen, we have nothing left--nothing--I say nothing,
but--to die of starvation!"

"What can I do? If it's true that you have been robbed, and of silver,
too (which appears to me very unlikely), why, the silver has been melted
long since, rely on it."

"_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_"

"The chap who did the trick was not so soft, rely on it, as to mark the
pieces, and keep 'em here, to lead to his own detection. Supposing it's
any one in the house, which I don't believe (for, as I was a-saying this
morning to the uncle of the lady on the first floor, this is really a
village), if any one has robbed you, it is a pity. You may lay a hundred
informations, but you won't recover a centime. You won't do any good by
that, I tell you, and you may believe me. Well, but I say--" exclaimed
the receiver, stopping short, and seeing Madame de Fermont stagger.
"What's the matter? How pale you are! Mademoiselle, your mother's taken
ill!" added Micou, just advancing in time to catch the unhappy mother,
who, overcome by this last shock, felt her senses forsake her,--the
forced energy which had supported her so long failed before this fresh
blow.

"Mother, dear, oh, what ails you?" exclaimed Claire, still in her bed.

The receiver, still vigorous in spite of his fifty years, seized with a
momentary feeling of pity, took Madame de Fermont in his arms, pushed
the door open with his knee, and, entering the chamber, said:

"Your pardon, mademoiselle, for entering whilst you are in bed, but I
was obliged to bring in your mother; she has fainted, but it won't last
long."

On seeing the man enter, Claire shrieked loudly, and the unhappy girl
hid herself as well as she could under the bedclothes. The huckster
seated Madame de Fermont in a chair beside the bed, and then went out,
leaving the door ajar, for the Gros-Boiteux had broken the lock.

       *       *       *       *       *

One hour after this last shock, the violent malady which had so long
hung over and threatened Madame de Fermont had developed itself. A prey
to a burning fever and to fearful delirium, the unhappy woman was placed
beside her daughter, who, horror-struck, aghast, alone, and almost as
ill as her mother, had neither money nor recourse, and was in an agony
of fear every moment lest the ruffian who lodged on the same floor
should enter the apartment.




CHAPTER IX.

THE RUE DE CHAILLOT.


We will precede M. Badinot by some hours, as in haste he proceeded from
the Passage de la Brasserie to the Vicomte de Saint-Remy. The latter, as
we have said, lived in the Rue de Chaillot, and occupied a delightful
small house, built between the court and the garden in this quarter, so
solitary, although so close to the Champs Elysées, the most fashionable
promenade in Paris.

It is useless to enumerate the advantages which M. de Saint-Remy, who
was decidedly a man _à bonnes fortunes_, derived from the position of a
residence so sagaciously selected. We will only say that a gentleman (or
a lady) could enter very privately by a small door in the large garden
which opened into a back lane absolutely deserted, communicating from
the Rue Marboeuf to the Rue de Chaillot. By wonderful chance, one of the
finest nursery-grounds in Paris having also in this quiet passage a way
out that was little frequented, the mysterious visitors of M. de
Saint-Remy, in case of a surprise or sudden rencounter, were armed with
a most plausible and bucolical excuse for their visit to the lonely
alley: they were there (they might say if they pleased) to choose some
rare flowers from the celebrated gardener who was so renowned for the
beauty of his conservatories. The visitors need only thus tell half
falsehoods; for the vicomte, plentifully imbued with all the tastes of
most costly luxuries, had a delightful greenhouse, which extended along
the side of the alley we have alluded to. The small private door opened
on this delightful winter garden, which terminated in a boudoir (forgive
the superannuated expression), which was on the ground floor of the
house.

We may say, therefore, without metaphor, that a female who passed this
dangerous threshold, to enter M. de Saint-Remy's house, ran to her ruin
through a flowery path; for, in the winter particularly, this lonely
alley was bordered with real bushes of bright and perfumed flowers.
Madame de Lucenay, jealous as a woman deeply in love always is, had
demanded the key of this small door.

If we dwell somewhat on the general aspect of this dwelling, it is that
it reflected (if we may be allowed the expression) one of those
degrading existences which from day to day become happily more rare, but
which it may be as well to note down as one of the peculiarities of the
epoch.

The interior of M. de Saint-Remy's house presented (viewed in this
light) a curious appearance, or rather the house was separated into two
distinct zones,--the ground floor, where he received his female
visitors; the first story, where he received his gambling companions or
his dinner or hunting associates; in a word, what he called his friends.
Thus on the ground floor was a bedchamber, which was nothing but gold,
mirrors, flowers, satin, and lace; then a small music-room, in which was
a harp and piano (M. de Saint-Remy was an excellent musician); a cabinet
of pictures; and then the boudoir, which communicated with the
conservatory; a dining-room for two persons, who were served and passed
away the dishes and plates by a turning window; a bath-room, a model of
luxury and Oriental refinement; and, close at hand, a small library, a
portion of which was arranged after the catalogue of that which La
Mettrie had collected for Frederic the Great. Such was this apartment.

It would be unavailing to say that all these rooms, furnished with
exquisite taste, and with a Sardanapalian luxury, had as ornaments
Watteaus little known; Bouchers never engraved; wanton subjects,
formerly purchased at enormous prices. There were, besides, groups
modelled in terra-cotta, by Clodien, and here and there, on plinths of
jasper or antique breccia, some rare copies, in white marble, of the
most jovial and lovely bacchanals of the Secret Museum of Naples.

Add to this, in summer there were in perspective the green recesses of a
well-planted garden, lonely, replete with flowers and birds, watered by
a small and sparkling fountain, which, before it spread itself on the
verdant turf, fell from a black and shaggy rock, scintillated like a
strip of silver gauze, and dashed into a clear basin like
mother-of-pearl, where beautiful white swans wantoned with grace and
freedom.

Then, when the mild and serene night came on, what shade, what perfume,
what silence, was there in those odorous clumps, whose thick foliage
served as a dais for the rustic seats formed of reeds and Indian mats.

During the winter, on the contrary, except the glass door which opened
to the hothouse, all was kept close shut. The transparent silk of the
blinds, the net lace of the curtains, made the daylight still more
mysterious. On all the pieces of furniture large tufts of exotic plants
seemed to put forth their large flowers, resplendent with gold and
enamel.

In order to do the honours of this temple, which seemed raised to
antique Love, or the denuded divinities of Greece, behold a man, young,
handsome, elegant, and distinguished,--by turns witty and tender,
romantic or libertine; now jesting and gay to folly, now full of charm
and grace; an excellent musician, gifted with one of those impassioned,
vibrating voices which women cannot hear without experiencing a deep
impression, almost physical,--in fact, a man essentially made for
love,--such was the vicomte. In Athens, no doubt, he would have been
admired, exalted, deified, as was Alcibiades; in our days, and at the
period of which we write, the vicomte was nothing more than a base
forger, a contemptible swindler.

The first story of M. de Saint-Remy's house was exceedingly masculine in
its whole appearance. It was there he received his many friends, all of
whom were of the very highest society. There was nothing effeminate,
nothing coquettish. The furniture was plain, but elegant, the ornaments
being first-rate weapons of all sorts, pictures of race-horses, who had
won for the vicomte a great number of magnificent gold and silver vases,
which were placed on the tables and sideboards.

The smoking-room and play-room were closed by a cheerful dining-room,
where eight persons (the number to which the guests were rigidly
confined when there was a first-class dinner) had often appreciated the
excellence of the cook, and the no less high merit of the wine of the
vicomte, before they faced him at some high game of whist for five or
six hundred louis, or shook the noisy dice-box at infernal hazard or
roulette.

These two widely opposite shades of M. de Saint-Remy disclosed, the
reader will follow us into the regions below, to the very comfortable
apartment of Edwards Patterson, the master of the horse of M. de
Saint-Remy, who had invited M. Boyer to breakfast. A very pretty English
maid-servant having withdrawn after she had brought in the silver
teapot, these two worthies remained alone.

Edwards was about forty years of age, and never did more skilful or
stouter coachman make a seat groan under his most imposing rotundity;
never did powdered wig enclose a more rubicund visage; and never did a
more knowing and competent driver hold in his four fingers and thumb the
reins of a four-in-hand. As good a judge of a horse as Tattersal (and in
his youth he had been as good a trainer as the old and celebrated
Chiffney), Edwards had been to the vicomte a most excellent coachman,
and a man perfectly capable of superintending the training of
race-horses on which he had betted heavily.

When he did not assume his sumptuous brown and silver livery on the
emblazoned hammercloth of his box, Edwards very much resembled an honest
English farmer; and it is under this aspect that we shall present him to
the reader, adding, at the same time, that beneath this round and red
visage there lurked all the pitiless and devilish cunning of the
horse-dealer.

M. Boyer, his guest, the confidential servant of the vicomte, was a
tall, thin man, with gray, smooth hair, bald forehead, cunning glance,
with a countenance calm, discreet, and reserved. He expressed himself in
somewhat choice phraseology, with polite, easy manners; he was tolerably
well informed, his political opinions being legitimist, and he could
take his part as first violin in an amateur quartette. From time to
time, and with the best air in the world, he took a pinch of snuff from
a gold snuff-box, set around with fine pearls, after which he
negligently shook with the back of his hand (as white and carefully
attended to as his master's) the particles of snuff from the frill of
his fine Holland shirt.

"Do you know, my dear Edwards," said Boyer, "that your maid, Betty,
really does your meals in a very fair manner! _Ma foi!_ now and then one
gets tired of high living."

"The fact is that Betty is a very good girl," said Edwards, who spoke
very good French. "I shall take her with me into my establishment, if I
make up my mind to set up in housekeeping; and on this point, since we
are alone, my dear Boyer, let us talk of business matters which you know
as well as I do."

"Why, yes, tolerably," said Boyer, modestly taking a pinch of snuff,
"one learns them so naturally, when they are the affairs of others that
occupy us."

"I want your advice on a very important point, and that's the reason I
have begged you to come and take a cup of tea with me."

"I'm at your service, my dear Edwards."

"You know that, besides the race-horses, I had an agreement with M. le
Vicomte to the complete providing of his stable, horses, and men, that
is to say, eight horses and five or six grooms and boys, for twenty-four
thousand francs (nine thousand guineas) a year, including my wages."

"That was moderate enough."

"For four years M. le Vicomte paid me very regularly; but about the
middle of last year he said to me, 'Edwards, I owe you about twenty-four
thousand francs. What value, at the lowest, do you set on my horses and
carriages?' 'Monsieur le Vicomte, the eight horses ought to fetch three
thousand francs (120_l._) each, one with another, and that would make
(and it's true, Boyer, for the pair of phaeton horses cost five hundred
guineas) exactly twenty-four thousand francs for the horses. As to the
carriages, there are four, let us say, for twelve thousand francs; that,
added to the twenty-four thousand francs for the horses, makes
thirty-six thousand francs.' 'Well,' replied the vicomte, 'buy the whole
of me at that price, on condition that for the twelve thousand francs
which you will owe me, paid as it were in advance, you shall keep and
place at my disposal horses, servants, and carriages for six months.'"

"And you very wisely acceded to the proposal, Edwards? It was a golden
gain to you."

"No doubt. In another fortnight the six months will have expired, and I
become proprietor of the horses and carriages."

"Nothing plainer. The agreement was drawn up by M. Badinot, the
vicomte's man of business, what do you want with my advice?"

"What should I do? To sell the horses and carriages in consequence of M.
le Vicomte's departure? All would sell well, as he is known as one of
the first judges in Paris; or ought I to set up as a horse-dealer with
my stud, which would make a capital beginning? What is your
opinion--your advice?"

"I advise you to do what I shall do myself."

"In what way?"

"I am in the same position as yourself."

"You?"

"M. le Vicomte detests details. When I entered in his service I had, by
savings and inheritance, sixty thousand francs (2,400_l._). I paid the
expenses of the house as you did of the stables; and every year M. le
Vicomte paid me without examining my account. At nearly the same time as
yourself I found myself out of pocket about twenty thousand francs on my
own account, and, to the tradespeople, sixty thousand francs. Then M. le
Vicomte made me the same proposition as to yourself, in order to
reimburse me. I was to sell the furniture of the house, including the
plate, which is very handsome, very fine paintings, etc., the whole
estimated at a hundred and forty thousand francs (5,600_l._). There were
eighty thousand francs to pay, and there remained sixty thousand francs
which I was to disburse until they were quite exhausted, in the expenses
of the table, the servants' wages, etc., and in nothing else. These were
the terms of the agreement."

"Because on that outlay you have a profit."

"As a matter of course; for I made all the agreements with the
tradespeople, whom I shall not pay until after the sale," said Boyer,
taking a huge pinch of snuff; "so that at the end of this month--"

"The furniture is yours, as the horses and carriages are mine."

"Precisely so. M. le Vicomte has gained by this, by living for the last
few months as he likes to live, _en grand seigneur_,--and that in the
very teeth of his creditors; for furniture, plate, horses, carriages,
which had all been paid for ready money when he came of age, have now
become the property of yourself and myself."

"And so M. le Vicomte is really ruined?"

"In five years."

"And M. le Vicomte inherited--"

"Only a miserable million (40,000_l._), ready money," said M. Boyer,
with a disdainful air, and taking a pinch of snuff. "Add to this two
hundred thousand francs of debts (8,000_l._), about--that's pretty well!
It was, therefore, to tell you, my dear Edwards, that I had an intention
of letting this house, so admirably furnished as it is, to some English
family, linen, glass, china, silver, conservatory. Some of your
country-people would pay a good rent for it?"

"Unquestionably. Why don't you do so?"

"Why, there's considerable risk, and so I make up my mind to sell the
whole at once. M. le Vicomte is also known as a connoisseur in
first-class furniture and objects of art, so that anything that he has
selected will always fetch double its value, and I am safe to realise a
large sum. Do as I do, Edwards, and realise--realise. Don't risk your
profits in speculation. You, first coachman of M. le Vicomte de
Saint-Remy,--why, there'll be a competition for you. And yesterday I
just heard of a minor who has recently been emancipated, a cousin of
Madame la Duchesse de Lucenay, the young Duc de Montbrison, who has just
arrived from Italy with his tutor, and is forming his establishment. Two
hundred and fifty thousand livres of income (10,000_l._) from land, my
dear Edwards, two hundred and fifty thousand livres a year,--just
entering into life,--twenty years of age only,--with all the illusions
of simple confidence, and all the desires of expenditure,--prodigal as a
prince. I know the steward; and I tell you, in confidence, he has all
but concluded with me as first _valet de chambre_. He patronises
me,--the fool!" And M. Boyer shrugged his shoulders, whilst he inhaled
another large pinch of snuff.

"You hope to get rid of him?"

"_Parbleu_, he is a jackanapes,--an ass! He places me there as if he
ought not to have any fears of me. Before two months I shall be in his
place."

"Two hundred and fifty thousand livres a year in land!" replied Edwards,
reflecting; "and a young man! It is a good house?"

"I tell you there is everything to make a man comfortable. I will speak
to my protector for you," said M. Boyer, with irony. "Take the place; it
is a fortune which has roots to it, and one may hold on by it for a long
time. It is not like the unfortunate million of M. le Vicomte, a
snowball, and nothing else,--a ray of a Parisian sun, and that's all. I
soon saw that I should only be a bird of passage here. It's a pity, for
the establishment did us credit; and, to the last moment, I will serve
M. le Vicomte with the respect and esteem due to him."

"_Ma foi_, my dear Boyer, I thank you, and accept your proposition. And,
now I think of it, suppose I were to propose the stud of M. le Vicomte
to this young duke! It is all ready, and known and admired all over
Paris."

"True, you may make a profitable affair of it."

"And you, why don't you propose to him this house so admirably fitted up
in every way? What could he find better?"

"Bravo! Edwards, you are a man of sense decidedly; you have suggested a
most excellent idea. We must ask the vicomte; he is such a good master
that he will not refuse to speak for us to the young duke. He may say
that, as he is going on the legation of Gerolstein, to which he is
attached, he wishes to get rid of his whole establishment. Let us see.
One hundred and sixty thousand francs for the house furnished, twenty
thousand francs for plate and pictures, fifty thousand francs for
stable and carriages, that makes two hundred and thirty thousand francs;
and it is a bargain for a young man who wishes to be set up at once in
the first style."

"And the horses!"

"And the capital table! Gallefroi, his cook, will leave a hundred times
better off than when he came here first. M. le Vicomte has given him
capital instruction,--has regularly refined him!"

"They say, too, that M. le Vicomte is such a capital player?"

"Admirable! Gaining large sums with even more indifference than he loses
them! And yet I never saw any one lose with better taste!"

"And the women, Boyer,--the women! Ah, you could tell a tale! You have
the sole _entrée_ to the apartments of the ground floor--"

"I have my secrets as you have yours, my dear fellow."

"Mine?"

"When M. le Vicomte ran his horses, had you not your confidences? I will
not attack the honesty of the jockeys of your opponents; but there were
reports--"

"Hush, my dear Boyer, a gentleman never compromises the reputation of a
jockey who is against him, and has the weakness to listen--"

"Then a gallant never compromises the reputation of a woman who has been
kind to him. So, I say, let's keep our secrets, or, rather, the secrets
of M. le Vicomte, my dear Edwards."

"Ah, good! What will he do now?"

"He is going to Germany in a good travelling carriage, with seven or
eight thousand francs, which he knows when to lay his hand upon. Oh, I
have no fears for the vicomte! He is one of those personages who always
fall on their feet, as they say."

"And he has no future expectancies?"

"None; for his father has nothing but just enough to live upon."

"His father?"

"Certainly."

"M. le Vicomte's father is not dead?"

"He was not dead five or six months ago when M. le Vicomte wrote to him
for some family papers."

"But we never see him here?"

"For reasons good. For fifteen years he has resided in the country at
Angers."

"But M. le Vicomte never visits him?"

"His father?"

"Yes."

"Never--never!"

"Have they quarrelled, then?"

"What I am going to tell you is no secret, for I have it from the old
man of business of M. the Prince de Noirmont."

"Father of Madame de Lucenay?" said Edwards, with a knowing glance at
Boyer, who, appearing not to understand him, replied coolly:

"Madame la Duchesse de Lucenay is the daughter of M. the Prince de
Noirmont. The father of M. le Vicomte was bosom friend of the prince.
Madame la Duchesse was then very young, and M. de Saint-Remy, senior,
who was very fond of her, treated her as if she were his own child. I
learnt these details from Simon, the prince's man of business; and I may
speak unhesitatingly, for the adventure I am about to narrate to you
was, at the time, the talk of all Paris. In spite of his sixty years,
the father of M. le Vicomte is a man of iron disposition, with the
courage of a lion, of probity which I call almost fabulous. He had
scarcely any property of his own, and had married the vicomte's mother
for love. She was a young person of good fortune, possessing about a
million of francs, at the melting of which we have had the honour to be
present." And M. Boyer bowed. Edwards imitated him.

"The marriage was a very happy one, until the moment when the father of
M. le Vicomte found--accidentally, as they say--some letters, which
proved that, during one of his absences three or four years after his
marriage, his wife had had an attachment for a certain Polish count."

"That often happens to these Poles. When I was at the Marquis de
Senneval's, the marquise, a regular she-devil--"

"My dear Edwards," interrupted M. Boyer, "you should learn the alliances
of our great families before you speak, or you will sadly blunder."

"How?"

"Madame la Marquise de Senneval is sister of M. le Duc de Montbrison,
into whose establishment you wish to enter."

"Ah, the devil!"

"Judge of the effect if you had spoken thus of her before tattling
people! You would not have remained in the house twenty-four hours."

"True, Boyer; I must endeavour to 'get up' my peerage."

"I resume. The father of M. le Vicomte discovered, after twelve or
fifteen years of a marriage very happy until then, that he had this
Polish count to complain of. Fortunately, or unfortunately, M. le
Vicomte was born nine months after his father, or rather M. le Comte de
Saint-Remy, had returned from this unpropitious journey, so that he
could not be certain, in spite of the greatest probabilities, whether or
not M. le Vicomte could fairly charge him with paternity. However, the
comte separated instantly from his wife, would not touch a stiver of the
fortune she had brought him, and returned into the country with about
eighty thousand francs which he possessed of his own. But you have yet
to learn the rancour of this diabolical character. Although the outrage
had been perpetrated fifteen years when he detected it, the father of M.
le Vicomte, accompanied by M. de Fermont, one of his relatives, sought
out this Polonese seducer, and found him at Venice, after having sought
for him during eighteen months in every city in Europe."

"What determination!"

"A demon's rancour, I say, my dear Edwards! At Venice there was a
ferocious duel, in which the Pole was killed. All passed off honourably;
but they tell me that, when the father of M. le Vicomte saw the Pole
fall at his feet mortally wounded, he exhibited such ferocious joy that
his relative, M. de Fermont, was obliged to take him away from the place
of combat; the comte wishing, as he declared, to see his enemy die
before his eyes."

"What a man! What a man!"

"The comte returned to Paris, saw his wife, told her he had killed the
Pole, and went back into the country. Since that time he never saw her
or her son, and resided at Angers, where he lived, as they say, like a
regular old wolf, with what was left of his eighty thousand francs,
which had been sweated down not a little, as you may suppose, by his
chase after the Pole. At Angers he saw no one, unless it were the wife
and daughter of his relative, M. de Fermont, who has been dead some
years now. Besides, it was an unfortunate family, for the brother of
Madame de Fermont blew his brains out some months ago."

"And the mother of M. le Vicomte?"

"He lost her a long time ago; that's the reason that, when he attained
his majority, M. le Vicomte came into his mother's fortune. So, you see,
my dear Edwards, that, as to inheritance, the vicomte has nothing, or
almost less than nothing, to expect from his father."

"Who, moreover, detests him."

[Illustration: _He exhibited such ferocious joy._
Original Etching by Mercier.]

"He never would see him after the discovery in question, being fully
persuaded, no doubt, that he is the son of the Pole."

The conversation of these two personages was interrupted by a gigantic
footman, elaborately powdered, although it was scarcely eleven o'clock.

"M. Boyer, M. le Vicomte has rung his bell twice," said the giant.

Boyer appeared immensely distressed at having apparently been
inattentive to his duty, rose hastily, and followed the footman with as
much haste and respect as if he had not been himself, in his proper
person, the proprietor of his master's house.




CHAPTER X.

THE COMTE DE SAINT-REMY.


It was about two hours after Boyer had left Edwards to go to M. de
Saint-Remy, when the father of the latter knocked at the door of the
house in the Rue de Chaillot.

M. de Saint-Remy, senior, was a tall man, still active and vigorous in
spite of his age. The extreme darkness of his complexion contrasted
singularly with the peculiar whiteness of his beard and hair; his thick
eyebrows still remained black, and half covered his piercing eyes deeply
sunk in his head. Although from a kind of misanthropic feeling he wore
clothes which were extremely shabby, yet there was in his entire
appearance something so calm and dignified as to inspire general
respect.

The door of his son's house opened, and he went in.

A porter in dress livery of brown and silver, with his hair carefully
powdered, and dressed in silk stockings, appeared on the threshold of an
elegant lodge, which resembled the smoky cave of the Pipelets as much as
does the tub of a stocking-darner the splendid shop of a fashionable
dressmaker.

"M. de Saint-Remy?" said the comte, in an abrupt tone.

The porter, instead of replying, scrutinised with impertinent curiosity
the white beard, the threadbare frock coat, and the napless hat of the
unknown, who held a stout cane in his hand.

"M. de Saint-Remy?" again said the comte, impatiently, and much
irritated at the insolent demeanour of the porter.

"M. le Vicomte is not at home."

So saying, the co-mate of M. Pipelet opened the door, and, with a
significant gesture, invited the unknown to retire.

"I will wait for him," said the comte, and he moved forward.

"Holloa! Come, I say, my friend, that's not the way people enter other
people's houses!" exclaimed the porter, running after the comte, and
taking him by the arm.

"What, fellow!" replied the old man, with a threatening air, and lifting
his cane, "dare you to lay your hands on me?"

"I dare do more than that if you do not be off quickly. I tell you the
vicomte is not within; so now go away, will you?"

At this moment Boyer, attracted by the sound of contending voices,
appeared on the steps which led to the house.

"What is the meaning of this noise?" he inquired.

"M. Boyer, it is this man, who will go into the house, although I have
told him that M. le Vicomte is not within."

"Hold your tongue!" said the comte. And then addressing Boyer, who had
come towards them, "I wish to see my son. He is out, and therefore I
will wait for him."

We have already said that Boyer was neither ignorant of the existence
nor the misanthropy of his master's father; and being, moreover, a
physiognomist, he did not for a moment doubt the comte's identity, but,
bowing respectfully, replied:

"If M. le Comte will follow me, I will conduct him--"

"Very well!" said M. de Saint-Remy, who followed Boyer, to the extreme
amazement of the porter.

Preceded by the _valet de chambre_, the comte reached the first story,
and followed his guide across the small sitting-room of Florestan de
Saint-Remy (we shall in future call the viscount by his baptismal name
to distinguish him more easily from his father) until they reached a
small antechamber communicating with the sitting-room, and sitting
immediately over the boudoir on the ground floor.

"M. le Vicomte was obliged to go out this morning," said Boyer. "If M.
le Comte will be so kind as to wait a little for him, he will not be
long before he comes in." And the _valet de chambre_ quitted the
apartment.

Left alone, the count looked about him with entire indifference; but
suddenly he started, his face became animated, his cheeks grew purple,
and anger agitated his features. His eyes had lighted on the portrait of
his wife, the mother of Florestan de Saint-Remy! He folded his arms
across his breast, bowed his head, as if to escape this sight, and
strode rapidly up and down the room.

"This is strange!" he said. "That woman is dead--I killed her lover--and
yet my wound is as deep, as sensitive, as the first day I received it;
my thirst of vengeance is not yet quenched; my savage misanthropy, which
has all but entirely isolated me from the world, has left me alone, and
in constant contemplation of the thought of my injury. Yes; for the
death of the accomplice of this infamy has avenged the outrage, but not
effaced its memory from my remembrance. Oh, yes! I feel that what
renders my hatred inextinguishable is the thought that, for fifteen
years, I was a dupe; that for fifteen years I treated with respect and
esteem a wretched woman who had infamously betrayed me; that I have
loved her son--the son of crime--as if he had indeed been my own child;
for the aversion with which Florestan now inspires me proves but too
clearly that he is the offspring of adultery! And yet I have not the
absolute conviction of his illegitimacy: it is just possible that he is
still my child! And sometimes that thought is agony to me! If he were
indeed my son! Then my abandonment of him, the coldness I have always
testified towards him, my constant refusals to see him, are
unpardonable. But, after all, he is rich, young, happy; and of what use
should I be to him? Yes; but then, perchance, his tenderness might have
soothed the bitter anguish which his mother has caused me!"

After a moment of deep reflection the comte shrugged his shoulders and
continued:

"Still these foolish suppositions, weak as useless, which revive all my
suffering! Let me be a man, and overcome the absurd and painful emotion
which I experience when I think that I am again about to see him whom,
for ten years, I have loved with the most mad idolatry,--whom I have
loved as my son; he--he--the son of the man whose blood I saw flow with
such intense joy! And they would not let me be present at his last
agony,--at his death! Ah, they know not what it was to have been
stricken as deeply as I was! Then, too, to think that my name--always
honoured and respected--should have been so often mentioned with scoff
and derision, as is always mentioned that of a wronged husband! To think
that my name--a name of which I had always been so proud--should now
belong to a man whose father's heart I could have plucked out! Ah, I
only wonder I do not go mad when I think of it!"

M. de Saint-Remy continued walking up and down in great agitation, and
mechanically lifted up the curtain which separated the apartment in
which he was from Florestan's private sitting-room, and advanced several
strides into that chamber.

He had disappeared for the moment, when a small door hidden in the
hangings of the wall opened softly, and Madame de Lucenay, wrapped in a
large green cashmere shawl, having a very plain black velvet bonnet on,
entered the salon, which the comte had but that instant quitted.

It is necessary to offer some explanation of this unexpected visit.

Florestan de Saint-Remy on the previous evening made an appointment with
the duchess for the next morning. She having, as we have said, a key of
the little gate in the narrow lane, had, as usual, entered by the
conservatory, relying on finding Florestan on the ground floor boudoir;
but, not finding him there, she believed (as had before occurred) that
the vicomte was engaged in his cabinet.

A secret staircase led from the boudoir to the story above. Madame de
Lucenay went up without hesitation, supposing that M. de Saint-Remy had
given orders, as usual, to be denied to everybody. Unluckily, a
threatening call from M. Badinot had compelled Florestan to go out
hastily, and he had forgotten his rendezvous with Madame de Lucenay.
She, not seeing any person, was about to enter the cabinet, when the
curtain was thrown on one side, and the duchess found herself confronted
with Florestan's father.

She could not repress a shriek.

"Clotilde!" exclaimed the comte, greatly astonished.

Intimately acquainted with the Prince de Noirmont, father of Madame de
Lucenay, M. de Saint-Remy had known her from her childhood, and, during
her girlhood, calling her, as he now did, by her baptismal name. The
duchess, motionless with surprise, continued gazing on the old man with
his white beard and mean attire, whose features she could not recall to
mind.

"You, Clotilde!" repeated the comte, in an accent of painful reproach;
"you here, in my son's house!"

These last words confirmed the vague reminiscence of Madame de Lucenay,
who then recognised Florestan's father, and said:

"M. de Saint-Remy?"

The position was so plain and declaratory that the duchess, whose
peculiar and resolute character is known to the reader, disdained to
have recourse to falsehood, in order to account for her appearance
there; and, relying on the really paternal affection which the comte had
always testified for her, she said to him, with that air at once
graceful, cordial, and decided, which was so peculiarly her own:

"Come, now, do not scold; you are my old, very old friend. Recollect you
called me your dear little Clotilde at least twenty years ago."

"Yes, I called you so then; but--"

"I know beforehand all you would say: you know my motto, 'What is, is
what will be.'"

"Oh, Clotilde!"

"Spare your reproaches, and let me rather express my extreme delight at
seeing you again: your presence reminds me of so many things,--my poor
dear father, in the first place, and then--heigho! my 'sweet fifteen!'
Oh, how delightful it is to be fifteen!"

"It is because your father was my friend that--"

"Oh, yes," said the duchess, interrupting M. de Saint-Remy, "he was so
very fond of you! You remember he always called you the man with the
green ribands, and you always told him, 'You spoil Clotilde; mind, I
tell you so;' and he replied, whilst he kissed me, 'I really do believe
I spoil her, and I must make all haste and double my spoiling, for very
soon the world will deprive me of her to spoil her in their turn.' Dear
father! What a friend I lost!" and a tear started to the lovely eyes of
Madame de Lucenay; then, extending her hand to M. de Saint-Remy, she said,
in a faltering voice, "But indeed, in truth, I am happy, very happy, to
see you again, you call up such precious remembrances,--memories so dear
to my heart!"

The comte, although he had long been acquainted with her original and
decisive disposition, was really amazed at the ease with which Clotilde
reconciled herself to her exceedingly delicate position, which was no
other than to meet her lover's father in her lover's house.

"If you have been in Paris for any time," continued Madame de Lucenay,
"it is very naughty of you not to have come and seen me before this; for
we should have had such long talks over the past; for you must know that
I have reached an age when there is an excessive pleasure in saying to
old friends, 'Don't you remember!'"

Assuredly the duchess could not have discoursed with more confirmed
tranquillity if she were receiving a morning visit at the Hôtel de
Lucenay. M. de Saint-Remy could not prevent himself from saying with
severity:

"Instead of talking of the past, it would be more fitting to discourse
of the present. My son is expected every instant, and--"

"No," said Clotilde, interrupting him, "I have the key of the little
door of the conservatory, and his arrival is always announced by a ring
of the bell when he returns by the principal entrance; and at that sound
I shall disappear as mysteriously as I arrived, and will leave you to
all your pleasure, at again seeing Florestan. What a delightful surprise
you will give him! For it is so long since you forsook him. Really, now
I think of it, it is I who have to reproach you."

"Me? Reproach me?"

"Assuredly. What guide, what aid had he, when he entered on the world?
whilst there are a thousand things for which a father's counsels are
indispensable. So, really and truly, it is very wrong of you--"

Here Madame de Lucenay, yielding to the whimsicality of her character,
could not help laughing most heartily, and saying to the comte:

"It must be owned that our position is at least an odd one, and that it
is very funny that it should be I who am sermonising you."

"Why, it does seem very strange to me, I assure you; but I deserve
neither your sermons nor your praises. I have come to my son's house,
but not for my son's sake. At his age, he has not, or has no longer, any
need of my advice."

"What do you mean?"

"You ought to know the reason for which I hold the world, and Paris,
especially, in such horror," said the comte, with a painful and
distressing expression; "and you may therefore believe that nothing but
circumstances of the utmost importance could have induced me to leave
Angers and have come hither--to this house. But I have been forced to
overcome my repugnance, and have recourse to everybody who could aid or
help me in a search which is most interesting to me."

"Oh, then," said Madame de Lucenay, with affectionate eagerness, "I beg
you will make use of me; dispose of me in any way in which I can be
useful to you. Do you want any interest? Because De Lucenay must have
some degree of influence; for, the days when I go to dine with my
great-aunt, De Montbrison, he entertains the deputies; and men don't do
that without some motives; and the trouble ought to be recompensed by
some contingent advantages, such as a certain amount of influence over
persons, who, in their turn, have a great deal of interest. So, I
repeat, if we can assist you, rely on us. Then there is my cousin, the
young Duke de Montbrison, who, being a peer himself, is connected with
all the young peers. If he can do anything, why, I am sure you have but
to command him. In a word, dispose of me and mine. You know whether or
not I deserve the title of a warm and devoted friend!"

"I know it well, and do not refuse your aid, although--"

"Come, my dear Alcestis, we know how the world wags, and let us act as
if we did. Whether we are here or elsewhere, it is of little
consequence, I imagine, as to the affair which interests you, and which
now interests me very much because it is yours. Let us then talk of it,
and tell me all I request of you."

So saying, the duchess approached the fireplace, leaned on the
mantelpiece, and placed on the fender one of the prettiest feet in the
world, which were, at the moment, somewhat chilled. With perfect tact
Madame de Lucenay seized the opportunity of saying no more about the
vicomte, and of engaging M. de Saint-Remy to talk of a subject to which
he attached such great importance. Clotilde's conduct would have been
very different in the presence of his mother, and to her she would have
avowed with pleasure and pride how long he had been so dear to, so
beloved by, her.

       *       *       *       *       *

In spite of his strictness and surliness, M. de Saint-Remy yielded to
the influence of the cavalier and cordial demeanour of this lady, whom
he had seen and loved when a child, and he almost forgot that he was
talking to the mistress of his son. Besides, how could he resist the
contagion of example, while the subject of a position which was
inexpressibly embarrassing did not seem disturbed, or even think she
ought to be disturbed, by the difficulty of the situation in which she
unexpectedly found herself?

"Perhaps you do not know, Clotilde," said the comte, "that I have been
living at Angers for a very long time?"

"Yes, I know it."

"In spite of the solitude I sought, I had selected that city because one
of my relations lived there,--M. de Fermont,--who, after the heavy blow
that had smitten me, behaved to me like a brother. After having
accompanied me to almost every city in Europe, where I hoped to meet
with the man I desired to slay, he served me for second in the duel--"

"Yes, that terrible duel; my father told me all concerning it!"
answered the duchess, in a sad tone of voice. "But, fortunately,
Florestan is ignorant of that duel, as well as the cause that led to
it."

"I wished to let him still respect his mother," replied the comte,
stifling a sigh. He then continued: "Some years afterwards, M. de
Fermont died at Angers in my arms, leaving a daughter and a wife, whom,
in spite of my misanthropy, I was obliged to love, because nothing in
the world could be more pure, more noble, than these two excellent
creatures. I lived alone in a remote quarter of the city; but when my
fits of black melancholy gave me some respite, I went to Madame de
Fermont to talk with her and her daughter of him we had both lost. As
whilst he was alive, so still I came to soothe and calm myself in that
gentle friendship in whose bosom I had henceforth concentrated all my
affections. The brother of Madame de Fermont dwelt in Paris, and managed
all his sister's affairs after her husband's decease. He had placed
about a hundred thousand crowns (12,000_l._), which was all the widow's
fortune, with a notary.

"After some time another and fearful shock affected Madame de Fermont.
Her brother, M. de Renneville, killed himself about eight months ago. I
did all in my power to comfort her. Her first sorrow somewhat abated, she
went to Paris to arrange her affairs. After some time I learned that, by
her orders, they were selling off the furniture she had in her small abode
at Angers, and that the money was applied to the payment of a few little
debts she had left there. This disturbed me, and, on inquiry, I learned
that this unhappy lady and her daughter were in dire distress,--the
victims, no doubt, of a bankruptcy. If Madame de Fermont could, in such
straits, rely on any one, it was on me, and yet I never received any
information or application from her. It was when I lost this acquaintance
that was so delightful to me that I felt all its value. You cannot imagine
my suffering and my uneasiness after the departure of Madame de Fermont
and her daughter. Their father--husband--had been a brother to me, and I
was resolved, therefore, to find them again, to learn how it was they had
not addressed me in their ruin, poor as I was; and therefore I set out,
leaving at Angers a person who, if anything was learned, would inform me
instantly of the news."

"Well?"

"Yesterday a letter from Angers reached me,--they know nothing. When I
reached Paris I began my researches. I went first to the old servant of
Madame de Fermont's brother; then they told me she lived on the Quai of
the Canal St. Martin."

"Well, that address--"

"Had been theirs; but they had moved, and where to was not known.
Unfortunately, up to the present time, my researches have been useless.
After a thousand vain attempts before I utterly despaired, I resolved to
come here. Perhaps Madame de Fermont, who, from some inexplicable
motive, has not asked from me aid or assistance, may have had recourse
to my son as to the son of her husband's best friend. No doubt this hope
has but very slight foundation; but I will not neglect any chance that
may enable me to discover the poor woman and her child."

The Duchess de Lucenay, who had been listening to the comte with the
utmost attention, said, suddenly:

"Really it would be very singular if these should be the same persons in
whom Madame d'Harville takes so much interest."

"What persons?" inquired the comte.

"The widow of whom you speak is still young, is she not?--her face very
striking?"

"Yes, but how do you know?"

"Her daughter, as lovely as an angel, and about sixteen at most?"

"Yes, yes."

"And her name is Claire?"

"Oh, for mercy's sake, say, where are they?"

"Alas! I know not."

"You know not?"

"I will tell you all I know. A lady of my acquaintance, Madame
d'Harville, came to me to inquire whether or not I knew a widow lady
whose daughter was named Claire, and whose brother had committed
suicide. Madame d'Harville inquired of me because she had seen these
words, 'Write to Madame de Lucenay,' written at the bottom of a rough
sketch of a letter which this unfortunate lady was writing to some
stranger of whom she was asking assistance."

"She wished to write to you; and wherefore to you?"

"I cannot solve your question."

"But she knew you, it would seem," said M. de Saint-Remy, struck with a
sudden idea.

"What mean you?"

"She had heard me speak of your father a hundred times, as well as of
you and your generous and excellent heart. In her misfortune, it
occurred to her to address you."

"That really does explain this."

"And Madame d'Harville--tell me, how did she get this sketch of a letter
into her possession?"

"That I do not know; all I can say is, that, without knowing whither
this poor mother and child had gone for refuge, she was, I believe, on
the trace of them."

"Then I rely on you, Clotilde, to introduce me to Madame d'Harville. I
must see her this very day."

"Impossible! Her husband has just been the victim of a most afflicting
accident: a pistol which he did not know to be loaded went off in his
hands, and he was killed on the spot."

"How horrible!"

"The marquise went instantly to pass the first months of her mourning
with her father in Normandy."

"Clotilde, I beseech you, write to her to-day; ask her for all the
information in her power, and, as she takes an interest in these poor
women, say she cannot find a warmer auxiliary than myself; that my only
desire is to find the widow of my friend, and share with her and her
daughter the little I possess. They are now all my family."

"Ever the same, always generous and devoted! Rely on me. I will write
to-day to Madame d'Harville. Where shall I address my answer?"

"To Asnières _Poste-Restante_."

"How odd! Why do you live there, and not in Paris?"

"I detest Paris, because of the recollections it excites in me!" said M.
de Saint-Remy, with a gloomy air. "My old physician, Doctor Griffon,
with whom I have kept up a correspondence, has a small house on the
banks of the Seine, near Asnières, which he does not occupy in the
winter; he offered it to me; it is almost close to Paris, and there I
could be undisturbed, and find the solitude I desire. So I accepted it."

"I will then write to you at Asnières, and I can give you some
information which may be useful to you, and which I had from Madame
d'Harville. Madame de Fermont's ruin has been occasioned by the roguery
of the notary in whose hands all your deceased relative's fortune was
deposited. The notary denied that the money was ever placed in his
hands."

"The scoundrel! And his name?"

"M. Jacques Ferrand," replied the duchess, without being able to conceal
her inclination to laugh.

"How strange you are, Clotilde!" said the comte, surprised and annoyed;
"nothing can be more serious, more sad than this, and yet you laugh."

In fact, Madame de Lucenay, at the recollection of the amorous
declaration of the notary, had been unable to repress her hilarity.

"Pardon me, my dear sir," she replied, "but this notary is such a
singular being, and they tell such odd stories about him; but, in truth,
if his reputation as an honest man is not more deserved than his
reputation as a religious man (and I declare that is hypocrisy) he is a
great wretch."

"And he lives--"

"Rue du Sentier."

"I will call upon him. What you tell me confirms certain other
suspicions."

"What suspicions?"

"From certain information as to the death of the brother of my poor
friend, I should be almost tempted to believe that that unhappy man,
instead of committing suicide, had been the victim of assassination."

"And what can make you suppose that?"

"Several reasons, which would be too long to detail to you now. I will
leave you. Do not forget the promises of service which you have made me
in your own and your husband's name."

"What, will you go without seeing Florestan?"

"You may suppose how painful this interview would be to me. I would
brave it only in the hope of finding some information as to Madame de
Fermont, being unwilling to neglect anything to discover her. Now, then,
adieu!"

"Ah, you are pitiless!"

"Do you not know?"

"I know that your son was never in greater need of your advice."

"What, is he not rich--happy?"

"Yes, but he is ignorant of mankind. Blindly extravagant, because he is
generous and confiding in everything, and everywhere and always free and
noble, I fear people take advantage of his liberality. If you but knew
the nobleness of his heart! I have never dared to preach to him on the
subject of his expenditure and want of care: in the first place, because
I am as inconsiderate as himself, and next, in the second place, for
other reasons; whilst you, on the contrary--"

Madame de Lucenay could not finish. The voice of Florestan de Saint-Remy
was heard. He entered hastily into the cabinet next to the room in which
they were, and, after having shut the door suddenly, he said, in a
broken voice, to some one who accompanied him:

"But it is impossible."

"I tell you again," replied the clear and sharp voice of M. Badinot, "I
tell you again that, if not, why, in four hours you will be apprehended;
for, if he has not the cash forthwith, our man will lodge his complaint
with the king's attorney-general; and you know the result of a forgery
like this,--the galleys, the galleys, my poor dear vicomte!"




CHAPTER XI.

THE INTERVIEW.


It is impossible to paint the look which Madame de Lucenay and the
father of Florestan exchanged at these terrible words,--"The galleys,
the galleys, my poor dear vicomte!" The comte became deadly pale, and
leant on the back of an armchair, whilst his knees seemed to sink
beneath him. His venerable and respected name,--his name dishonoured by
the man whom he accused of being the fruit of adultery!

The first feeling over, the contracted features of the old man, a
threatening gesture which he made as he advanced towards the adjoining
apartment, betrayed a resolution so alarming that Madame de Lucenay
seized his hand, and said, in an accent of the most perfect conviction:

"He is innocent; I will swear it. Listen in silence."

The comte paused. He wished to believe what the duchess said to him, and
she was entirely persuaded of Florestan's untarnished honour. To obtain
fresh sacrifices from this woman, so blindly generous,--sacrifices which
alone could save him from arrest,--and the prosecution of Jacques
Ferrand, the vicomte had affirmed to Madame de Lucenay that, duped by a
scoundrel from whom he had taken a forged bill in exchange, he ran the
risk of being considered as the forger's accomplice, as having himself
put this bill into circulation. Madame de Lucenay knew that the vicomte
was imprudent, extravagant, reckless; but she never for an instant
supposed him capable, not only of a base or an infamous action, but
even of the slightest indiscretion. Twice lending him considerable sums
under very trying circumstances, she had wished to render him a friendly
service, the vicomte expressly accepting these loans under the condition
that he should return them; for there were persons, he said, who owed
him double that amount; and his style of living made it seem probable.

Besides, Madame de Lucenay, yielding to the impulse of her natural
kindness, had only thought of how she could be useful to Florestan,
without ever reflecting as to whether or not he would ever return the
sums thus advanced. He said so, and she did not doubt him; for,
otherwise, would he have accepted such large amounts? When, then, she
thus answered for Florestan's honour, entreating the old comte to listen
to his son's conversation, the duchess thought that it was a question of
the breach of honour of which the vicomte had declared himself the
victim, and that he must stand forth completely exonerated in the eyes
of his father.

"Again I declare," continued Florestan, in a troubled voice, "this
Petit-Jean is a scamp; he assured me that he had no other bills in his
hands but those which I received from him yesterday and three days
previously. I believed this one was still in circulation, and only due
three months hence, in London, at the house of Adams and Company."

"Yes, yes," said the sarcastic voice of Badinot, "I know, my dear
vicomte, that you had managed the affair very cleverly, so that your
forgeries would not be detected until you were a long way off; but you
tried to 'do' those who were more cunning than yourself."

"And you dare to say that to me, now, rogue as you are," exclaimed
Florestan, furious with anger, "when was it not you yourself who brought
me into contact with the person who negotiated these bills?"

"Now, my dear aristocrat," replied Badinot, coolly, "be cool! You very
skilfully counterfeit commercial signatures; but, although they are so
adroitly done, that is no reason why you should treat your friends with
disagreeable familiarity; and, if you give way to unseemly fits of
temper, I shall leave you, and then you may arrange this matter by
yourself."

"And do you think it possible for a man to be calm in such a position as
that in which I find myself? If what you say be true, if this charge be
to-day preferred at the office of the attorney-general, I am lost!"

"It is really as I tell you, unless you have again recourse to your
charming, blue-eyed Providence."

"Impossible!"

"Then make up your mind to the worst. It is a pity; it was the last
bill; and for five and twenty thousand miserable francs (1,000_l._) to
go and take the air at Toulon is awkward, absurd, foolish! How could a
clever fellow like you allow yourself to be thus taken aback?"

"What can I do? What can I do? Nothing here is my own, and I have not
twenty louis in the world left."

"Your friends?"

"Why, I am in debt to every one who could lend me. Do you think else
that I am such a fool as to have waited until to-day before I applied to
them?"

"True; but, come, let us discuss the matter quietly; that is the best
way of arriving at a reasonable conclusion. Just now, I wish to explain
to you how you had been met by a party more clever than yourself, but
you did not attend to me."

"Well, tell me now, if that will do any good."

"Let us recapitulate. You said to me two months since, 'I have bills on
different banking-houses, at long dates, for a hundred and thirteen
thousand francs (4,520_l._), and, my dear Badinot, I wish you to find me
the means of cashing them.'"

"Well, and then--"

"Listen: I asked you to let me see these bills; a certain something made
me suspect that they were forged, although so admirably done. I did not
suspect, it is true, that you were so expert in calligraphy; but,
employing myself in looking after your fortune when you had no longer
any fortune to look after, I found you were completely done up! I had
arranged the deed by which your horses, your carriages, and the
furniture of this house became the property of Boyer and Edwards. Thus,
then, there was no wonder at my astonishment when I found you in
possession of commercial securities to such a considerable amount, eh?"

"Never mind your astonishment, but come to the point."

"I am close upon it. I have enough experience or timidity not to be very
anxious to mix myself up with affairs of this nature; I therefore
advised you to consult a third party, who, no less clear-sighted than
myself, suspected the trick you desired to play him."

"Impossible! He would not have discounted the bills if he had believed
them forged."

"How much money down did you get for these hundred and thirteen thousand
francs?"

"Twenty-five thousand francs in ready money, and the rest in small debts
to collect."

"And how much of these small debts did you collect?"

"Nothing, as you very well know; they were fictitious; but still he
risked twenty-five thousand francs."

"How green you are, my dear vicomte! Having my commission of a hundred
louis to receive of you if the affair came off, I took very good care
not to say a word to No. 3 as to the real state of your affairs. Thus he
believed you entirely at your ease, and he, moreover, knew how you were
adored by a certain great lady, immensely rich, who would not allow you
to be left in any difficulties, and thus he was quite sure of
recovering at least as much as he advanced. He ran a risk, certainly, of
losing something, but he also ran a chance of gaining very considerably;
and his calculation was correct, for, the other day, you counted out to
him a hundred thousand francs, good and sound, in order to retire the
bill for fifty-eight thousand francs; and, yesterday, thirty thousand
francs for the second; for that he contented himself, it is true, with
the actual amount. How you raised these thirty thousand francs
yesterday, devil fetch me, if I can guess! But you are a wonderful
fellow! You see, now, that, to wind up the account, if Petit-Jean forces
you to pay the last bill of twenty-five thousand francs, he will have
received from you a hundred and fifty-five thousand francs for the
twenty-five thousand which he originally handed to you. So I was quite
right when I said that you had met with a person even more clever than
yourself."

"But why did he say that this last bill which he presents to-day was
negotiated?"

"That you might not take the alarm, he told you also that, except that
of fifty-eight thousand francs, the others were in circulation; the
first being paid, yesterday comes the second, and to-day the third."

"Scoundrel!"

"Listen: every one for himself; but let us talk coolly. This must prove
to you that Petit-Jean (and, between ourselves, I should not be
astonished to find out that, in spite of his sanctity, Jacques Ferrand
went snacks in the speculation), this must prove, I say, that
Petit-Jean, led on by your first payments, speculates on this last bill,
as he has speculated on the others, quite certain that your friends will
not allow you to be handed over to a court of assizes. It is for you to
see whether or not these friendships are yet drained dry, or if there
are yet a few more drops to be squeezed out; for if, in three hours, the
twenty-five thousand francs are not forthcoming, noble vicomte, you
will be in the 'Stone Jug.'"

"Which you keep saying to me--"

"In order that you may thoroughly comprehend me, and agree, perhaps, to
try and draw another feather from the wing of this generous duchess."

"I repeat, it is useless to think of such a thing. Any hope of finding
twenty-five thousand francs in three hours, after the sacrifices she has
already made, would be madness to expect."

"To please you, happy mortal, impossibilities would be attempted!"

"Oh, she has already tried impossibilities; for it was one to borrow a
hundred thousand francs from her husband, and to succeed; but such
phenomena are not expected twice in a lifetime. Now, my dear Badinot, up
to this time you have had no cause to complain of me. I have always been
generous. Try and obtain some delay from this wretch, Petit-Jean. You
know very well I always find a way of recompensing those who serve me;
and when once this last affair is got over I will try again, and you
shall be satisfied."

"Petit-Jean is as inflexible as you are unreasonable."

"I!"

"Try once more to interest your generous friend in your sad fate. Devil
take it! Why not tell her plump all about it; not, as you have already,
that you have been the dupe of forgers, but that you are a forger
yourself?"

"I will never make to her any such confession; it would be to shame
myself for no advantage."

"Do you prefer, then, that she should learn the fact to-morrow by the
_Gazette des Tribunaux_."

"I have three hours before me, and can fly."

"Where can you go without money? But look at the other side of the
matter. This last forged bill retired, you will be again in a splendid
position; you will only have a few debts. Come, promise me that you
will again speak to your duchess. You are such a fellow for the women!
You know how to make yourself interesting in spite of your errors; and,
let the worst come to the worst, they will like you a little the worse,
or not at all; but they will extricate you from your mess. Come, come,
see your lovely and loving friend once more. I will run to Petit-Jean,
and I feel sure I shall get a respite of an hour or two."

"Hell! Must I, then, drink the draught of shame to the very dregs?"

"Come, come, good luck; be tender, passionate, charming. I will run to
Petit-Jean; you will find me there until three o'clock; later than that
will be useless; the attorney-general's office closes at four o'clock."
And M. Badinot left the apartment.

When the door was closed, they heard Florestan exclaim in accents of the
deepest despair: "_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_"

During this conversation, which unveiled to the comte the infamy of his
son, and to Madame de Lucenay the infamy of the man she had so blindly
loved, both had remained motionless, scarcely breathing, beneath this
fearful disclosure. It would be impossible to depict the mute eloquence
of the agonising scene which took place between this young lady and the
comte when he had no longer any possible doubt as to Florestan's crime.
Extending his arms to the room in which his son was, the old man smiled
with bitterest sarcasm, casting an overwhelming look on Madame de
Lucenay, which seemed to say, "And this is the man for whom you have
braved all shame,--made every sacrifice! This is he whom you have
reproached me for abandoning?"

The duchess understood the reproach, and, bowing her head, she felt all
the weight of her shame. The lesson was terrible. By degrees, however, a
haughty indignation succeeded to the cruel anxiety which had contracted
the features of Madame de Lucenay. The inexcusable faults of this lady
were at least palliated by the sincerity and disinterestedness of her
love, by the boldness of her devotion and the boundlessness of her
generosity, by the frankness of her character, and by her inexorable
aversion from all that was contemptible and base.

Still too young, too handsome, too _recherché_, to feel the humiliation
of having been merely made a tool of, when once the feeling of love was
suddenly crushed within her, this haughty and decided woman felt no
longer hatred or anger, but instantaneously, and without any transition,
a deadly disgust, an icy disdain, at once destroyed all that affection
hitherto so strong. She was no longer the mistress, unworthily deceived
by her lover, but the lady of high blood and rank detecting a man of her
circle to be a swindler and a forger, and driving him forth. Supposing
that there were even some extenuating circumstances for the ignominy of
Florestan, Madame de Lucenay would not have admitted them; for, in her
estimation, the man who crossed certain bounds of honour, whether from
vice, weakness, or persuasion, no longer had an existence in her eyes,
honourable demeanour being with her a question of existence or
non-existence. The only painful feeling which the duchess experienced
was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected revelation
produced on her old friend, the comte.

For some moments he seemed neither to see nor hear; his eyes were fixed,
his head bowed, his arms hanging by his side, his face livid as death;
whilst from time to time a convulsive sigh heaved his breast. With such
a man, as resolute as energetic, such a condition was more alarming than
the most violent transports of anger. Madame de Lucenay regarded him
with great uneasiness.

"Courage, my dear friend," she said to him, in a low voice, "for
you,--for me,--for this man,--I know what remains for me to do."

The old man looked steadfastly at her, and then, as if aroused from his
stupor by a violent internal commotion, he raised his head, his features
assumed a menacing appearance, and, forgetting that his son could hear
him, he exclaimed:

"And I, too, for you,--for me,--and for this man,--I know what remains
for me to do."

"Who is there?" inquired Florestan, surprised.

Madame de Lucenay, fearing to find herself in the vicomte's presence,
disappeared by the little door, and descended the secret staircase.
Florestan having again asked who was there, and receiving no reply,
entered the salon. He found the comte there alone. The old man's long
beard had so greatly altered him, and he was so miserably clad, that his
son, who had not seen him for several years, not recognising him at the
moment, advanced towards him with a menacing air.

"What are you doing there? Who are you?"

"The husband of that woman!" replied the comte, pointing to the picture
of Madame de Saint-Remy.

"My father!" exclaimed Florestan, recoiling in alarm, as he recalled the
features of the comte, so long forgotten.

Standing erect, with threatening air, angry look, his forehead scarlet,
the comte looked down upon his son, who, with his head bent down, dared
not raise his eyes towards him. Still, M. de Saint-Remy, for some
motive, made a violent effort to remain calm, and conceal his real
feelings and resentment.

"My father!" said Florestan, half choked. "You were there?"

"I was there."

"You heard, then?"

"All!"

"Ah!" cried the vicomte, in agony, and hiding his face in his hands.

There was a minute's silence. Florestan, at first as much astonished as
annoyed at the unexpected appearance of his father, began to reflect
upon what advantage he could derive from this incident.

"All is not lost," he said to himself; "my father's presence is a stroke
of fate. He knows all; he will not have his name dishonoured. He is not
rich, but he must possess more than twenty-five thousand francs. A
little skill, and I may leave my duchess at peace, and be saved!" Then,
giving to his handsome features an expression of grief and dejection,
moistening his eye with the tears of repentance, assuming his most
touching tone of voice, he exclaimed, clasping his hands with a gesture
of despair:

"Ah, father, I am indeed wretched! After so many years,--to see you--at
such a moment! I must appear to you most culpable; but deign to listen
to me! I beseech you, allow me, not to justify myself, but to explain to
you my conduct! Will you, my father?"

M. de Saint-Remy made no reply; his features remained rigid; but,
seating himself, his chin leaning on the palm of his hand, he
contemplated the vicomte in silence. Had Florestan known the motives
which filled the mind of his father with fury and vengeance, alarmed by
the apparent composure of the comte, he would not, doubtless, have tried
to dupe him. But, ignorant of the suspicions respecting the legitimacy
of his birth, and of his mother's lapse of virtue, he had no doubt of
the success of his deceit, thinking his father, who was very proud of
his name, was capable of making any sacrifice rather than allow it to be
dishonoured.

"My father," resumed Florestan, timidly, "allow me to endeavour, not to
exculpate myself, but to tell you by what a series of involuntary
temptations I have done, in spite of myself,--such--an infamous action."

The vicomte took his father's silence for tacit consent, and continued:

"When I had the misfortune to lose my mother--my poor mother!--I was
alone, without advice or support. Master of a considerable fortune, used
to luxury from my cradle, it became to me a necessity. Ignorant how
difficult it is to earn money, I was immeasurably prodigal.
Unfortunately, my expenses, foolish as they were, were remarkable for
their elegance. By my taste, I eclipsed men ten times richer than
myself. This first success intoxicated me, and I became a man of
extravagance, as one becomes a man of arms, or a statesman. Yes, I liked
luxury, not from vulgar ostentation, but I liked it as a painter loves
his art. Like every artist, I was jealous of my work, and my work was to
me luxury. I sacrificed everything to its perfection. I wished to have
it beautiful and complete in everything, from my stable to my
drawing-room, from my coat to my house. I wished my life to be the
emblem of taste and elegance. In fact, as an artist, I sought the
applause of the mob and the admiration of the élite. This success is
rare, but I acquired it."

As he spake, Florestan's features gradually lost their hypocritical
assumption, and his eyes kindled with enthusiasm. He looked in his
father's face, and, thinking it was somewhat softened, continued:

"Oracle and regulator of the world, my praise or blame were law: I was
quoted, copied, boasted of, admired, and that by the best circle in
Paris, which is to say in Europe--in the world. The women participated
in the general enthusiasm, and the loveliest contended for the pleasure
of being invited to certain fêtes which I gave, and everywhere wonder
was expressed at the incomparable elegance and taste displayed at these
fêtes, which millionaires could not equal. In fine, I was the monarch of
fashion. This word will tell you all, my father, if you comprehend it."

"I do comprehend it, and I am sure that at the galleys you will invent
some refined elegance in your fashion of wearing your chain that will
become the mode in your gang, and will be called _à la_ Saint-Remy,"
said the old man, with cutting irony, adding, "and Saint-Remy,--that is
my name!" And again he was silent.

Florestan had need of all his self-control to conceal the wound which
this bitter sarcasm inflicted. He continued in a more humble tone:

"Alas! Father, it is not from pride that I revive the recollection of my
success, for, I repeat to you, it is that success which has undone me.
Sought, envied, and flattered, not by interested parasites, but by
persons much superior in position to myself, I no longer calculated my
fortune must be expended in a few years; that I did not heed. Could I
renounce this favourite, dazzling life, in which pleasures succeeded
pleasures, every kind of intoxication to every kind of enchantment? Ah,
if you knew, father, what it is to be hailed as the hero of the day, to
hear the murmur which greets your entrance into the salon, to hear the
women say, 'That is he! There he is!'--oh, if you knew--"

"I know," said the old man, without moving from his attitude,--"I know.
Yes, the other day, in a public place, there was a crowd; suddenly a
murmur was heard, like that which greets you when you enter some place;
then the women's eyes were all turned eagerly on a very handsome young
man, just as they are turned towards you, and they pointed him out to
one another, saying, 'That's he! There he is!' just as if they were
directing attention to you."

"And this man, my father?"

"Was a forger they were conveying to gaol."

"Ah!" exclaimed Florestan, with concentrated rage. Then affecting the
deepest affliction, he added, "My father, you are pitiless,--what shall
I then say to you? I do not seek to deny my errors, I only desire to
explain to you the fatal infatuation which has caused them. Well, then,
even if you should overwhelm me still with your bitterest sarcasms, I
will endeavour to go through with this confession,--I will endeavour to
make you comprehend this feverish excitement which has destroyed me,
because then, perchance, you may pity me,--yes, for there is pity for a
madman, and I was mad! Shutting my eyes, I abandoned myself to the
dazzling whirl into which I was drawn, and drew with me the most
charming women, the most delightful men. How could I check myself? As
easily say to the poet who exhausts himself, and whose genius preys upon
his health, 'Pause in the midst of the inspiration which urges you!' No!
He could not--I could not, abdicate the royalty which I exercised, and
return shamed, ruined, and mocked at, into the unknown mob, giving this
triumph to those who envied me, and whom, until then, I had defied,
controlled, overpowered! No! No! I could not, voluntarily, at least.

"Then came the fatal day, when, for the first time, money failed me. I
was surprised as much as if such a moment never could have arrived. Yet
I had still my horses, my carriages, the furniture of this house. When
my debts were paid there would, perhaps, still remain to me about sixty
thousand francs. What could I do in such misery? It was then, father,
that I made my first step in the path of disgrace; until this time I was
honourable,--I had only spent what belonged to me, but then I began to
incur debts which I had no chance of paying. I sold all I had to two of
my domestics in order to pay my debt to them, and to be enabled to
continue for six months longer, in spite of my creditors, to enjoy the
luxury which intoxicated me.

"To supply my play debts and extravagant outlay I first borrowed of the
Jews, then, to pay the Jews, of my friends, then, to pay my friends, of
my mistresses. These resources exhausted, there was another period of my
life; from an honest man I became a gambler, but, as yet, I was not
criminal--I still hesitated--I desired to take a violent resolution. I
had proved in several duels that I did not fear death. I determined to
kill myself!"

"Ah! Bah! Really?" said the comte, with fierce irony.

"You do not believe me, father?"

"It was too soon or too late!" replied the old man, still unmoved, and
in the same attitude.

Florestan, believing that he had moved his father by speaking to him of
his project for committing suicide, thought it necessary to increase the
effect by a _coup de théâtre_. He opened a drawer, took from it a small
bottle of greenish glass, and said to the comte, depositing it on the
table:

"An Italian quack sold me this poison."

"And was this poison for yourself?" said the old man, still having his
chin in the palm of his hand.

Florestan understood the force of the remark, his features expressed
real indignation; for this time he spoke the truth. One day he took it
into his head to kill himself,--an ephemeral fancy! Persons of his stamp
are usually too cowardly to make up their minds calmly, and without
witnesses, to the death which they face as a point of honour in a duel.
He therefore exclaimed, with an accent of truth:

"I have fallen very low, but not so low as that. It was for myself that
I reserved this poison."

"And then were afraid of it?" asked the comte, without changing his
posture.

"I confess I recoiled before this trying extremity,--nothing was yet
desperate. The persons to whom I owed money were rich and could wait. At
my age, and with my connections, I hoped for a moment, if not to repair
my fortunes, at least to acquire for myself an honourable position, an
independence which would have supplied my present situation. Many of my
friends, perhaps less qualified than myself, had made rapid progress in
diplomacy. I had ambition. I had but to make it known, and I was
attached to the legation to Gerolstein. Unfortunately, a few days after
this nomination, a gaming debt, contracted with a man who detested me,
placed me in a cruel dilemma. I had exhausted my last resources. A fatal
idea flashed across my mind. Believing that I was assured of impunity, I
committed an infamous action. You see, my father, I conceal nothing from
you. I avow the ignominy of my conduct,--I do not seek to extenuate
anything. Two alternatives are now before me, and I am equally inclined
to either. The one is to kill myself, and leave your name dishonoured;
for if I do not pay this very day the twenty-five thousand francs, the
accusation is made, and all is made public, and, dead or alive, I am
disgraced. The second is to throw myself into your arms, father, to say
to you, 'Save your son,--save your name from infamy;' and I swear to you
to depart for Africa to-morrow, and die a soldier's death, or return to
you completely restored in reputation. What I say to you, father, is
true,--in face of the extremity which overwhelms me, I have no other
resource. Decide: shall I die covered with shame, or, thanks to you,
live to repair my fault? These are not the threats of a young man. I am
twenty-five; I bear your name, and I have sufficient courage either to
kill myself, or to become a soldier; for I will not go to the galleys."

[Illustration: _Was about to embrace his father._
Etching by Marcel after the drawing by Frank T. Merrill.]

The comte rose from his seat, saying:

"I do not desire to have my name dishonoured."

"Oh, my father!" exclaimed the vicomte, with warmth, and was about to
embrace his father, when the old man, repressing his enthusiasm, said:

"You are expected until three o'clock at the man's house who has the
forged bill?"

"Yes, father, and it is now two o'clock."

"Let us go into your cabinet; give me writing materials."

"They are here, father."

The comte sat down and wrote, with a firm hand:

      "I undertake to pay this evening, at ten o'clock, the
    twenty-five thousand francs which my son owes.

                                        "COMTE DE SAINT-REMY."

"Your creditor merely wants his money; my guarantee will obtain a
further delay. Let him go to M. Dupont, the banker, at No. 7 in the Rue
Richelieu, and he will assure him of the validity of this promise."

"Oh, my father! How can I ever--"

"Expect me this evening; at ten o'clock I will bring the money. Let your
creditor be here."

"Yes, father, and the day after I will set out for Africa. You shall see
that I am not ungrateful! Then, perhaps, when I am again restored to
honour you will accept my thanks?"

"You owe me nothing. I have said that my name shall not be dishonoured
again; nor shall it be," said M. de Saint-Remy, in reply, taking up his
cane, and moving towards the door.

"My father, at least shake hands with me!" said Florestan.

"Here this evening at ten o'clock," said the comte, refusing his hand.

"Saved!" exclaimed Florestan, joyously,--"saved!" Then he continued,
after a moment's reflection: "Saved--almost--no matter--it is always so.
Perhaps this evening I shall tell him of the other thing. He is in the
vein, and will not allow a first sacrifice to become useless for lack of
a second. Yet why should I tell him? Who will ever know it? Yet, if
nothing should be discovered, I shall keep the money he will give me to
pay this last debt. I had some work to move him. The bitterness of his
sarcasms made me suspicious of his good resolution; but my threat of
suicide, the fear of seeing his name dishonoured, decided him. That was
the way to hit him. No doubt he is not so poor as he appears to be. But
his arrival was indeed a godsend. Now, then, for the man of law!"

He rang the bell, and M. Boyer appeared.

"How was it that you did not inform me that my father was here? Really,
this is most negligent."

"Twice I endeavoured to address your lordship when you came in by the
garden gate with M. Badinot, but your lordship made me a sign with your
hand not to interrupt you. I did not venture to insist. I should be very
much grieved if your lordship should impute negligence to me."

"Very well. Desire Edwards to harness Orion or Ploughboy in the
cabriolet immediately."

M. Boyer made a respectful bow. As he was about to quit the room, some
one knocked. He looked at the vicomte with an inquiring air.

"Come in!" said Florestan.

A second _valet de chambre_ appeared, bearing in his hand a small
silver-gilt waiter. M. Boyer took hold of the waiter with a kind of
jealous haste, and presented it to the vicomte, who took from it a thick
packet, sealed with black wax.

The two servants withdrew discreetly.

Florestan broke open the envelope. It contained twenty-five thousand
francs in treasury bills, but not a word of writing.

"Decidedly," he exclaimed, in a joyful tone, "the day is propitious!
Saved this time, and at this moment completely saved! I will run to the
jeweller; and yet," he added, "perhaps--no--let us wait--he cannot have
any suspicion of me. Twenty-five thousand francs is a pleasant sum to
have by one! _Pardieu!_ I was a fool ever to doubt the luck of my star;
at the moment when it seemed most obscure, has it not burst forth more
brilliant than ever? But where does this money come from? The writing of
the address is unknown to me. Let me examine the seal,--the cipher. Yes,
yes, I cannot mistake; an N and an L,--it is Clotilde! How could she
know? And not a word,--that's strange! How very opportune, though! Ah,
_mon Dieu!_ now I remember. I had an appointment with her this morning.
That Badinot's threats drove it out of my head. I forgot Clotilde. After
having waited for me down-stairs, no doubt she went away; and this is,
unquestionably, a delicate way of making me understand that she fears I
may forget her through some pecuniary embarrassment. Yes, it is an
indirect reproach that I have not applied to her as usual. Good
Clotilde! Always the same,--generous as a queen! What a pity I was ever
driven to ask her,--her still so handsome! I sometimes regret it, but I
only did it in a direful extremity, and on sheer compulsion."

"Your lordship's cabriolet is at the door," said M. Boyer, on entering
the room.

"Who brought this letter?" Florestan inquired.

"I do not know, my lord."

"Well, I will ask below. But tell me, was there no one in the ground
floor?" asked the vicomte, looking significantly at Boyer.

"There is no one there now, my lord."

"I was not mistaken," thought Florestan; "Clotilde waited for me, and is
now gone."

"If your lordship would have the goodness to grant me two minutes," said
Boyer.

"Speak, but be quick!"

"Edwards and myself have learnt that the Duc de Montbrison is desirous
of forming an establishment. If your lordship would but just be so kind
to propose your own ready furnished, with the stable in first-rate
order, it would be a most admirable opportunity for Edwards and myself
to get the whole off our hands, and, perhaps, for your lordship a good
reason for disposing of them."

"_Pardieu!_ Boyer, you are right. As for me, I should prefer such an
arrangement. I will see Montbrison, and speak to him. What are your
terms?"

"Your lordship will easily understand that we are desirous of profiting
as much as possible by your generosity."

"And turn your bargain to the best advantage? Nothing can be plainer!
Let us see,--what's the price?"

"The whole, two hundred and sixty thousand francs (10,400_l._), my
lord."

"And you and Edwards will thus clear--"

"About forty thousand francs (1,600_l._), my lord."

"A very nice sum! But so much the better, for, after all, I am very much
satisfied with you, and, if I had to make my will, I should have
bequeathed that sum to you and Edwards."

And the vicomte went out, first to call on his creditor, then on Madame
de Lucenay, whom he did not suspect of having been present at his
conversation with Badinot.




CHAPTER XII.

THE SEARCH.


The Hôtel de Lucenay was one of those royal residences of the Faubourg
St. Germain, which the space employed, and, as it were, lost, make so
vast. A modern house might, with ease, be contained in the limits
devoted to the staircase of one of these palaces, and a whole quarter
might be built in the extent they occupy.

About nine o'clock in the evening of this day the two vast folding-doors
of this hôtel opened on the arrival of a magnificent chariot, which,
after having taken a dashing turn in the spacious courtyard, stopped
before the large covered flight of steps which led to the first
antechamber. Whilst the hoofs of two powerful and high-couraged horses
sounded on the echoing pavement, a gigantic footman opened the door,
emblazoned with armorial bearings, and a young man alighted gracefully
from this brilliant carriage, and no less gracefully walked up the five
or six steps of the entrance. This young man was the Vicomte de
Saint-Remy.

On leaving his creditor, who, satisfied with the undertaking of
Florestan's father, had granted the required delay, and was to come and
receive his money at ten o'clock in the Rue de Chaillot, M. de
Saint-Remy had gone to Madame de Lucenay's, to thank her for the fresh
service she had rendered him, and, not having seen the duchess during
the morning, he came triumphant, certain of finding her in _prima sera_,
the hour which she constantly reserved for him.

By the attention of the footmen in the antechamber, who hastened to open
the glass door as soon as they saw Florestan's carriage, by the
profoundly respectful air with which the rest of the livery all rose as
the vicomte passed by, and by certain, yet almost imperceptible touches,
it was evident that here was the second, or, rather, the real master of
the house.

When the Duc de Lucenay returned home, with his umbrella in his hand and
his feet protected by clumsy goloshes (he hated going out in a carriage
in the daytime), the same domestic evolutions were gone through with
similar respect; still, in the eyes of a keen observer, there was a vast
difference between the reception accorded to the husband and that
reserved for the lover.

A corresponding attention displayed itself in the footman's waiting-room
when Florestan entered it, and one of the valets instantly arose to
announce him to Madame de Lucenay.

The vicomte had never been more joyous, never felt himself more at his
ease, more confident of himself, more assured of conquest. The victory
he had obtained over his father in the morning, the fresh proof of
attachment on the part of Madame de Lucenay, the joy at having escaped,
as it were, by a miracle, from a terrible situation, his renewed
confidence in his star, gave his handsome features an expression of
boldness and good humour which rendered it still more captivating.

In fact, he had never felt himself more himself. And he was right. Never
had his slender and graceful figure displayed a finer carriage, never
had his look been more elevated, never had his pride been more
deliciously tickled by the thought, "The great lady--the mistress of
this palace is mine--is at my feet! This very morning she waited for me
in my own house!"

Florestan had given way to these excessively vain-glorious reflections
as he traversed three or four apartments, which led to a small room in
which the duchess usually sat. A last look at himself in a glass which
he passed completed the excellent opinion which Florestan had of
himself. The _valet de chambre_ opened the folding-doors of the salon,
and announced, "Monsieur the Vicomte de Saint-Remy!"

It is impossible to paint the astonishment and indignation of the
duchess. She believed the comte had not concealed from his son that she
also had overheard all.

We have already said that, on discovering Florestan's infamy, Madame de
Lucenay's love, suddenly quenched, had changed into the most frigid
disdain. We have also said that, in the midst of her errors, her
frailties, Madame de Lucenay had preserved pure and intact her feelings
of rectitude, honour, and chivalric frankness, whose strength and
requirements were excessively strong. She possessed the better qualities
of her faults, the virtues of her vices.

Treating love as cavalierly as a man treats it, she pushed as far, nay,
further, than a man, devotion, generosity, courage, and, above all,
intense horror of all baseness. Madame de Lucenay, being about to go to
a party in the evening, was, although without her diamonds, dressed with
her accustomed taste and magnificence; and her splendid costume, the
rouge she wore without attempt at concealment, like a court lady, up to
her eyelids, her beauty, which was especially brilliant at candle-light,
her figure of a goddess walking in the clouds, rendered still more
striking that noble air which no one displayed to greater advantage than
she did, and which she carried, if requisite, to a height of insolence
that was overwhelming.

We know the haughty and resolute disposition of the duchess, and we may
imagine her physiognomy, her look, when the vicomte, advancing towards
her, conceited, smiling, confident, said, in a tone of love:

"Dearest Clotilde, how good you are! How you--"

The vicomte could not finish. The duchess was seated, and had not
risen; but her gesture, her glance, betokened contempt, at once so calm
and crushing that Florestan stopped short. He could not utter another
word, nor advance another step. He had never before seen Madame de
Lucenay under this aspect. He could not believe that it was the same
woman, whom he had always found gentle, tender, and passionately
submissive; for nothing is more humble, more timid, than a determined
woman in the presence of the man whom she loves and who controls her.

His first surprise past, Florestan was ashamed of his weakness; his
habitual audacity resumed its ascendency, and, making a step towards
Madame de Lucenay in order to take her hand, he said, in his most
insinuating tone:

"Clotilde, what ails you? I never saw you look so lovely, and yet--"

"Really, this is too impudent!" exclaimed the duchess, recoiling with
such disgust and hauteur that Florestan was again overcome with
surprise.

Resuming some assurance, he said to her:

"Will you, at least, Clotilde, tell me the cause of this change, sudden,
singular as it is? What have I done? How have I offended?"

Without making any reply, Madame de Lucenay looked at him, as is
vulgarly said, from head to foot, with so insulting an expression that
Florestan felt red with the anger which displayed itself upon his brow,
and exclaimed:

"I am aware, madame, that it is thus you habitually break off. Is it a
rupture that you now desire?"

"The question is singular!" said Madame de Lucenay, with a sarcastic
laugh. "Learn, sir, that when a lackey robs me, I do not break with him,
I turn him away."

"Madame!"

"Oh, a truce to this!" said the duchess, in a stern and peremptory tone.
"Your presence disgusts me! Why are you here? Have you not had your
money?"

"It is true, then, as I guessed, the twenty-five thousand francs--"

"Your last forgery is withdrawn, is it not? The honour of your family's
name is saved,--that is well,--go!"

"Ah! believe me--"

"I very much regret that money, for it might have succoured so many
honest families; but it was necessary to think of the shame to your
father and to myself."

"So then, Clotilde, you know all? Ah, then, now nothing is left me but
to die!" exclaimed Florestan, in a most pathetic and despairing tone.

A burst of derisive laughter from the duchess hailed this tragic
exclamation, and she added, between two fits of fresh hilarity:

"I could never have believed infamy could appear so ridiculous!"

"Madame!" cried Florestan, his features contracted with rage.

The two folding-doors opened with a loud noise, and M. le Duc de
Montbrison was announced.

In spite of his self-command, Florestan could scarcely repress the
violence of his resentment, which any man more observing than the duke
must certainly have perceived.

M. de Montbrison was scarcely eighteen years of age. Let our readers
imagine a most engaging countenance, like that of a young girl, white
and red, whose vermilion lips and downy chin were slightly shaded by a
nascent beard. Let them add to this large brown eyes, as yet timid, but
which in time would gleam like a falcon's, a figure as graceful as that
of the duchess herself, and then, perhaps, they may have some idea of
this young duke, the Cherubino as complete in idea as ever countess or
waiting-maid decked in a woman's cap, after having remarked the ivory
whiteness of his neck.

The vicomte had the weakness or the audacity to remain.

"How kind of you, Conrad, to think of me this evening!" said Madame de
Lucenay, in a most affectionate voice, and extending her hand to the
young duke, who was about to shake hands with his cousin, but Clotilde
raised her hand a little, and said to him gaily:

"Kiss it, cousin,--you have your gloves on."

"Pardon me, my dear cousin," said the young man, as he applied his lips
to the naked and charming hand that was offered to him.

"What are you going to do this evening, Conrad?" inquired Madame de
Lucenay, without seeming to take the slightest notice in the world of
Florestan.

"Nothing, cousin; when I leave you, I shall go to the club."

"Indeed you shall not; you shall accompany us, M. de Lucenay and me, to
Madame de Senneval's; she gives a party, and has frequently asked me to
introduce you to her."

"I shall be but too happy."

"Then, too, I must tell you frankly that I don't like to see you begin
so early with your habits and tastes for clubs. You are possessed of
everything necessary in order to be everywhere welcomed, and even sought
after, in the world, and you ought, therefore, to mix with it as much as
possible."

"Yes, you are right, cousin."

"And as I am on the footing of a grandmother with you, my dear Conrad, I
am determined to exact a great deal from you. You are emancipated, it is
true, but I believe you will want a guardian for a long time to come,
and you must, therefore, consider me in that light."

"Most joyfully, happily, cousin!" said the young duke, emphatically.

It is impossible to describe the mute rage of Florestan, who was
standing up, and leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece. Neither the
duke nor Clotilde paid the slightest attention to him. Knowing the
rapidity with which Madame de Lucenay decided, he imagined she was
pushing her boldness and contempt so far as to commence at once, and in
his presence, a regular flirtation with the Duc de Montbrison.

It was not so. The duchess felt for her cousin nothing beyond a truly
maternal affection, having almost seen him born. But the young duke was
so handsome, and seemed so happy at the agreeable reception of his
cousin, that the jealousy, or, rather, pride of Florestan was aroused.
His heart writhed beneath the cruel wounds of envy, excited by Conrad de
Montbrison, who, rich and handsome, was beginning so splendidly that
life of pleasures, enjoyments, and fêtes, from which he, ruined, undone,
despised, dishonoured, was expelled.

M. de Saint-Remy was brave with that bravery of the head, if we may so
call it, which will urge a man, by anger or by vanity, to face a duel.
But, vitiated and corrupted, he had not the courage of the heart which
triumphs over bad inclinations, or which, at least, gives the energy
which enables a man to escape infamy by a voluntary death. Furious at
the bitter contempt of the duchess, believing he saw a successor in the
young duke, M. de Saint-Remy resolved to confront Madame de Lucenay with
all insolence, and, if need were, to seek a quarrel with Conrad.

The duchess, irritated at Florestan's audacity, did not look towards
him, and M. de Montbrison, in his anxious attention to his cousin,
forgetting something of his high breeding, had not saluted or spoken a
word to the vicomte, with whom he was acquainted. The latter, advancing
to Conrad, whose back was towards him, touched his arm lightly, and
said, in a dry and ironical tone:

"Good evening, sir; a thousand pardons for not having observed you
before."

M. de Montbrison, perceiving that he had really failed in politeness,
turned around instantly, and said cordially to the vicomte:

"Really, sir, I am ashamed; but I hope that my cousin, who caused my
forgetfulness, will be my excuse, and--"

"Conrad," interposed the duchess, immeasurably annoyed at Florestan's
impudence, persisting as he did in remaining, as it were, to brave
her,--"Conrad, that will do; make no apologies; it is not worth while."

M. de Montbrison, believing that his cousin was reproaching him in joke
for being somewhat too formal, said, in a gay tone, to the vicomte, who
was livid with rage:

"I will not say more, sir, since my cousin forbids me. You see her
guardianship has begun."

"And will not stop when it begins, my dear sir, be assured of that.
Thus, with this notice (which Madame la Duchesse will hasten to fulfil,
I have no doubt)--with this notice, I say, I have it in my mind to make
you a proposal."

"To me, sir?" said Conrad, beginning to take offence at the sardonic
tone of Florestan.

"To you yourself. I leave in a few days for the legation to Gerolstein,
to which I am attached. I wish, therefore, to get my house, completely
furnished, and my stable, entirely arranged, off my hands; and you might
find it a suitable arrangement;" and the vicomte insolently emphasised
his last words, looking Madame de Lucenay full in the face. "It would be
very piquant, would it not, Madame la Duchesse?"

"I do not understand you, sir," said M. de Montbrison, more and more
astonished.

"I will tell you, Conrad, why you cannot accept the offer that is made
you," said Clotilde.

"And why, Madame la Duchesse, cannot the duke accept my offer?"

"My dear Conrad, what is offered you for sale is already sold to others.
So, you understand, you would have the inconvenience of being robbed
just as if you were in a wood."

Florestan bit his lips with rage.

"Take care, madame!" he cried.

"What, threats! and here, sir?" exclaimed Conrad.

"Pooh, pooh! Conrad, pay no attention," said Madame de Lucenay, taking a
lozenge from a sweetmeat box with the utmost composure; "a man of honour
ought not and cannot have any future communication with that person. If
he likes, I will tell you why."

A tremendous explosion would no doubt have occurred, when the two
folding-doors again opened, and the Duc de Lucenay entered, noisily,
violently, hurriedly, as was "his usual custom in the afternoon," as
well as the forenoon.

"Ah, my dear! What, dressed already?" said he to his wife. "Why, how
surprising! Quite astonishing! Good evening, Saint-Remy; good evening,
Conrad. Ah, you see the most miserable of men; that is to say, I neither
sleep nor eat, but am completely 'done up.' Can't reconcile myself to
it. Poor D'Harville, what an event!" And M. de Lucenay threw himself
back in a sort of small sofa with two backs, and, crossing his left knee
over his right, took his foot in his hand, whilst he continued to utter
the most distressing exclamations.

The excitement of Conrad and Florestan had time to calm down, without
being perceived by M. de Lucenay, who was the least clear-sighted man in
the world.

Madame de Lucenay, not from embarrassment, for she was never
embarrassed, as we know, but because Florestan's presence was as
disgusting as it was insupportable, said to the duke:

"We are ready to go as soon as you please. I am going to introduce
Conrad to Madame de Senneval."

"No, no, no!" cried the duke, letting go his foot to seize one of the
cushions, on which he struck violently with his two fists, to the great
alarm of Clotilde, who, at the sudden cries of her husband, started from
her chair.

"Monsieur, what ails you?" she inquired; "you frighten me exceedingly."

"No," replied the duke, thrusting the cushion from him, rising suddenly,
and walking up and down with rapid strides and gesticulations, "I cannot
get over the idea of the death of poor dear D'Harville; can you,
Saint-Remy?"

"Indeed, it was a frightful event!" said the vicomte, who, with hatred
and rage in his heart, kept his eye on M. de Montbrison; but this
latter, after the last words of his cousin, turned away from a man so
deeply degraded, not from want of feeling, but from pride.

"For goodness' sake, my lord," said the duchess to her husband, "do not
regret the loss of M. d'Harville in so noisy and really so singular a
manner. Ring, if you please for my carriage."

"Yes, it is really true," said M. de Lucenay, seizing the bell-rope,
"really true that, three days ago, he was full of life and health, and,
to-day, what remains of him? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!"

These three last exclamations were accompanied by three such violent
pulls that the bell-rope, which the duke held in his hand whilst he was
gesticulating, broke away from the upper spring, fell on a candelabra
filled with lighted wax candles, knocked two of them out of the sconces,
one of which, falling on the mantelpiece, broke a lovely little cup of
old Sèvres china; whilst the other, falling on the ground, rolled on a
fur hearth rug, which took flame, but was soon extinguished under
Conrad's foot.

At the same moment, two _valets de chambre_, summoned by the furious
ringing, entered hastily, and found M. de Lucenay with the bell-rope in
his hand, the duchess laughing heartily at this ridiculous fall of the
wax lights, and M. de Montbrison sharing her mirth. M. de Saint-Remy
alone did not laugh. M. de Lucenay, quite accustomed to such accidents,
preserved his usual seriousness, and, throwing the bell-rope to one of
the men, said:

"The duchess's carriage."

Clotilde, having somewhat recovered her composure, said:

"Really, my lord, there is no man in the world but yourself capable of
exciting laughter at so lamentable an event."

"Lamentable! Say fearful. Why, now, only yesterday, I was recollecting
how many persons in my own family I would rather should have died than
poor D'Harville. First, there's my nephew, D'Emberval, who stutters so
annoyingly; then there's your Aunt Mérinville, who is always talking
about her nerves and her headache, and who always gobbles up every day,
whilst she is waiting for dinner, a mess of broth like a porter's wife.
Are you very fond of your Aunt Mérinville?"

"Really, my lord, have you lost your wits?" said the duchess, shrugging
her shoulders.

"It's true enough, though," continued the duke; "one would give twenty
indifferent persons for one friend; eh, Saint-Remy?"

"Unquestionably."

"It is the old story of the tailor over again. Do you know it,
Conrad,--the story of the tailor?"

"No, cousin."

"You will understand the allegory at once. A tailor was going to be
hanged; he was the only tailor in the village. What were the inhabitants
to do? They said to the judge, 'Please your judgeship, we have only one
tailor, and we have three shoemakers; if it is all the same to you,
please to hang one of the three shoemakers in the place of the tailor,
for two shoemakers are enough.' Do you understand the allegory, Conrad?"

"Yes, cousin."

"And you, Saint-Remy?"

"Quite."

"Her grace's carriage!" said one of the servants.

"But, I say, why haven't you put on your diamonds?" asked M. de Lucenay,
abruptly; "with that dress they would look remarkably well."

Saint-Remy shuddered.

"For the one poor time we are going out together," continued the duke,
"you might have done us the honour to wear your diamonds. The duchess's
diamonds are particularly fine. Did you ever see them, Saint-Remy?"

"Yes, he knows them well enough!" said Clotilde; and then she added,
"Your arm, Conrad."

M. de Lucenay followed the duchess with Saint-Remy, who could scarcely
repress his anger.

"Aren't you coming with us to the Sennevals, Saint-Remy?" inquired M. de
Lucenay.

"No, impossible," he replied, briefly.

"By the way, Saint-Remy, there's Madame de Senneval, too,--what, do I
say one? There's two--whom I would willingly sacrifice, for her husband
is also on my list."

"What list?"

"That of the people whom I should not have cared to see die, provided
D'Harville had been left to us."

At the moment when they were in the anteroom, and M. de Montbrison was
helping the duchess on with her mantle, M. de Lucenay, addressing his
cousin, said to him:

"Since you are coming with us, Conrad, desire your carriage to follow
ours; unless you will decide on coming, Saint-Remy, and then you shall
take me, and I will tell you another story quite as good as that of the
tailor."

"Thank you," said Saint-Remy, dryly, "I cannot accompany you."

"Well, then, good night, my dear fellow. Have you and my wife
quarrelled, for she is getting into her carriage without saying a word
to you?"

And at this moment, the duchess's berline having drawn up at the steps,
she entered it.

"Now, cousin," said Conrad, waiting for M. de Lucenay with an air of
deference.

"Get in! Get in!" said the duke, who had stopped a moment, and, from the
door, was contemplating the elegant equipage of the vicomte. "Are those
your grays, Saint-Remy?"

"Yes."

"And your jolly-looking Edwards! He's what I call a right sort of
coachman. How well he has his horses in hand! To do justice, there is no
one who, like Saint-Remy, does things in such devilish high style!"

"My dear fellow, Madame de Lucenay and your cousin are waiting for you,"
said M. de Saint-Remy, with bitterness.

"_Pardieu!_ and that's true. What a forgetful rascal I am! _Au revoir_,
Saint-Remy. Ah, I forgot," said the duke, stopping half way down the
steps, "if you have nothing better to do, come and dine with us
to-morrow. Lord Dudley has sent us some grouse from Scotland, and they
are out-of-the-way things, you know. You'll come, won't you?" And the
duke sprang into the carriage which contained his wife and Conrad.

Saint-Remy remained alone on the steps, and saw the carriage drive away.
His own then drove up. He got into it, casting on that house which he
had so often entered as master, and which now he so ignominiously
quitted, a look of anger, hatred, and despair.

"Home!" he said, abruptly.

"To the hôtel!" said the footman to Edwards, as he closed the door.

We may imagine how bitter and desolating were Saint-Remy's thoughts as
he returned to his house. At the moment when he reached it, Boyer, who
awaited him at the portico, said to him:

"M. le Comte is above, and waits for M. le Vicomte."

"Very well."

"And there is also a man whom your lordship appointed at ten o'clock,--a
M. Petit-Jean."

"Very well. Oh, what an evening party!" said Florestan, as he went
up-stairs to see his father, whom he found in the salon on the first
floor, the same room in which their meeting of the morning had taken
place. "A thousand pardons, my father, that I was not awaiting you when
you arrived; but I--"

"Is the man here who holds the forged bill?" inquired the comte,
interrupting his son.

"Yes, father, he is below."

"Desire him to come up."

Florestan rang, and Boyer appeared.

"Desire M. Petit-Jean to come up."

"Yes, my lord," and Boyer withdrew.

"How good you are, father, to remember your kind promise!"

"I always remember what I promise."

"What gratitude do I owe you! How can I ever prove to you--"

"I will not have my name dishonoured! It shall not be!"

"It shall not be! No, it shall never be, I swear to you, my father!"

The comte looked strangely at his son, and repeated:

"No, it shall never be!" Then he added, with a sarcastic air, "You are a
prophet."

"I read my resolution in my heart."

Florestan's father made no rejoinder. He walked up and down the room
with his two hands thrust into the pockets of his long coat. He was very
pale.

"M. Petit-Jean," said Boyer, introducing a man of a mean, sordid, and
crafty look.

"Where is the bill?" inquired the comte.

"Here it is, sir," said Petit-Jean (Jacques Ferrand the notary's man of
straw), handing the bill to the comte.

"Is this it?" said the latter, showing the bill to his son.

"Yes, father."

The comte took from his waistcoat pocket twenty-five notes of a thousand
francs each, handed them to his son, and said:

"Pay!"

Florestan paid, and took the bill with a deep sigh of the utmost
satisfaction. M. Petit-Jean put the notes carefully in an old
pocket-book, made his bow, and retired. M. de Saint-Remy left the salon
with him, whilst Florestan was very carefully tearing up the bill.

"At least Clotilde's twenty-five thousand francs are still in my pocket,
and if nothing is revealed, that is a comfort. But how she treated me!
But what can my father have to say to the man Petit-Jean?"

The noise of a door being double-locked made the vicomte start. His
father returned to the room. His pallor had even increased.

"I fancied, father, I heard you lock the door of my cabinet?"

"Yes, I did."

"And why, my dear father?" asked Florestan, greatly amazed.

"I will tell you."

And the comte placed himself so that his son could not pass out by the
secret staircase which led to the ground floor.

Florestan, greatly disquieted, now observed the sinister look of his
father, and followed all his movements with mistrust. Without being able
to account for it, he felt a vague alarm.

"What ails you, father?"

"This morning when you saw me, your only thought was, 'My father will
not allow his name to be dishonoured; he will pay if I can but contrive
to wheedle him by some feigned words of repentance.'"

"Can you indeed think--"

"Do not interrupt me. I have not been your dupe; you have neither shame,
regret, nor remorse. You are vicious to the very core, you have never
felt one honest aspiration, you have not robbed as long as you have been
in possession of wherewithal to gratify your caprices,--that is what is
called the probity of rich persons of your stamp. Then came the want of
delicate feeling, then meannesses, then crime, then forgery. This is but
the first period of your life,--it is bright and pure in comparison with
that which would be yet to come."

"If I did not change my conduct, assuredly; but I shall change it,
father, I have sworn to you."

"You will not change it."

"But--"

"You will not change it! Expelled from society in which you have
hitherto lived, you would become very quickly criminal, like the
wretches amongst whom you would be cast, a thief inevitably, and, if
your need were, an assassin. That would be your future life."

"I an assassin?--I?"

"Yes, because you are a coward!"

"I have had duels, and have evinced--"

"I tell you, you are a coward! You have already preferred infamy to
death. A day would come in which you would prefer the impunity for fresh
crimes to the life of another. This must not be,--I will not allow it. I
have come in time, at least, to save my name from public dishonour
hereafter. There must be an end to this."

"What do you mean, dearest father? How an end to this? What would you
imply?" exclaimed Florestan, still more alarmed at the fearful
expression and the increased pallor of his father's countenance.

Suddenly there was a violent blow struck on the cabinet door. Florestan
made a motion to go and open it, in order to put an end to a scene which
terrified him; but the comte seized him with a hand of iron, and held
him fast.

"Who knocks?" inquired the comte.

"In the name of the law, open! Open!" said a voice.

"That forgery, then, was not the last," exclaimed the comte, in a low
voice, and looking at his son with a terrible air.

"Yes, my father, I swear it!" exclaimed Florestan, endeavouring, but
vainly, to extricate himself from the vigorous grasp of his father.

"In the name of the law, open!" repeated the voice.

"What is it you seek?" demanded the comte.

"I am a commissary of police, and I have come to make a search after a
robbery of diamonds, of which M. de Saint-Remy is accused. M. Baudoin, a
jeweller, has proofs. If you do not open, sir, I shall be compelled to
force open the door."

"Already a thief! I was not then deceived," said the comte, in a low
voice. "I came to kill you,--I have delayed too long."

"Kill me?"

"There is already too much dishonour on my name,--it must end. I have
here two pistols; you must blow out your brains, or I will blow them
out, and I will say that you killed yourself in despair in order to
escape from shame."

And, with a fearful _sang-froid_, the comte drew a pistol from his
pocket, and, with the hand that was free, presented it to his son,
saying:

"Now an end to this, if, indeed, you are not a coward!"

After repeated and ineffectual attempts to free himself from the comte's
hand, his son fell back aghast and livid with fear. He saw by the
fearful look, the inexorable demeanour of his father, that he had no
pity to expect from him.

"My father!" he exclaimed.

"You must die!"

"I repent!"

"It is too late. Hark! They are forcing in the door!"

"I will expiate my faults!"

"They are entering! Must I then kill you with my own hand?"

"Pardon!"

"The door gives way! You will then have it so!"

And the comte placed the muzzle of the weapon against Florestan's
breast.

The noise without announced that the door of the cabinet could not long
resist. The vicomte saw he was lost. A sudden and desperate resolution
lighted up his countenance. He no longer struggled with his father, and
he said to him, with equal firmness and resignation:

"You are right, my father! Give me the pistol! There is infamy enough on
my name! The life in store for me is frightful, and is not worth the
trouble of a struggle. Give me the pistol! You shall see if I am a
coward!" and he put forth his hand to take the pistol. "But, at least,
one word,--one single word of consolation,--pity,--farewell!" said
Florestan; and his trembling lips, his paleness, his agitated features,
all betokened the terrible emotion of this frightful moment.

"But what if he were, indeed, my son!" thought the comte, with terror,
and hesitating to hand him the deadly instrument. "If he were my son I
ought to hesitate before such a sacrifice."

A loud cracking of the cabinet door announced that it was being forced.

"My father, they are coming! Oh, now I feel that death is indeed a
benefit. Yes, now I thank you! But, at least, your hand,--and forgive
me!"

In spite of his sternness, the comte could not repress a shudder, as he
said, in a voice of emotion:

"I forgive you."

"My father, the door opens; go to them, that, at least, they may not
even suspect you. Besides, if they enter here, they will prevent me from
completing,--adieu!"

The steps of several persons were heard in the next room. Florestan
placed the muzzle of the pistol to his heart. It went off at the instant
when the comte, to avoid the horrid sight, turned away his head, and
rushed out of the salon, whose curtains closed upon him.

At the sound of this explosion, at the sight of the comte, pale and
haggard, the commissary stopped short at the threshold of the door,
making a sign to his agents to pause also.

Informed by Boyer that the vicomte was shut up with his father, the
magistrate understood all, and respected his deep grief.

"Dead!" exclaimed the comte, hiding his face in his hands. "Dead!" he
repeated in a tone of agony. "It was just,--better death than infamy!
But it is horrible!"

"Sir," said the magistrate, sorrowfully, after a few minutes' silence,
"spare yourself a painful spectacle,--leave the house. And now I have
another duty to fulfil, even more painful than that which summoned me
hither."

"You are quite right, sir," said M. de Saint-Remy; "as to the sufferer
by this robbery, you will request him to call on M. Dupont, the banker."

"In the Rue Richelieu? He is very well known," replied the magistrate.

"What is the estimated value of the stolen diamonds?"

"About thirty thousand francs. The person who bought them, and by whom
the fraud was detected, gave that amount for them to your son."

"I can still pay it, sir. Let the jeweller go to my banker the day after
to-morrow, and I will have it all arranged."

The commissary bowed. The comte left the room.

After the departure of the latter, the magistrate, deeply affected by
this unlooked-for scene, went slowly towards the salon, the curtains of
which were closed. He moved them on one side with agitation.

"Nobody!" he exclaimed, amazed beyond measure, and looking around him,
unable to see the least trace of the tragic event which he believed had
just occurred.

Then, seeing a small door in the panel of the apartment, he went towards
it. It was fastened in the side of the secret staircase.

"It was a trick, and he has escaped by this door!" he exclaimed, with
vexation.

And in fact, the vicomte, having in his father's presence placed the
pistol on his heart, had very dexterously fired it under his arm, and
rapidly made off.

In spite of the most careful search throughout the house, they could not
discover Florestan.

During the conversation with his father and the commissary, he had
quickly gained the boudoir, then the conservatory, then the lone alley,
and so to the Champs Elysées.

       *       *       *       *       *

The picture of this ignoble degradation in opulence is a sad thing.

We are aware of it. But for want of warnings, the richer classes have
also fatally their miseries, vices, crimes. Nothing is more frequent and
more afflicting than those insensate, barren prodigalities which we have
now described, and which always entail ruin, loss of consideration,
baseness, or infamy. It is a deplorable, sad spectacle, just like
contemplating a flourishing field of wheat destroyed by a herd of wild
beasts. No doubt that inheritance, property, are, and ought to be,
inviolable, sacred. Wealth acquired or transmitted ought to be able to
shine with impunity and magnificently in the eyes of the poor and
suffering masses. We must, too, see those frightful disproportions which
exist between the millionaire Saint-Remy, and the artisan Morel. But,
inasmuch as these inevitable disproportions are consecrated, protected
by the law, so those who possess such wealth ought morally to be
accountable to those who have only probity, resignation, courage, and
desire to labour.

In the eyes of reason, human right, and even of a well-understood social
interest, a great fortune should be a hereditary deposit, confided to
prudent, firm, skilful, generous hands, which, entrusted at the same
time to fructify and expend this fortune, know how to fertilise, vivify,
and ameliorate all that should have the felicity to find themselves
within the scope of its splendid and salutary rays.

And sometimes it is so, but the instances are very rare. How many young
men, like Saint-Remy, masters at twenty of a large patrimony, spend it
foolishly in idleness, in waste, in vice, for want of knowing how to
employ their wealth more advantageously either for themselves or for the
public. Others, alarmed at the instability of human affairs, save in the
meanest manner. Thus there are those who, knowing that a fixed fortune
always diminishes, give themselves up, fools or rogues, to that
hazardous, immoral gaming, which the powers that be encourage and
patronise.

How can it be otherwise? Who imparts to inexperienced youth that
knowledge, that instruction, those rudiments of individual and social
economy? No one.

The rich man is thrown into the heart of society with his riches, as the
poor man with his poverty. No one takes any more care of the
superfluities of the one than of the wants of the other. No one thinks
any more of making the one moralise than the other. Ought not power to
fulfil this great and noble task?

If, taking to its pity the miseries, the continually increasing
troubles, of the still resigned workmen, repressing a rivalry injurious
to all, and, addressing itself finally to the imminent question of the
organisation of labour, it gave itself the salutary lesson of the
association of capital and labour; and if there were an honourable,
intelligent, equitable association, which should assure the well-doing
of the artisan, without injuring the fortune of the rich, and which,
establishing between the two classes the bonds of affection and
gratitude, would for ever keep safeguard over the tranquillity of the
state,--how powerful, then, would be the consequences of such a
practical instruction!

Amongst the rich, who then would hesitate as to the dishonourable,
disastrous chances of stock-jobbing, the gross pleasures of avarice, the
foolish vanities of a ruinous dissipation; or, a means at once
remunerative and beneficial, which would shed ease, morality, happiness,
and joy, over scores of families?




CHAPTER XIII.

THE ADIEUX.


The day after that on which the Comte de Saint-Remy had been so
shamefully tricked by his son, a touching scene took place at St. Lazare
at the hour of recreation amongst the prisoners.

On this day, during the walk of the other prisoners, Fleur-de-Marie was
seated on a bench close to the fountain of the courtyard, which was
already named "La Goualeuse's Bench." By a kind of taciturn agreement,
the prisoners had entirely given up this seat to her, as she had evinced
a marked preference for it,--for the young girl's influence had
decidedly increased. La Goualeuse had selected this bench, situated
close to the basin, because the small quantity of moss which velveted
the margin of the reservoir reminded her of the verdure of the fields,
as the clear water with which it was filled reminded her of the small
river of Bouqueval. To the saddened gaze of a prisoner a tuft of grass
is a meadow, a flower is a garden.

Relying on the kind promises of Madame d'Harville, Fleur-de-Marie had
for two days expected her release from St. Lazare. Although she had no
reason for being anxious about the delay in her discharge, the young
girl, from her experience in misfortune, scarcely ventured to hope for a
speedy liberation. Since her return amongst creatures whose appearance
revived at each moment in her mind the incurable memory of her early
disgrace, Fleur-de-Marie's sadness had become more and more
overwhelming. This was not all. A new subject of trouble, distress, and
almost alarm to her, had arisen from the impassioned excitement of her
gratitude towards Rodolph.

It was strange, but she only fathomed the depth of the abyss into which
she had been plunged, in order to measure the distance which separated
her from him whose perfection appeared to her more than human, from this
man whose goodness was so extreme, and his power so terrible to the
wicked. In spite of the respect with which her adoration for him was
imbued, sometimes, alas! Fleur-de-Marie feared to detect in this
adoration the symptoms of love, but of a love as secret as it was deep,
as chaste as it was secret, and as hopeless as it was chaste. The
unhappy girl had not thought of reading this withering revelation in her
heart until after her interview with Madame d'Harville, who was herself
smitten with a love for Rodolph, of which he himself was ignorant.

After the departure and the promises of the marquise, Fleur-de-Marie
should have been transported with joy on thinking of her friends at
Bouqueval, of Rodolph whom she was again about to see. But she was not.
Her heart was painfully distressed, and to her memory occurred
incessantly the severe language, the haughty scrutiny, the angry looks,
of Madame d'Harville, as the poor prisoner had been excited to
enthusiasm when alluding to her benefactor. By singular intuition La
Goualeuse had thus detected a portion of Madame d'Harville's secret.

"The excess of my gratitude to M. Rodolph offended this young lady, so
handsome and of such high rank," thought Fleur-de-Marie; "now I
comprehend the severity of her words, they expressed a jealous disdain.
She jealous of me! Then she must love him, and I must love, too--him?
Yes, and my love must have betrayed itself in spite of me! Love
him,--I--I--a creature fallen for ever, ungrateful and wretched as I
am! Oh, if it were so, death were a hundred times preferable!"

Let us hasten to say that the unhappy girl, thus a martyr to her
feelings, greatly exaggerated what she called her love.

To her profound gratitude towards Rodolph was united involuntary
admiration of the gracefulness, strength, and manly beauty which
distinguished him from other men. Nothing could be less gross, more
pure, than this admiration; but it existed in full and active force,
because physical beauty is always attractive. And then the voice of
blood, so often denied, mute, unknown, or misinterpreted, is sometimes
in full force, and these throbs of passionate tenderness which attracted
Fleur-de-Marie towards Rodolph, and which so greatly startled her,
because in her ignorance she misinterpreted their tendency, these
feelings resulted from mysterious sympathies, as palpable, but as
inexplicable, as the resemblance of features. In a word, Fleur-de-Marie,
on learning that she was Rodolph's daughter, could have accounted to
herself for the strong affection she had for him, and thus, completely
enlightened on the point, she would have admired without a scruple her
father's manly beauty.

Thus do we explain Fleur-de-Marie's dejection. Although she was every
instant awaiting, according to Madame d'Harville's promise, her release
from St. Lazare, Fleur-de-Marie, melancholy and pensive, was seated on
her bench near the basin, looking with a kind of mechanical interest at
the sports of some bold little birds who came to play on the margin of
the stone-work. She had ceased for an instant to work at a baby's
nightgown, which she had just finished hemming. Need we say that this
nightgown belonged to the lying-in clothes so generously offered to Mont
Saint-Jean by the prisoners, through the kind intervention of
Fleur-de-Marie? The poor misshapen protégée of La Goualeuse was sitting
at her feet, working at a small cap, and, from time to time, casting at
her benefactress a look at once grateful, timid, and confiding, such a
look as a dog throws at his master. The beauty, attraction, and
delicious sweetness of Fleur-de-Marie had inspired this fallen creature
with sentiments of the most profound respect.

There is always something holy and great in the aspirations of a heart,
which, although degraded, yet feels for the first time sensations of
gratitude; and, up to this time, no one had ever given Mont Saint-Jean
the opportunity of even testifying whether or not she could comprehend
the religious ardour of a sentiment so wholly unknown to her. After some
moments Fleur-de-Marie shuddered slightly, wiped a tear from her eyes,
and resumed her sewing with much activity.

"You will not then leave off your work even during the time for rest, my
good angel?" said Mont Saint-Jean to La Goualeuse.

"I have not given you any money towards buying your lying-in clothes,
and I must therefore furnish my part with my own work," replied the
young girl.

"Your part! Why, but for you, instead of this good white linen, this
nice warm wrapper for my child, I should have nothing but the rags they
dragged in the mud of the yard. I am very grateful to my companions who
have been so very kind to me; that's quite true! But you!--ah, you!--how
can I tell you all I feel?" added the poor creature, hesitating, and
greatly embarrassed how to express her thought. "There," she said,
"there is the sun, is it not? That is the sun?"

"Yes, Mont Saint-Jean; I am attending to you," replied Fleur-de-Marie,
stooping her lovely face towards the hideous countenance of her
companion.

"Ah, you'll laugh at me," she replied, sorrowfully. "I want to say
something, and I do not know how."

"Oh, yes, say it, Mont Saint-Jean!"

"How kind you look always," said the prisoner, looking at
Fleur-de-Marie in a sort of ecstasy; "your eyes encourage me,--those
kind eyes! Well, then, I will try and say what I wish: There is the sun,
is it not? It is so warm, it lights up the prison, it is very pleasant
to see and feel, isn't it?"

"Certainly."

"But I have an idea,--the sun didn't make itself, and if we are grateful
to it, why, there is greater reason still why--"

"Why we should be grateful to him who created it; that is what you mean,
Mont Saint-Jean? You are right; and we ought to pray to, adore him,--he
is God!"

"Yes, that is my idea!" exclaimed the prisoner, joyously. "That is it! I
ought to be grateful to my companions, but I ought to pray to, adore
you, Goualeuse, for it is you who made them so good to me, instead of
being so unkind as they had been."

"It is God you should thank, Mont Saint-Jean, and not me."

"Yes, yes, yes, it is you, I see you; and it is you who did me such
kindness, by yourself and others."

"But if I am as good as you say, Mont Saint-Jean, it is God who has made
me so, and it is he, therefore, whom we ought to thank."

"Ah, indeed, it may be so since you say it!" replied the prisoner, whose
mind was by no means decided; "and if you desire it, let it be so; as
you please."

"Yes, my poor Mont Saint-Jean, pray to him constantly, that is the best
way of proving to me that you love me a little."

"If I love you, Goualeuse? Don't you remember, then, what you said to
those other prisoners to prevent them from beating me?--'It is not only
her whom you beat, it is her child also!' Well, it is all the same as
the way I love you; it is not only for myself that I love you, but also
for my child."

"Thanks, thanks, Mont Saint-Jean, you please me exceedingly when you say
that." And Fleur-de-Marie, much moved, extended her hand to her
companion.

"What a pretty, little, fairy-like hand! How white and small!" said Mont
Saint-Jean, receding as though she were afraid to touch it with her
coarse and clumsy hands.

Yet, after a moment's hesitation, she respectfully applied her lips to
the end of the slender fingers which Fleur-de-Marie extended to her,
then, kneeling suddenly, she fixed on her an attentive, concentrated
look.

"Come and sit here by me," said La Goualeuse.

"Oh, no, indeed; never, never!"

"Why not?"

"Respect discipline, as my brave Mont Saint-Jean used to say; soldiers
together, officers together, each with his equals."

"You are crazy; there is no difference between us two."

"No difference! And you say that when I see you, as I do now, as
handsome as a queen. Oh, what do you mean now? Leave me alone, on my
knees, that I may look at you as I do now. Who knows, although I am a
real monster, my child may perhaps resemble you? They say that sometimes
happens from a look."

Then by a scruple of incredible delicacy in a creature of her position,
fearing, perhaps, that she had humiliated or wounded Fleur-de-Marie by
her strange desire, Mont Saint-Jean added, sorrowfully:

"No, no, I was only joking, Goualeuse; I never could allow myself to
look at you with such an idea,--unless with your free consent. If my
child is as ugly as I am, what shall I care? I sha'n't love it any the
less, poor little, unhappy thing; it never asked to be born, as they
say. And if it lives what will become of it?" she added, with a mournful
and reflective air. "Alas, yes, what will become of us?"

La Goualeuse shuddered at these words. In fact, what was to become of
the child of this miserable, degraded, abased, poor, despised creature?

"What a fate! What a future!"

"Do not think of that, Mont Saint-Jean," said Fleur-de-Marie; "let us
hope that your child will find benevolent friends in its way."

"That chance never occurs twice, Goualeuse," replied Mont Saint-Jean,
bitterly, and shaking her head. "I have met with you, that is a great
chance; and then--no offence--I should much rather my child had had that
good luck than myself, and that wish is all I can do for it!"

"Pray, pray, and God will hear you."

"Well, I will pray, if that is any pleasure to you, Goualeuse, for it
may perhaps bring me good luck. Indeed, who could have thought, when La
Louve beat me, and I was the butt of all the world, that I should meet
with my little guardian angel, who with her pretty soft voice would be
even stronger than all the rest, and that La Louve who is so strong and
so wicked--"

"Yes, but La Louve became very good to you as soon as she reflected that
you were doubly to be pitied."

"Yes, that is very true, thanks to you; I shall never forget it. But,
tell me, Goualeuse, why did she the other day request to have her
quarters changed,--La Louve, she, who, in spite of her passionate
temper, seemed unable to do without you?"

"She is rather wilful."

"How odd! A woman, who came this morning from the quarter of the prison
where La Louve now is, says that she is wholly changed."

"How?"

"Instead of quarrelling and contending with everybody, she is sad, quite
sad, and sits by herself, and if they speak to her she turns her back
and makes no answer. It is really wonderful to see her quite still, who
used always to be making such a riot; and then the woman says another
thing, which I really cannot believe."

"And what is that?"

"Why, that she had seen La Louve crying; La Louve crying,--that's
impossible!"

"Poor Louve! It was on my account she changed her quarters; I vexed her
without intending it," said La Goualeuse, with a sigh.

"You vex any one, my good angel?"

At this moment, the inspectress, Madame Armand, entered the yard. After
having looked for Fleur-de-Marie, she came towards her with a smiling
and satisfied air.

"Good news, my child."

"What do you mean, madame?" said La Goualeuse, rising.

"Your friends have not forgotten you, they have obtained your discharge;
the governor has just received the information."

"Can it be possible, madame? Ah, what happiness!"

Fleur-de-Marie's emotion was so violent that she turned pale, placed her
hand on her heart, which throbbed violently, and fell back on the seat.

"Don't agitate yourself, my poor girl," said Madame Armand, kindly.
"Fortunately these shocks are not dangerous."

"Ah, madame, what gratitude!"

"No doubt it is Madame d'Harville who has obtained your liberty. There
is an elderly female charged to conduct you to the persons who are
interested in you. Wait for me, I will return for you; I have some
directions to give in the work-room."

It would be difficult to paint the expression of extreme desolation
which overcast the features of Mont Saint-Jean, when she learned that
her good angel, as she called La Goualeuse, was about to quit St.
Lazare. This woman's grief was less caused by the fear of becoming
again the ill-used butt of the prison, than by her anguish at seeing
herself separated from the only being who had ever testified any
interest in her.

Still seated at the foot of the bench, Mont Saint-Jean lifted both her
hands to the sides of her matted and coarse hair, which projected in
disorder from the sides of her old black cap, as if to tear them out;
then this deep affliction gave way to dejection, and she drooped her
head and remained mute and motionless, with her face hidden in her
hands, and her elbows resting on her knees.

In spite of her joy at leaving the prison, Fleur-de-Marie could not help
shuddering when she thought for an instant of the Chouette and the
Schoolmaster, recollecting that these two monsters had made her swear
never to inform her benefactors of her wretched fate. But these
dispiriting thoughts were soon effaced from Fleur-de-Marie's mind before
the hope of seeing Bouqueval once more, with Madame Georges and Rodolph,
to whom she meant to intercede for La Louve and Martial. It even seemed
to her that the warm feeling which she reproached herself for having of
her benefactor, being no longer nourished by sadness and solitude, would
be calmed down as soon as she resumed her rustic occupations, which she
so much delighted in sharing with the good and simple inhabitants of the
farm.

Astonished at the silence of her companion, a silence whose source she
did not suspect, La Goualeuse touched her gently on the shoulder, saying
to her:

"Mont Saint-Jean, as I am now free, can I be in any way useful to you?"

The prisoner trembled as she felt La Goualeuse's hand upon her, let her
hands drop on her knees, and turned towards the young girl, her face
streaming with tears. So bitter a grief overspread the features of Mont
Saint-Jean that their ugliness had disappeared.

"What is the matter?" said La Goualeuse. "You are weeping!"

"You are going away!" murmured the poor prisoner, with a voice broken by
sobs. "And I had never thought that you would go away, and that I should
never see you more,--never, no, never!"

"I assure you that I shall always think of your good feeling towards me,
Mont Saint-Jean."

"Oh, and to think how I loved you, when I was sitting there at your feet
on the ground! It seemed as if I was saved,--that I had nothing more to
fear! It was not for the blows which the other women may, perhaps, begin
again to give me that I said that I have led a hard life; but it seemed
to me that you were my good fortune, and would bring good luck to my
child, just because you had pity on me. But, then, when one is used to
be ill-treated, one is then more sensible than others to kindness."
Then, interrupting herself, to burst again into a loud fit of
sobs,--"Well, well, it's done,--it's finished,--all over! And so it must
be some day or other. I was wrong to think any otherwise. It's
done--done--done!"

"Courage! Courage! I will think of you, as you will remember me."

"Oh, as to that, they may tear me to pieces before they shall ever make
me forget you! I may grow old,--as old as the streets,--but I shall
always have your angel face before me. The first word I will teach my
child shall be your name, Goualeuse; for but for you it would have
perished with cold."

"Listen to me, Mont Saint-Jean!" said Fleur-de-Marie, deeply affected by
the attachment of this unhappy woman. "I cannot promise to do anything
for you, although I know some very charitable persons; but, for your
child, it is a different thing; it is wholly innocent; and the persons
of whom I speak will, perhaps, take charge of it, and bring it up, when
you can resolve on parting from it."

"Part from it! Never, oh, never!" exclaimed Mont Saint-Jean, with
excitement. "What would become of me now, when I have so built upon it?"

"But how will you bring it up? Boy or girl, it ought to be made honest;
and for that--"

"It must eat honest bread. I know that, Goualeuse,--I believe it. It is
my ambition; and I say so to myself every day. So, in leaving here, I
will never put my foot under a bridge again. I will turn rag-picker,
street-sweeper,--something honest; for I owe that, if not to myself, at
least to my child, when I have the honour of having one," she added,
with a sort of pride.

"And who will take care of your child whilst you are at work?" inquired
the Goualeuse. "Will it not be better, if possible, as I hope it will
be, to put it in the country with some worthy people, who will make a
good country girl or a stout farmer's boy of it? You can come and see it
from time to time; and one day you may, perhaps, find the means to live
near it constantly. In the country, one lives on so little!"

"Yes, but to separate myself from it,--to separate myself from it! It
would be my only joy,--I, who have nothing else in the world to
love,--nothing that loves me!"

"You must think more of it than of yourself, my poor Mont Saint-Jean. In
two or three days I will write to Madame Armand, and if the application
I mean to make in favour of your child should succeed, you will have no
occasion to say to it, as you said so painfully just now, 'Alas! What
will become of it?'"

Madame Armand interrupted this conversation, and came to seek
Fleur-de-Marie. After having again burst into sobs, and bathed with her
despairing tears the young girl's hands, Mont Saint-Jean fell on the
seat perfectly overcome, not even thinking of the promise which
Fleur-de-Marie had just made with respect to her child.

"Poor creature!" said Madame Armand, as she quitted the yard,
accompanied by Fleur-de-Marie, "her gratitude towards you gives me a
better opinion of her."

Learning that La Goualeuse was discharged, the other prisoners, far from
envying her this favour, displayed their delight. Some of them
surrounded Fleur-de-Marie, and took leave of her with adieux full of
cordiality, frankly congratulating her on her speedy release from
prison.

"Well, I must say," said one, "this little fair girl has made us pass an
agreeable moment, when we agreed to make up the basket of clothes for
Mont Saint-Jean. That will be remembered at St. Lazare."

When Fleur-de-Marie had quitted the prison buildings, the inspectress
said to her:

"Now, my dear child, go to the clothing-room, and leave your prison
clothes. Put on your peasant girl's clothes, whose rustic simplicity
suits you so well. Adieu! You will be happy, for you are going to be
under the protection of good people, and leave these walls, never again
to return to them. But I am really hardly reasonable," said Madame
Armand, whose eyes were moistened with tears. "I really cannot conceal
from you how much I am attached to you, my poor girl!" Then, seeing the
tears in Fleur-de-Marie's eyes, the inspectress added, "But we must not
sadden your departure thus."

"Ah, madame, is it not through your recommendation that this young lady
to whom I owe my liberty has become interested in me?"

"Yes, and I am happy that I did so; my presentiments had not deceived
me."

At this moment a clock struck.

"That is the hour of work; I must return to the rooms. Adieu! Once more
adieu, my dear child!"

Madame Armand, as much affected as Fleur-de-Marie, embraced her
tenderly, and then said to one of the women employed in the
establishment:

"Take mademoiselle to the vestiary."

A quarter of an hour afterwards, Fleur-de-Marie, dressed like a peasant
girl, as we have seen her at the farm at Bouqueval, entered the
waiting-room, where Madame Séraphin was expecting her. The housekeeper
of the notary, Jacques Ferrand, had come to seek the unhappy girl, and
conduct her to the Isle du Ravageur.




CHAPTER XIV.

RECOLLECTIONS.


Jacques Ferrand had quickly and readily obtained the liberty of
Fleur-de-Marie, which, indeed, only required a simple official order.
Instructed by the Chouette of La Goualeuse being at St. Lazare, he had
immediately applied to one of his clients, an honourable and influential
man, saying that a young female who had once erred, but afterwards
sincerely repented, being now confined in St. Lazare, was in danger of
forgetting her good resolutions, in consequence of her association with
the other prisoners. This young girl having been (added the notary)
strongly recommended to him by persons of high respectability, who
wanted to take care of her when she quitted the prison, he besought his
client, in the name of religion, virtue, and the future return to
goodness of the poor girl, to interest himself in obtaining her
liberation. And, further to screen himself from all chance of future
consequences, the notary most earnestly charged his client not to allow
his name to transpire in the business on any account, as he was desirous
of avoiding any mention of having been employed in the furtherance of so
good and charitable a work.

This request, which was attributed to the unassuming modesty and
benevolence of Jacques Ferrand, a man equally esteemed for his piety as
for honour and probity, was strictly complied with, the liberation of
Fleur-de-Marie being asked and obtained in the client's name alone; and
by way of evincing a still greater regard for the shrinking delicacy of
the notary's nature, the order for quitting the prison was sent under
cover to Jacques Ferrand, that he might send it on to the parties
interesting themselves for the young girl. And when Madame Séraphin
presented the order to the directors of the prison, she stated herself
to have been sent by the parties feeling a desire to save the young
person it referred to.

From the favourable manner in which the matron of the prison had spoken
to Madame d'Harville of Fleur-de-Marie, not a doubt existed as to its
being to that lady La Goualeuse was indebted for her return to freedom.
There was, therefore, no chance of the appearance of Madame Séraphin
exciting any mistrust in the mind of her victim. Madame Séraphin could
so well assume the look and manner of what is commonly styled "a nice
motherly kind of person," that it required a more than ordinary share of
penetration to discover a strong proportion of falsehood, deceit, and
cunning behind the smooth glance or the hypocritical smile; but, spite
of the hardened villainy with which she had shared so long and deeply in
the nefarious practices of her employer, Madame Séraphin, old and
hackneyed as she was, could not view without emotion the exquisite
loveliness of the being her own hand had surrendered, even as a child,
to the cruel care of the Chouette, and whom she was now leading to an
inevitable death.

"Well, my dear," cried Madame Séraphin, speaking in a tone of honeyed
sweetness, as Fleur-de-Marie drew near, "I suppose you are very glad to
get away from prison."

"Oh, yes, indeed, ma'am. I presume it is Madame d'Harville who has had
the goodness to obtain my liberty for me?"

"You are not mistaken in your guess. But, come, we are already a little
behindhand, and we have still some distance to go."

"We are going to Madame Georges at the farm at Bouqueval, are we not,
madame?" cried La Goualeuse.

"Oh, yes, certainly, by all means!" answered the _femme de charge_, in
order to avert all suspicion from the mind of her victim. "Yes, my dear,
we are going into the country, as you say;" and then added, with a sort
of good-humoured teasing, "But that is not all; before you see Madame
Georges, a little surprise awaits you--Come, come, our coach is waiting
below! Ah, how you will be astonished by and by! Come, then, let us go.
Your most obedient servant, gentlemen!"

And, with a multitude of bows and salutations from Madame Séraphin to
the registrar, his clerk, and all the various members of the
establishment then and there assembled, she descended the stairs with La
Goualeuse, followed by an officer, to command the opening of the gates
through which they had to pass. The last had just closed behind them,
and the two females found themselves beneath the vast porch which looks
out upon the street of the Faubourg St. Denis, when they nearly ran
against a young female, who appeared hurrying towards the prison, as
though full of anxiety to visit one of its inmates. It was Rigolette, as
pretty and light-footed as ever, her charming face set off by a simple
yet becoming cap, tastefully ornamented with cherry-coloured riband;
while her dark brown hair was laid in bright glossy bands down each
clear and finely rounded cheek. She was wrapped in a plaid shawl, over
which fell a snowy muslin collar, secured by a small knot of riband. On
her arm she carried a straw basket; while, thanks to her light, careful
way of picking her steps, her thick-soled boots were scarcely soiled;
and yet the poor girl had walked far that day.

"Rigolette!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, as she recognised her old prison
companion, and the sharer in her rural excursions.[7]

  [7] The reader will, perhaps, recollect that in the recital
  made by La Goualeuse to Rodolph, at their first meeting at the
  ogress's, of the early events of her life, she spoke to him of
  Rigolette, who, a friendless child like herself, had been
  (with her) confined in a _maison de detention_ until she had
  reached the age of sixteen.

"La Goualeuse!" returned the grisette, and with one accord the two girls
threw themselves into each other's arms.

Nothing more touchingly beautiful could be imagined than the contrast
between these two young creatures, both so lovely, though differing so
entirely from one another in appearance: the one exquisitely fair, with
large, melancholy blue eyes, and an outline of feature of faultless
purity, the pale, pensive, intellectual cast of the whole countenance
reminding the observer of one of those sweet designs of a village maid
by Greuze,--the same clear delicacy of complexion, the same ineffable
mixture of graceful pensiveness and candid innocence; the other a
sparkling brunette, with round rosy cheek and bright black eyes, set off
by a laughing, dimpled face and mirthful air,--the very impersonation of
youthful gaiety and light-heartedness, the rare and touching specimen of
happy poverty, of contented labour, and honest industry!

After the first burst of their affectionate greetings had passed away,
the two girls regarded each other with close and tender scrutiny. The
features of Rigolette were radiant with the joy she experienced at this
unexpected meeting; Fleur-de-Marie, on the contrary, felt humbled and
confused at the sight of her early friend, which recalled but too
vividly to her mind the few days of peaceful calm she had known previous
to her first degradation.

"Dear, dear Goualeuse!" exclaimed the grisette, fixing her bright eyes
with intense delight on her companion. "To think of meeting you at
last, after so long an absence!"

"It is, indeed, a delightful surprise!" replied Fleur-de-Marie. "It is
so very long since we have seen each other."

"Ah, but now," said Rigolette, for the first time remarking the rustic
habiliments of La Goualeuse, "I can account for seeing nothing of you
during the last six months,--you live in the country, I see?"

"Yes," answered Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes, "I have done so
for some time past."

"And I suppose that, like me, you have come to see some friend in this
prison?"

"Yes," stammered poor Fleur-de-Marie, blushing up to her eyes with shame
and confusion; "I was going--I mean I have just been seeing some one,
and, of course, am now returning home."

"You live a good way out of Paris, I dare say? Ah, you dear, kind girl!
It is just like you to come all this distance to perform a good action.
Do you remember the poor lying-in woman to whom you gave, not only your
mattress, with the necessary baby-clothes, but even what money you had
left, and which we meant to have spent in a country excursion; for you
were then crazy for the country, my pretty village maid?"

"And you, who cared nothing about it, how very good-natured and obliging
of you to go thither, merely for the sake of pleasing me!"

"Well, but I pleased myself at the same time. Why, you, who were always
inclined to be grave and serious, when once you got among the fields, or
found yourself in the thick shade of a wood, oh, then, what a wild,
overjoyed little madcap you became! Nobody would have fancied it the
same person,--flying after the butterflies,--crowding your hands and
apron with more flowers than either could hold. It made me quite
delighted to see you! It was quite treat enough for a week to recollect
all your happiness and enjoyment. But do let me have another look at
you: how sweetly pretty you look in that nice little round cap! Yes,
decidedly, you were cut out to be a country girl,--just as much as I was
to be a Paris grisette. Well, I hope you are happy, since you have got
the sort of line you prefer; and, certainly, after all, I cannot say I
was so very much astonished at your never coming near me. 'Oh,' said I,
'that dear Goualeuse is not suited for Paris; she is a true wild flower,
as the song says; and the air of great cities is not for them. So,' said
I, 'my pretty, dear Goualeuse has found a place in some good honest
family who live in the country.' And I was right, was I not, dear?"

"Yes," said Fleur-de-Marie, nearly sinking with confusion, "quite
right."

"There is only one thing I have to reproach you for."

"Reproach me?" inquired Fleur-de-Marie, looking tearfully at her
companion.

"Yes, you ought to have let me know before you went. You should have
said 'good-bye,' if you were only leaving me at night to return in the
morning; or, at any rate, you should have sent me word how you were
going on."

"I--I--quitted Paris so suddenly," stammered out Fleur-de-Marie,
becoming momentarily more and more embarrassed, "that, indeed--I--was
not able--"

"Oh, I'm not at all angry! I don't speak of it to scold you! I am far
too happy in meeting you unexpectedly; and, besides, I commend you for
getting out of such a dangerous place as Paris, where it is so difficult
to earn a quiet livelihood; for, you know, two poor friendless girls
like you and me might be led into mischief, without thinking of, or
intending, any harm. When there is no person to advise, it leaves one so
very defenceless; and then come a parcel of deceitful, flattering men,
with their false promises, when, perhaps, want and misery are staring
you in the face. There, for instance, do you recollect that pretty girl
called Julie?--and Rosine, who had such a beautiful fair skin, and such
coal black eyes?"

"Oh, yes, I recollect them very well!"

"Then, my dear Goualeuse, you will be extremely sorry to hear that they
were both led astray, seduced, and deserted, till at last, from one
unfortunate step to another, they have become like the miserable
creatures confined in this prison!"

"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, hanging down her head, and
blushing the deep blush of shame.

Rigolette, misinterpreting the real cause of her friend's exclamation,
continued:

"I admit that their conduct is wrong, nay wicked; but then, you know, my
dear Goualeuse, because you and I have been so fortunate as to preserve
ourselves from harm,--you, because you have been living with good and
virtuous people in the country, out of the reach of temptation; and I,
because I had no time to waste in listening to a set of make-believe
lovers; and also because I found greater pleasure in having a few birds,
and in trying to get things a little comfortable and snug around me,--I
say, it is not for you and me to be too severe with others; and God
alone knows whether opportunity, deceit, and destitution may not have
had much to do in causing the misery and disgrace of Julie and Rosine!
And who can say whether, in their place, we might not have acted as they
have done?"

"Alas!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, "I accuse them not; on the contrary, I
pity them from my heart!"

"Come, come, my dear child!" interrupted Madame Séraphin, impatiently
offering her arm to her victim, "you forget that I said we were already
behind our time."

"Pray, madame, grant us a little more time," said Rigolette. "It is so
very long since I saw my dear Goualeuse!"

"I should be glad to do so," replied Madame Séraphin, much annoyed at
this meeting between the two friends; "but it is now three o'clock, and
we have a long way to go. However, I will manage to allow you ten
minutes longer gossip. So pray make the best of your time."

"And tell me, I pray, of yourself," said Fleur-de-Marie, affectionately
pressing the hands of Rigolette between her own. "Are you still the same
merry, light-hearted, and happy creature I always knew you?"

"I was happy and gay enough a few days ago; but now--"

"You sorrowful? I can hardly believe it."

"Ah, but indeed I am! Not that I am at all changed from what you always
found me,--a regular Roger Bontemps,--one to whom nothing was a trouble.
But then, you see, everybody is not like me; so that, when I see those I
love unhappy, why, naturally, that makes me unhappy, too."

"Still the same kind, warm-hearted girl!"

"Why, who could help being grieved as I am? Just imagine my having come
hither to visit a poor young creature,--a sort of neighbouring lodger in
the house where I live,--as meek and mild as a lamb she was, poor thing!
Well, she has been most shamefully and unjustly accused,--that she has;
never mind of what just now! Her name is Louise Morel. She is the
daughter of an honest and deserving man, a lapidary, who has gone mad in
consequence of her being put in prison."

At the name of Louise Morel, one of the victims of the notary's
villainy, Madame Séraphin started, and gazed earnestly at Rigolette. The
features of the grisette were, however, perfectly unknown to her;
nevertheless, from that instant, the _femme de charge_ listened with an
attentive ear to the conversation of the two girls.

"Poor thing," continued the Goualeuse; "how happy it must make her to
find that you have not forgotten her in her misfortunes!"

"And that is not all; it really seems as though some spell hung over me!
But, truly and positively, this is the second poor prisoner I have left
my home to-day to visit! I have come a long way, and also from a
prison,--but that was a place of confinement for men."

"You, Rigolette,--in a prison for men?"

"Yes, I have, indeed. I have a very dejected customer there, I can
assure you. There,--you see my basket; it is divided in two parts, and
each of my poor friends has an equal share in its contents. I have got
some clean things here for poor Louise, and I have left a similar packet
with Germain,--that is the name of my other poor captive. I cannot help
feeling ready to cry when I think of our last interview. I know it will
do no good, but still, for all that, the tears will come into my eyes."

"But what is it that distresses you so much?"

"Why, because, you see, poor Germain frets so much at being mixed up in
his prison with the many bad characters that are there, that it has
quite broken his spirits; he seems to have no taste, no relish for
anything, has quite lost his appetite, and is wasting away daily. So,
when I perceived the change, I said to myself: 'Oh, poor fellow, I see
he eats nothing. I must make him something nice and delicate to tempt
his appetite a little; he shall have one of those little dainties he
used to be so fond of when he and I were next-room neighbours.' When I
say dainties, of course I don't mean such as rich people expect by that
name. No, no, my dish was merely some beautiful mealy potatoes, mashed
with a little milk and sugar. Well, my dear Goualeuse, I prepared this
for him, put it in a nice little china basin and took it to him in his
prison, telling him I had brought him a little titbit he used once to be
fond of, and which I hoped he would like as well as in former days. I
told him I had prepared it entirely myself, hoping to make him relish
it. But alas, no! What do you think?"

"Oh, what?"

"Why, instead of increasing his appetite, I only set him crying; for,
when I displayed my poor attempts at cookery, he seemed to take no
notice of anything but the basin, out of which he had been accustomed to
see me take my milk when we supped together; and then he burst into
tears, and, by way of making matters still better, I began to cry, too,
although I tried all I could to restrain myself. You see how everything
went against me. I had gone with the intention of enlivening his
spirits, and, instead of that, there I was making him more melancholy
than ever."

"Still, the tears he shed were, no doubt, sweet and consoling tears!"

"Oh, never mind what sort of tears they were, that was not the way I
meant to have consoled him. But la! All this while I am talking to you
of Germain as if you knew him. He is an old acquaintance of mine, one of
the best young men in the world, as timid and gentle as any young girl
could be, and whom I loved as a friend and a brother."

"Oh, then, of course, his troubles became yours also."

"To be sure. But just let me show you what a good heart he must have.
When I was coming away, I asked him as usual what orders he had for me,
saying jokingly, by way of making him smile, that I was his little
housekeeper, and that I should be very punctual and exact in fulfilling
whatever commissions he gave me, in order to remain in his employ. So
then he, trying to smile in his turn, asked me to bring him one of
Walter Scott's romances, which he had formerly read to me while I
worked,--that romance was called 'Ivan--' 'Ivanhoe,' that's it. I was so
much amused with this book that Germain read it twice over to me. Poor
Germain! How very, very kind and attentive he was!"

"I suppose he wished to keep it as a reminiscence of bygone days?"

"No doubt of it; for he bade me go to the library from whence we had had
it, and to purchase the very same volumes that had so much entertained
us, and which we had read together,--not merely to hire them,--yes,
positively to buy them out and out; and you may imagine that was
something of a sacrifice for him, for he is no richer than you or I."

"He must have a noble and excellent heart to have thought of it," said
the Goualeuse, deeply touched.

"I declare you are as much affected by it as I was, my dear, kind
Goualeuse! But then, you see, the more I felt ready to cry, the more I
tried to laugh; for, to shed tears twice during a visit, intended to be
so very cheering and enlivening as mine was, was rather too bad. So, to
drive all those thoughts out of my head, I began to remind him of the
amusing story of a Jew,--a person we read about in the romance I was
telling you of. But the more I rattled away, and the greater nonsense I
tried to talk, the faster the large round tears gathered in his eyes,
and he kept looking at me with such an expression of misery as quite
broke my heart. And so--and so--at last my voice quite failed me, and I
could do nothing but mingle my sobs with his. He had not regained his
composure when I left him, and I felt quite provoked with myself for my
folly. 'If that is the way,' said I,'that I comfort and cheer up poor
Germain, I think I had better stay away!' Really, when I remember all
the fine things I intended to have said and done, by way of keeping up
his spirits, I feel quite spiteful towards myself for having so
completely failed."

At the name of Germain, another victim of the notary's unprincipled
persecution, Madame Séraphin redoubled her before close attention.

"And what has this poor young man done to deserve being put in prison?"
inquired Fleur-de-Marie.

"What has he done?" exclaimed Rigolette, whose grief became swallowed up
in indignation; "why, he has had the misfortune to fall into the hands
of a wicked old notary,--the same as persecutes poor Louise."

"Of her whom you have come to see?"

"To be sure; she lived as servant with this notary, and Germain was also
with him as cashier. It is too long a story to tell you now, how or of
what he unjustly accuses the poor fellow; but one thing is quite
certain, and that is, that the wretch of a notary pursues these two
unfortunate beings, who have never done him the least harm, with the
most determined malice and hatred. However, never mind,--a little
patience, 'every one in their turn,'--that's all." Rigolette uttered
these last words with a peculiarity of manner and expression that
created considerable uneasiness in the mind of Madame Séraphin. Instead,
therefore, of preserving the distance she had hitherto observed, she at
once joined in the conversation, saying to Fleur-de-Marie, with a kind
and maternal air:

"My dear girl, it is really growing too late for us to wait any
longer,--we must go; we are waited for, I assure you, with much anxiety.
I am sorry to hurry you away, because I can well imagine how much you
must be interested in what your friend is relating; for even I, who know
nothing of the two young persons she refers to, cannot help feeling my
very heart ache for their undeserved sufferings. Is it possible there
can be people in the world as wicked as the notary you were mentioning?
Pray, my dear mademoiselle, what may be the name of this bad man,--if I
may make so bold as to ask?"

Although Rigolette entertained not the slightest suspicion of the
sincerity of Madame Séraphin's affected sympathy, yet, recollecting how
strictly Rodolph had enjoined her to observe the utmost secrecy
respecting the protection he bestowed on both Germain and Louise, she
regretted having been led away by her affectionate zeal for her friends
to use such words,--"Patience; every one has his turn!"

"His name, madame, is Ferrand,--M. Jacques Ferrand, Notary," replied
Rigolette, skilfully adding, by way of compensation for her indiscreet
warmth, "and it is the more wicked and shameful of him to torment Louise
and Germain as he does, because the poor things have not a friend upon
earth but myself, and, God knows, it is little I can do besides wishing
them well out of their troubles!"

"Dear me,--poor things!" observed Madame Séraphin. "Well, I'm sure I
hoped it was otherwise when I heard you say, 'Patience; every one has
their turn!' I supposed you reckoned for certain upon some powerful
protector to defend these people against that dreadful notary."

"Alas, no, madame!" answered Rigolette, hoping to destroy any suspicion
Madame Séraphin might still harbour; "such, I am sorry to say, is not
the case. For who would be generous and disinterested enough to take the
part of two poor creatures like my unfortunate friends against a rich
and powerful man like M. Ferrand?"

"Oh, there are many good and noble-minded persons capable of performing
so good an action," pursued Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's
consideration, and with ill-restrained excitement; "I myself know one to
whom it is equally a duty and a pleasure to succour and assist all who
are in need or difficulty,--one who is beloved and valued by all good
persons, as he is dreaded and hated by the bad."

Rigolette gazed on the Goualeuse with deep astonishment, and was just on
the point of asserting that she, too (alluding to Rodolph), knew some
one capable of courageously espousing the cause of the weak against the
strong; but, faithful to the injunctions of her neighbour (as she styled
the prince), she contented herself with merely saying, "Really, do you
indeed know anybody capable of generously coming forward in defence of
poor oppressed individuals, such as we have been talking of?"

"Indeed, I do. And, although I have already to solicit his goodness in
favour of others also in severe trouble, yet, I am quite sure that, did
he but know of the undeserved misfortunes of Louise and Germain, he
would both rescue them from misery and punish their wicked persecutor;
for his goodness and justice are inexhaustible."

Madame Séraphin surveyed her victim with surprise. "This girl," said
she, mentally, "might be even more dangerous than we thought for. And,
even if I had been weak enough to feel inclined to pity her, what I have
just heard would have rendered the little 'accident,' which is to rid us
of her, quite inevitable."

"Then, dear Goualeuse, since you have so valuable an acquaintance, I
beseech of you to recommend poor Louise and Germain to his notice," said
Rigolette, wisely considering that her two protégées would be all the
better for obtaining two protectors instead of one. "And pray say that
they do not in the least deserve their present wretched fate."

"Make yourself perfectly easy," returned Fleur-de-Marie; "I promise to
try to interest M. Rodolph in favour of your poor friends."

"Who did you say?" exclaimed Rigolette, "M. Rodolph?"

"Yes," replied La Goualeuse; "do you know him?"

"M. Rodolph?" again repeated Rigolette, perfectly bewildered; "is he a
travelling clerk?"

"I really don't know what he is. But why are you so much astonished?"

"Because I know a M. Rodolph!"

"Perhaps it is not the same."

"Well, describe yours. What is he like?"

"In the first place, he is young."

"So is mine."

"With a countenance full of nobleness and goodness."

"Precisely," exclaimed Rigolette, whose amazement increased. "Oh, it
must be the very man! Is your M. Rodolph rather dark-complexioned, with
a small moustache?"

"Yes, yes."

"Is he tall and thin, with a beautiful figure, and quite a fashionable,
gentlemanly sort of air,--wonderfully so, considering he is but a clerk?
Now, then, does your M. Rodolph answer to that description?"

"Perfectly," answered Fleur-de-Marie; "and I feel quite sure that we
both mean the same. The only thing that puzzles me is your fancying he
is a clerk."

"Oh, but I know he is. He told me so himself."

"And you know him intimately?"

"Why, he is my next-door neighbour."

"M. Rodolph is?"

"I mean next-room neighbour; because he occupies an apartment on the
fourth floor, next to mine."

"He--M. Rodolph--lodges in the next room to you?"

"Why, yes. But what do you find so astonishing in a thing as simple as
that? He only earns about fifteen or eighteen hundred francs a year,
and, of course, he could not afford a more expensive lodging,--though,
certainly, he does not strike me as being a very careful or economical
person; for, bless his dear heart, he actually does not know the price
of the clothes he wears."

"No, no, it cannot be the same M. Rodolph I am acquainted with," said
Fleur-de-Marie, reflecting seriously; "oh, no, quite impossible!"

"I suppose yours is a pattern of order and exactness?"

"He of whom I spoke, I must tell you, Rigolette," said Fleur-de-Marie,
with enthusiasm, "is all-powerful; his name is never pronounced but with
love and veneration; there is something awe-inspiring in his very
aspect, giving one the desire to kneel in his presence and offer humble
respect to his goodness and greatness."

"Ah, then, it is no use trying the comparison any further, my dear
Goualeuse; for my M. Rodolph is neither powerful, great, nor imposing.
He is very good-natured and merry, and all that; but oh, bless you, as
for being a person one would be likely to go on one's knees to, why, he
is quite the reverse. He cares no more for ceremony than I do, and even
promised me to come and help me clean my apartment and polish the floor.
And then, instead of being awe-inspiring, he settled with me to take me
out of a Sunday anywhere I liked to go. So that, you see, he can't be a
very great person. But, bless you, what am I thinking of? It seems as if
my heart were wholly engrossed by my Sunday pleasures, instead of
recollecting these poor creatures shut up and deprived of their liberty
in a prison. Ah, poor dear Louise--and poor Germain, too! Until they are
restored to freedom there is no happiness for me!"

For several minutes Fleur-de-Marie remained plunged in a deep reverie;
she all at once recalled to her remembrance that, at her first interview
with Rodolph, at the house of the ogress, his language and manners
resembled those of the usual frequenters of the _tapis-franc_. Was it
not, then, possible that he might be playing the part of the travelling
clerk, for the sake of some scheme he had in view? The difficulty
consisted in finding any probable cause for such a transformation. The
grisette, who quickly perceived the thoughtful meditation in which
Fleur-de-Marie was lost, said, kindly:

"Never mind puzzling your poor brains on the subject, my dear Goualeuse;
we shall soon find out whether we both know the same M. Rodolph. When
you see yours, speak of me to him; when I see mine, I will mention you;
by these means we shall easily discover what conclusion to come to."

"Where do you live, Rigolette?"

"No. 17 Rue du Temple."

"Come!" said Madame Séraphin (who had attentively listened to all this
conversation) to herself, "that is not a bad thing to know. This
all-powerful and mysterious personage, M. Rodolph, who is, no doubt,
passing himself off for a travelling clerk, occupies an apartment
adjoining that of this young mantua-maker, who appears to me to know
much more than she chooses to own to; and this defender of the
oppressed, it seems, is lodging in the same house with Morel and
Bradamanti. Well, well, if the grisette and the travelling clerk
continue to meddle with what does not concern them, I shall know where
to lay my hand upon them."

"As soon as ever I have spoken with M. Rodolph," said the Goualeuse, "I
will write to you, and give you my address where to send your answer;
but tell me yours over again, I am afraid of forgetting it."

"Oh, dear, how fortunate! I declare I have got one of my cards with me!
I remember a person I work for asked me to leave her one, to give a
friend who wished to employ me. So I brought it out for that purpose;
but I will give it to you, and carry her one another time." And here
Rigolette handed to Fleur-de-Marie a small card, on which was written,
in beautiful text-hand, "Mademoiselle Rigolette, Dressmaker, 17 Rue du
Temple." "There's a beauty!" continued the grisette. "Oh, isn't it
nicely done? Better, a good deal, than printing! Ah, poor dear Germain
wrote me a number of cards long ago! Oh, he was so kind, so attentive! I
don't know how it could have happened that I never found out half his
good qualities till he became unfortunate; and now I continually
reproach myself with having learned to love him so late."

"You love Germain, then?"

"Oh, yes, that I do! Why, you know, I must have some pretext for
visiting him in prison. Am I not an odd sort of girl?" said Rigolette,
choking a rising sigh, and smiling, like an April shower, amid the tears
which glittered in her large dark eyes.

"You are good and generous-hearted, as you ever were!" said
Fleur-de-Marie, tenderly pressing her friend's hands within her own.

Madame Séraphin had evidently learned all she cared to know, and feeling
very little interest in any further disclosure of Rigolette's love for
young Germain, hastily approaching Fleur-de-Marie, she abruptly said:

"Come, my dear child, do not keep me waiting another minute, I beg; it
is very late, and I shall be scolded, as it is, for being so much behind
my time; we have trifled away a good quarter of an hour, and must
endeavour to make up for it."

"What a nasty cross old body that is!" said Rigolette, in a whisper, to
Fleur-de-Marie. "I don't like the looks of her at all!" Then, speaking
in a louder voice, she added, "Whenever you come to Paris, my dear
Goualeuse, be sure to come and see me. I should be so delighted to have
you all to myself for a whole day, to show you my little home and my
birds; for I have got some, such sweet pretty ones! Oh, that is my chief
indulgence and expense!"

"I will try to come and see you, but certainly I will write you. So
good-bye, my dear, dear Rigolette! Adieu! Oh, if you only knew how happy
I feel at having met with you again!"

"And, I am sure, so do I; but I trust we shall soon see each other
again; and, besides, I am so impatient to know whether your M. Rodolph
is the same as mine. Pray write to me very soon upon this subject, will
you? Promise you will!"

"Indeed I will! Adieu, dear Rigolette!"

"Farewell, my very dear Goualeuse!"

And again the two poor girls, each striving to conceal their distress at
parting, indulged in a long and affectionate embrace. Rigolette then
turned away, to enter the prison for the purpose of visiting Louise,
according to the kind permission obtained for her by Rodolph, while
Fleur-de-Marie, with Madame Séraphin, got into the coach which was
waiting for them. The coachman was instructed to proceed to Batignolles,
and to stop at the barrier. A cross-road of inconsiderable length
conducted from this spot almost directly to the borders of the Seine,
not far from the Isle du Ravageur. Wholly unacquainted with the locality
of Paris, Fleur-de-Marie was unable to detect that the vehicle did not
take the road to the Barrier St. Denis; it was only when the coach
stopped at Batignolles, and she was requested by Madame Séraphin to
alight, that she said:

"It seems to me, madame, that we are not in the road to Bouqueval; and
how shall we be able to walk from hence to the farm?"

"All that I can tell you, my dear child," answered the _femme de
charge_, kindly, "is, that I am obeying their orders given me by your
benefactors, and that you will pain them greatly if you keep your
friends waiting."

"Oh, not for worlds would I be so presuming and ungrateful as to oppose
their slightest wish!" exclaimed poor Fleur-de-Marie, with kindling
warmth, "and I beseech you, madame, to pardon my seeming hesitation;
but, since you plead the commands of my revered protectors, depend upon
my following you blindly and silently whithersoever you are pleased to
take me. Only tell me, is Madame Georges quite well?"

"Oh, in most excellent health and spirits!"

"And M. Rodolph?"

"Perfectly well, also."

"Then you know him? But, madame, when I was speaking to Rigolette
concerning him just now, you did not seem to be acquainted with him; at
least, you did not say so."

"Because, in pursuance with the directions given me, I affected to be
ignorant of the person you alluded to."

"And did M. Rodolph, himself, give you those orders?"

"Why, what a dear, curious little thing this is!" said the _femme de
charge_, smilingly; "I must mind what I am about, or, with her innocent
ways of putting questions, she will find out all my secrets!"

"Indeed, madame, I am ashamed of seeming so inquisitive, but if you
could only imagine how my heart beats with joy at the bare thoughts of
seeing my beloved friends again, you would pardon me; but, as we have
only to walk on to the place whither you are taking me, I shall soon be
able to gratify my wishes, without tormenting you by further inquiries."

"To be sure you will, my dear, for I promise you that in a quarter of an
hour we shall have reached the end of our journey."

The _femme de charge_, having now left behind the last houses in the
village of Batignolles, conducted Fleur-de-Marie across a grassy road,
bordered on each side by lofty walnut-trees. The day was warm and fine,
the sky half covered by the rich purple clouds of the setting sun, which
now cast its declining rays on the heights of the _colombes_, situated
on the other side of the Seine. As Fleur-de-Marie approached the banks
of the river, a delicate bloom tinged her pale cheeks, and she seemed to
breathe with delight the pure fresh air that blew from the country.
Indeed, so strongly was the look of happiness imprinted on her
countenance, that even Madame Séraphin could not avoid noticing it.

"You seem full of joy, my dear child; I declare it is quite a pleasure
to see you."

"Oh, yes, indeed, I am overflowing with gratitude and eagerness at the
thoughts of seeing my dear Madame Georges so soon, and perhaps, too, M.
Rodolph! I trust I may, for, besides my own happiness at beholding him,
I want to speak to him in favour of several poor unfortunate persons I
should be so glad to recommend to his kindness and protection. How,
then, can I be sad when I have so many delightful things to look forward
to? Oh, who could be unhappy, with such a prospect as mine? And see,
too, how gay and beautiful the sky is, all covered with bright, golden
clouds! And the dear soft green grass,--I think it seems greener than
ever, spite of the season. And look--look out there! See, where the
river flows behind those willow-trees! Oh, how wide and sparkling it
seems; and, when the sun shines on it, it almost dazzles my eyes to gaze
on it! It seems like a sheet of gold. Ah, I saw it shining in the same
way in the basin of the prison a little while ago! God does not forget
even the poor prisoners, but allows them to have a sight of his wondrous
works. Though they are separated by high stone walls from their fellow
creatures, the glorious sun shows them his golden face, and sparkles and
glitters upon the water there, the same as in the gardens of a king!"
added Fleur-de-Marie, with pious gratitude. Then, incited by a reference
to her captivity still more to appreciate the charms of liberty, she
exclaimed, with a burst of innocent delight: "Oh, pray, madame, do look
there, just in the middle of the river, at that pretty little island,
bordered with willows and poplars, and that sweet little white house,
almost close to the water's edge! How delicious it must be to live there
in the summer, when all the leaves are on the trees and the birds sing
so sweetly among the branches! Oh, how quiet and cool it must be in that
nice place!"

"Well, really, now, my dear," said Madame Séraphin, with a grim smile,
"it is singular enough your being so much struck with that little isle!"

"Why, madame?"

"Because it is there we are actually going to."

"Going to that island?"

"Yes; does that astonish you?"

"Rather so, madame."

"But suppose you found your friends there?"

"Oh, what do you mean?"

"Suppose, I say, you found all your friends had assembled there, to
welcome you on your release from prison, should you not then be greatly
surprised?"

"Oh, if it were but possible! My dear Madame Georges?--M. Rodolph?"

"Upon my word, my dear, I am just like a baby in your hands, and you
turn and twist me just as you please; it is useless for me to try to
conceal anything, for, with your little winning ways, you find out all
secrets."

"Then I shall soon see them again? Dear madame, how can I ever thank you
sufficiently for your goodness to a poor girl like me? Feel how my heart
beats! It is all with joy and happiness!"

"Well, well, my love, be as wild with delight as you please, but pray do
not hurry on so very fast. You forget, you little mad thing, that my old
bones cannot run as fast as your nimble young feet."

"I beg your pardon, madame; but I cannot help being quite impatient to
arrive where we are going."

"To be sure you cannot; don't fancy I mean to blame you for it; quite
the contrary."

"The road slopes a little now, madame, and it is rather rough, too; will
you accept of my arm to assist you down?"

"I never refuse a good offer, my dear; for I am somewhat infirm, as well
as old, while you are young and active."

"Then pray lean all your weight on me, madame; don't be afraid of tiring
me."

"Many thanks, my child! Your help was really very serviceable, for the
descent is so extremely rapid just here. Now, then, we are once more on
smooth, level ground."

"Oh, madame, can it, indeed, be true that I am about to meet my dear
Madame Georges? I can scarcely persuade myself it is reality."

"A little patience,--another quarter of an hour, and then you will see
whether it is true or false."

"But what puzzles me," said Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's reflection,
"is, why Madame Georges should have thought proper to meet me here,
instead of at the farm."

"Still curious, my dear child, still wanting to know everybody's
reasons."

"How very foolish and unreasonable I am, am I not, madame?" said
Fleur-de-Marie, smiling.

"And, by way of punishing you, I have a great mind to tell you what the
surprise is that your friends have prepared for you."

"For me, madame, a surprise?"

"Be quiet, you little chatterbox! You will make me reveal the secret, in
spite of myself."

We shall now leave Madame Séraphin and her victim proceeding along the
road which led to the river's side, while we precede them, by a few
minutes, to the Isle du Ravageur.




CHAPTER XV.

THE BOATS.


During the night the appearance of the isle inhabited by the Martial
family was very gloomy, but by the bright light of day nothing could be
more smiling than this accursed spot. Bordered by willows and poplars,
almost entirely covered with thick grass, in which wound several paths
of yellow sand, the islet included a kitchen-garden and a good number of
fruit-trees. In the midst of the orchard was to be seen the hovel, with
the thatched roof, into which Martial had expressed his intention to
retire with François and Amandine. On this side, the isle terminated at
its point by a kind of stockade, formed of large piles, driven in to
prevent the soil from wearing away.

In front of the house, and almost touching the landing-place, was a
small arbour of green trellis-work, intended to support in summer-time
the creeping shoots of the young vines and hops,--a cradle of verdure,
beneath which were arranged tables for the visitors. At one end of the
house, painted white and covered with tiles, a wood-house, with a loft
over it, formed at the angle a small wing, much lower than the main body
of the building. Almost precisely over this wing there appeared a
window, with the shutters covered with iron plates, and strengthened
without by two transverse iron bars attached to the wall by strong
clamps.

Three boats were undulating in the water, fastened to posts at the
landing-place. Seated in one of these boats, Nicholas was making sure
that the valve he had introduced performed its part properly. Standing
on a bench at the mouth of the arbour, Calabash, with her hands placed
over her eyes so as to shade away the sun, was looking out in the
direction in which Madame Séraphin and Fleur-de-Marie were to come to
reach the isle.

"I don't see any one yet, old or young," said Calabash, getting off the
bench and speaking to Nicholas. "It will be just as it was yesterday; we
may as well wait for the King of Prussia. If these women do not come in
half an hour, we can't wait any longer; Bras-Rouge's 'dodge' is much
better, and he'll be waiting for us. The diamond-matcher is to be at his
place in the Champs Elysées at five o'clock. We ought to be there before
her; the Chouette said so this morning."

"You are right," replied Nicholas, leaving the boat. "May thunder smite
the old devil's kin, who has given us all the trouble for nothing! The
valve works capitally. It appears we shall only have one instead of two
jobs."

"Besides, Bras-Rouge and Barbillon will want us; they can do nothing by
their two selves."

"True, again; for, whilst the job is doing, Bras-Rouge must keep watch
outside the cabaret, and Barbillon is not strong enough to drag the
matcher into the cellar, for the old ---- will fight for it, I know!"

"Didn't the Chouette say that, for a joke, she had got the Schoolmaster
at 'school' in the cellar?"

"Not in this one; in another much deeper, and which is filled with water
at spring-tides."

"How the Schoolmaster must rage and foam there in the cellar! There all
alone, and blind, too!"

"That is no matter, for, if he saw as clear as ever, he could see
nothing there; the cellar is as dark as an oven."

"Still, when he has done singing all the songs he knows, to pass away
the time, his days must hang precious heavy on his hands."

"The Chouette says that he amuses himself with rat-hunting, and that the
cellar is full of game."

"I say, Nicholas, talking of certain persons who must be tired, and
fume, and fret," remarked Calabash, with a savage smile, and pointing to
the window fastened up with the iron plates, "there is one there who
must be ready to devour his own flesh and blood."

"Bah! He's asleep. Since the morning he hasn't stirred, and his dog is
silent."

"Perhaps he has strangled him for food. For two days, they must both be
desperate hungry and thirsty up there together."

"That is their affair. Martial may still last a long time in this way,
if it amuses him. When it is done, why, we shall say he died of his
complaint, and there'll be an end of that affair."

"Do you think so?"

"Of course I do. As mother went to Asnières this morning, she met Père
Férot, the fisherman, and, as he was very much astonished at not having
seen his friend Martial for the last two days, mother told him that
Martial was confined to his bed, and was so ill that his life was
despaired of. Daddy Férot swallowed all, like so much honey; he'll tell
everybody else, and when the thing's done and over, why, it'll all seem
nat'ral enough."

"Yes, but he won't die directly; this way is a tedious one."

"What else is to be done? There was no way of doing otherwise. That
devil of a Martial, when he's put up, is as full of mischief as the old
one himself, and as strong as a bull; particularly when he suspects
anything, it is dangerous to approach him; but, now his door is well
nailed up on the outside, what can he do? His window is strongly
fastened with iron, too."

"Why, he might have driven out the bars by cutting away the plaster with
his knife, and he would have done it, only I got up the ladder, and
chopped at his fingers with the bill-hook every time he tried to go to
work."

"What a pleasant watch!" said the ruffian, with a chuckle; "it must have
been vastly amusing!"

"Why, it was to give you time to come with the iron plates you went to
get from Père Micou."

"What a rage the dear brother must have been in!"

"He ground his teeth like a lunatic. Two or three times he tried to
drive me away from the iron bars with his stick, but then, as he had
only one hand at liberty, he could not work and release the iron bars,
which was what he was trying at."

"Fortunately, there's no fireplace in his room, and the door is solid,
and his hands finely cut; if not, he would work his way through the
floor."

"What! Through those heavy beams? No, no, there's no chance of his
escaping; the shutters are covered with iron plates and strengthened
with two bars of iron, the door is nailed up outside with large
boat-nails three inches long. His coffin is more solid than if it were
made of oak and lead."

"I say, though, when La Louve comes out of prison, and makes her way
here, to see her man, as she calls him?"

"Well, we shall say, 'Look for him.'"

"By the way, do you know that, if mother had not shut up those young
'rips' of children, they would have gnawed their ways through the door,
like young rats, to free Martial? That little vagabond François is quite
furious since he suspects we have packed away his tall brother."

"But, you know, they mustn't be left in the room up-stairs whilst we
leave the island; the window is not barred, and they have only to drop
down outside."

At this moment the attention of Nicholas and Calabash was attracted by
the sound of cries and sobs which came from the house. They saw the door
of the ground floor, which had been open until then, close violently,
and a minute afterwards the pale and sinister countenance of Mère
Martial appeared through the bars of the kitchen window. With her long
lean arm the culprit's widow made a sign to her children to come to her.

"There's a row, I know; I'll bet that it is François, who's giving
himself some airs again," said Nicholas. "That beggar Martial! But for
him, this young scamp would be by himself. You keep a good look-out,
and, if you see the two women coming, give me a call."

Whilst Calabash again mounted the bench, and looked out for the arrival
of Séraphin and the Goualeuse, Nicholas entered the house. Little
Amandine was on her knees in the centre of the kitchen, sobbing and
asking pardon for her Brother François. Enraged and threatened, the lad,
ensconced in one of the angles of the apartment, had Nicholas's hatchet
in his hand, and appeared determined this time to offer the most
desperate resistance to his mother's wishes. Impassive as usual, showing
Nicholas the cellar, the widow made a sign to her son to shut François
up there.

"I will never be shut up there!" cried the boy, in a determined tone.
"You want to make us die of hunger, like Brother Martial."

The widow looked at Nicholas with an impatient air, as if to reproach
him for not instantly executing her commands, as, with another imperious
gesture, she pointed to François. Seeing his brother advance towards
him, the young boy brandished the axe with a desperate air and cried:

"If you try to shut me up there, whether it is mother, brother, or
Calabash, so much the worse. I shall strike, and the hatchet cuts."

Nicholas felt as the widow did the pressing necessity there was to
prevent the two children from going to Martial's succour whilst the
house was left to itself, as well as to put them out of the way of
seeing the scenes which were about to pass, for their window looked onto
the river in which they were about to drown Fleur-de-Marie. But Nicholas
was as cowardly as he was ferocious, and, afraid of receiving a blow
from the dangerous hatchet with which his young brother was armed,
hesitated to approach him. The widow, angry at his hesitation, pushed
him towards François; but Nicholas, again retreating, exclaimed:

"But, mother, if he cuts me? You know I want all my arms and fingers at
this time, and I feel still the thump that brute Martial gave me."

The widow shrugged her shoulders, and advanced towards François.

"Don't come near me, mother," shrieked the boy in a fury, "or you'll pay
dear for all the beatings you have given me and Amandine!"

"Let 'em shut us up; don't strike mother!" cried Amandine, in fear.

At this moment Nicholas saw upon a chair a large blanket which he used
to wrap his booty in at times, and, taking hold of and partly unfolding
it, he threw it completely over François's head, who, in spite of his
efforts, finding himself entangled under its folds, could not make use
of his weapon. Nicholas then seized hold of him, and, with his mother's
help, carried him into the cellar. Amandine had continued kneeling in
the centre of the kitchen, and, as soon as she saw her brother overcome,
she sprang up and, in spite of her fright, went to join him in the dark
hole. The door was then double-locked on the brother and sister.

"It will still be that infernal Martial's fault, if these children
behave in this outrageous manner to us," said Nicholas.

"Nothing has been heard in his room since this morning," said the
widow, with a pensive air, and she shuddered, "nothing!"

"That's a sign, mother, that you were right to say to Père Férot, the
fisherman at Asnières, that Martial had been so dangerously ill as to be
confined to his bed for the last two days; for now, when all is known,
it will not astonish anybody."

After a moment's silence, as and if she wished to escape a painful
thought, the widow replied, suddenly:

"Didn't the Chouette come here whilst I was at Asnières?"

"Yes, mother."

"Why didn't she stay and accompany us to Bras-Rouge's? I mistrust her."

"Bah! You mistrust everybody, mother; you are always fancying they are
going to play you some trick. To-day it is the Chouette, yesterday it
was Bras-Rouge."

"Bras-Rouge is at liberty,--my son is at Toulon, yet they committed the
same robbery."

"You are always saying this. Bras-Rouge escaped because he is as cunning
as a fox--that's it; the Chouette did not stay, because she had an
appointment at two o'clock, near the Observatory, with the tall man in
black, at whose desire she has carried off this young country girl, by
the help of the Schoolmaster and Tortillard; and Barbillon drove the
hackney-coach which the tall man in black had hired for the job. So how,
mother, do you suppose the Chouette would inform against us, when she
tells us the 'jobs' she has in hand, and we do not tell her ours? for
she knows nothing of this drowning job that is to come off directly. Be
easy, mother; wolves don't eat each other, and this will be a good day's
work; and when I recollect, too, that the jewel-matcher has often about
her twenty to thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds in her bag, and
that, in less than two hours, we shall have her in Bras-Rouge's cellar!
Thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds, mother! Think of that!"

"And, whilst we lay hands on this woman, Bras-Rouge is to remain outside
the cabaret?" inquired the widow, with an air of suspicion.

"Well, and where would you have him, I should like to know? If any one
comes to his house, mustn't he be outside the door to answer them, and
prevent them from entering the place whilst we are doing our 'job?'"

"Nicholas! Nicholas!" cried Calabash, at this moment from outside, "here
come the two women!"

"Quick, quick, mother! Your shawl! I will land you on the other side,
and that will be so much done," said Nicholas.

The widow had replaced her mourning head-dress with a high black cap, in
which she now made her appearance. At the instigation of Nicholas, she
wrapped herself in a large plaid shawl, with gray and white checks; and,
after having carefully closed and secured the kitchen door, she placed
the key behind one of the window-shutters on the ground-floor, and
followed her son, who was hastily pursuing his way to the landing-place.
Almost involuntarily, as she quitted the island, she cast a long and
meditative look at Martial's window; and the train of thought to which
its firmly nailed and iron-bound exterior gave rise seemed, to judge by
their effect, to be of a very mingled and complicated character, for she
knitted her brows, pursed her lips, and then, after a sudden convulsive
shudder, she murmured, in a low hesitating voice:

"It is his own fault--it is his own fault!"

"Nicholas, do you see them? Just down there, along the path,--a country
girl and an old woman!" exclaimed Calabash, pointing to the other side
of the river, where Madame Séraphin and Fleur-de-Marie were descending a
narrow, winding path which passed by a high bank, on the top of which
were the lime-kilns.

"Let us wait for the signal; don't let us spoil the job by too much
haste," said Nicholas.

"What! Are you blind? Don't you recognise the stout woman who came the
day before yesterday? Look at her orange shawl; and the little country
girl, what a hurry she seems in! She's a good little thing, I know; and
it's plain she has no idea of what is going to happen to her, or she
wouldn't hasten on at that pace, I'm thinking."

"Yes, I recollect the stout woman now. It's all right, then--all right!
Although they are so much behind the time I had almost given up the job
as bad. But let us quite understand the thing, Calabash. I shall take
the old woman and the young girl in the boat with a valve to it; you
will follow me close on, stern to stern; and mind and row steadily, so
that, with one spring, I may jump from one boat to the other, as soon as
I have opened the pipe and the water begins to sink the boat."

"Don't be afraid about me, it is not the first time I've pulled a boat,
is it?"

"I am not afraid of being drowned, you know I can swim; but, if I did
not jump well into the other boat, why, the women, in their struggles
against drowning, might catch hold of me and--much obliged to you, but I
have no fancy for a bath with the two ladies."

"The old woman waves her handkerchief," said Calabash; "there they are
on the bank."

"Come, come along, mother, let's push off," said Nicholas, unmooring.
"Come you into the boat with the valve, then the two women will not have
any fear; and you, Calabash, jump into t'other, and use your arms, my
girl, and pull a good one. Ah, by the way, take the boat-hook and put it
beside you, it is as sharp as a lance, and it may be useful," added the
ruffian, as he placed beside Calabash in the boat a long hook with a
sharp iron point.

A few moments, and the two boats, one rowed by Nicholas and the other
by Calabash, reached the shore where, for some moments, Madame Séraphin
and Fleur-de-Marie had been waiting. Whilst Nicholas was fastening his
boat to a post on the bank, Madame Séraphin approached him, and said, in
a low and rapid tone:

"Say that Madame Georges is waiting for us at the island,--you
understand?" And then, in a louder voice, she added, "We are rather
late, my lad."

"Yes, my good lady, Madame Georges has been asking for you several
times."

"You see, my dear young lady, Madame Georges is waiting for us," said
Madame Séraphin, turning to Fleur-de-Marie, who, in spite of her
confidence, had felt considerable repugnance at the sight of the
sinister countenances of Calabash, Nicholas, and the widow; but the
mention of Madame Georges reassured her, and she replied:

"I am just as impatient to see Madame Georges; fortunately, it is not a
long way across."

"How delighted the dear lady will be!" said Madame Séraphin. Then,
addressing Nicholas, "Now, then, my lad, bring your boat a little closer
that we may get in." Adding, in an undertone, "The girl must be drowned,
mind; if she comes up thrust her back again into the water."

"All right, ma'am; and don't be alarmed yourself, but, when I make you
the signal, give me your hand, she'll then pass under all alone, for
everything's ready, and you have nothing to fear," replied Nicholas, in
a similar tone; and then, with savage brutality, unmoved by
Fleur-de-Marie's youth and beauty, he put his hand out to her. The young
girl leaned lightly on him and entered the boat.

"Now you, my good lady," said Nicholas to Madame Séraphin, offering her
his hand in turn.

Was it presentiment, or mistrust, or only fear that she could not spring
quickly enough out of the little bark in which Nicholas and the
Goualeuse were, that made Jacques Ferrand's housekeeper say to Nicholas,
shrinking back, "No, I'll go in the boat with mademoiselle?" And she
took her seat by Calabash.

"Just as you please," said Nicholas, exchanging an expressive look with
his sister as, with a vigorous thrust with his oar, he drove his boat
from the bank.

His sister did the same directly Madame Séraphin was seated beside her.
Standing, looking fixedly on the bank, indifferent to the scene, the
widow, pensive and absorbed, fixed her look obstinately on Martial's
window, which was discernible from the landing-place through the
poplars. During this time the two boats, in the first of which were
Nicholas and Fleur-de-Marie and in the other Calabash and Madame
Séraphin, left the bank slowly.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING.


Before the reader is made acquainted with the _dénouement_ of the drama
then passing in Nicholas's boat, we shall beg leave to retrace our
steps.

Shortly after Fleur-de-Marie had quitted St. Lazare in company of Madame
Séraphin, La Louve also left that prison. Thanks to the recommendations
of Madame Armand and the governor, who were desirous of recompensing her
for her kindness towards Mont Saint-Jean, the few remaining days the
beloved of Martial had still to remain in confinement were remitted her.
A complete change had come over this hitherto depraved, degraded, and
intractable being. Forever brooding over the description of the
peaceful, wild, and retired life, so beautifully depictured by
Fleur-de-Marie, La Louve entertained the utmost horror and disgust of
her past life. To bury herself with Martial in the deep shades of some
vast forest, such was her waking and dreaming thought,--the one fixed
idea of her existence, against which all her former evil inclinations
had in vain struggled when, separating herself from La Goualeuse, whose
growing influence she feared, this singular creature had retired to
another part of St. Lazare.

To complete this sincere though rapid conversion, still more assured by
the ineffectual resistance attempted by the perverse and froward habits
of her companion, Fleur-de-Marie, following the dictates of her own
natural good sense, had thus reasoned:

"La Louve, a violent and determined creature, is passionately fond of
Martial. She would, then, hail with delight the means of quitting the
disgraceful life she now, for the first time, views with shame and
disgust, for the purpose of entirely devoting herself to the rude,
unpolished man whose taste she so entirely partakes of, and who seeks to
hide himself from the world, as much from inclination as from a desire
of escaping from the universal reprobation in which his family is
viewed."

Assisted by these small materials, gleaned during her conversation with
La Louve, Fleur-de-Marie, in giving a right direction to the unbridled
passion and restraining the daring hardihood of the reckless creature,
had positively converted a lost, wretched being into an honest woman;
for what could the most virtuous of her sex have desired more than to
bestow her undivided affections on the man of her choice, to dwell with
him in the silence and solitude of woods, where hard labour, privations
and poverty, would all be cheerfully borne and shared for his dear sake,
to whom her heart was given?

And such was the constant, ardent prayer of La Louve. Relying on the
assistance which Fleur-de-Marie had assured her of in the name of an
unknown benefactor, La Louve determined to make her praiseworthy
proposal to her lover, not, indeed, without the keen and bitter
apprehension of being rejected by him, for La Goualeuse, while she
brought her to blush for her past life, awakened her to a just sense
also of her position as regarded Martial.

Once at liberty, La Louve thought only of seeing "her man," as she
called him. He took exclusive possession of her mind; she had heard
nothing of him for several days. In the hopes of meeting with him in the
Isle du Ravageur, and with the determination of waiting there until he
came, should she fail to find him at first, she paid the driver of a
cabriolet liberally to conduct her with all speed to the bridge of
Asnières, which she crossed about a quarter of an hour before Madame
Séraphin and Fleur-de-Marie (they having walked from the barrier) had
reached the banks of the river near the lime-kilns. As Martial did not
present himself to ferry La Louve across to the Isle du Ravageur, she
applied to an old fisherman, named Father Férot, who lived close by the
bridge.

It was about four o'clock in the day when a cabriolet stopped at the
entrance of a small street in the village of Asnières. La Louve leaped
from it at one bound, threw a five-franc piece to the driver, and
proceeded with all haste to the dwelling of old Férot, the ferryman. La
Louve, no longer dressed in her prison garb, wore a gown of dark green
merino, a red imitation of cashmere shawl with large, flaming pattern,
and a net cap trimmed with riband; her thick, curly hair was scarcely
smoothed out, her impatient longing to see Martial having rendered an
ordinary attention to her toilet quite impossible. Any other female
would, after so long a separation, have exerted her very utmost to
appear becomingly adorned at her first interview with her lover; but La
Louve knew little and cared less for all these coquettish arts, which
ill accorded with her excitable nature. Her first, her predominating
desire was to see "her man" as quickly as possible, and this impetuous
wish was caused, not alone by the fervour of a love which, in minds as
wild and unregulated as hers, sometimes leads on to madness, but also
from a yearning to pour into the ear of Martial the virtuous resolutions
she had formed, and to reveal to him the bright vista of happiness
opened to both by her conversation with Fleur-de-Marie.

The flying steps of La Louve soon conducted her to the fisherman's
cottage, and there, seated tranquilly before the door, she found Father
Férot, an old, white-headed man, busily employed mending his nets. Even
before she came close up to him, La Louve cried out:

"Quick, quick, Father Férot! Your boat! Your boat!"

"What! Is it you, my girl? Well, how are you? I have not seen you this
long while."

"I know, I know; but where is your boat? and take me across to the isle
as fast as you can row."

"My boat? Well to be sure! Now, how very unlucky! As if it was to be so.
Bless you, my girl, it is quite out of my power to ferry you across
to-day."

"But why? Why is it?"

"Why, you see, my son has taken my boat to go up to the boat-races held
at St. Ouen. Bless your heart, I don't think there's a boat left all
along the river's side."

"Distraction!" exclaimed La Louve, stamping her foot and clenching her
hand. "Then all is lost; I shall not be able to see him!"

"'Pon my honour and word, it's true, though," said old Férot. "I am
extremely sorry I am unable to ferry you over, because, no doubt, by
your going on so, he is very much worse."

"Who is much worse? Who?"

"Why, Martial!"

"Martial!" exclaimed La Louve, snatching the sleeve of old Férot's
jacket, "My man ill?"

"Bless me! Did you not know it?"

"Martial? Do you mean Martial?"

"To be sure I do; but don't hold me so tight, you'll tear my blouse. Now
be quiet, there's a good girl. I declare you frighten me, you stare
about so wildly."

"Ill! Martial ill? And how long has he been so?"

"Oh, two or three days."

"'Tis false! He would have written and told me of it, had it been so."

"Ah, but then, don't you see? He's been too bad to handle a pen."

"Too ill to write! And he is on the isle! Are you sure--quite sure he is
there?"

"Why, I'll tell you. You must know, this morning, I meets the widow
Martial. Now you are aware, my girl, that most, in general, when I
notice her coming one way, I make it my business to go the other, for I
am not particular fond of her,--I can't say I am. So then--"

"But my man--my man! Tell me of him!"

"Wait a bit,--I'm coming to him. So when I found I couldn't get away
from the mother, and, to speak the honest truth, that woman makes me
afraid to seem to slight her. She has a sort of an evil look about her,
like one as could do you any manner of harm for only wishing for; I
can't account for it, I don't know what it is, for I am not timorous by
nature, but somehow the widow Martial does downright scare me. Well,
says I, thinking just to say a few words and pass on, 'I haven't seen
anything of your son Martial these last two or three days,' says I, 'I
suppose he's not with you just now?' upon which she fixed her eyes upon
me with such a look! 'Tis well they were not pistols, or they would have
shot me, as folks say."

"You drive me wild! And then--and what said she?"

Father Férot was silent for a minute or two, and then added:

"Come, now, you are a right sort of a girl; if you will only promise me
to be secret, I will tell you all I know."

"Concerning my man?"

"Ay, to be sure, for Martial is a good fellow, though somewhat
thoughtless; and it would be a sore pity should any mischance befall him
through that old wretch of a mother or his rascally brother!"

"But what is going on? What have his mother or brother done? And where
is he, eh? Speak, I tell you! Speak!"

"Well, well, have a little patience! And, I say, do just let my blouse
alone! Come, take your hands off, there's a good girl; if you keep
interrupting me, and tear my clothes in this way, I shall never be able
to finish my story, and you will know nothing at last."

"Oh, how you try my patience!" exclaimed La Louve, stamping her foot
with intense passion.

"And you promise never to repeat a word of what I am about to tell you?"

"No, no, I never will!"

"Upon your word of honour?"

"Father Férot, you will drive me mad!"

"Oh, what a hot-headed girl it is! Well, now, then, this is what I have
got to say; but, first and foremost, I must tell you that Martial is
more than ever at variance with his family; and, if he were to get some
foul play at their hands, I should not be at all surprised; and that
makes me the more sorry my boat is not at hand to help you across the
water, for, if you reckon upon either Nicholas or Calabash taking you
over to the isle, why, you'll just find yourself disappointed, that's
all."

"I know that as well as you do; but what did my man's mother tell you?
He was in the isle, then, when he fell ill, was he not?"

"Don't you put me out so with your questions; let me tell my story my
own way. This morning I says to the widow,'Why,' says I,'I have seen
nothing of Martial these last two or three days. I mark his boat is
still moored,--he don't seem to use it as usual; I suppose he's gone
away a bit? Maybe he's in Paris upon his business?' Upon which the widow
gave me, oh, such a devil's look! So says she,'He's bad a-bed in the
isle, and we don't look for him to get better!' 'Oh, oh!' says I to
myself,'that's it, is it? It's three days since--' Holla! stop, I say!"
cried old Férot, interrupting himself; "where the deuce are you going?
What is the girl after now?"

Believing the life of Martial in danger from the inhabitants of the
isle, and unable longer to endure the twaddle of the old fisherman, La
Louve rushed, half frantic with rage and fear, towards the banks of the
Seine. Some topographical descriptions will be requisite for the perfect
understanding of the ensuing scene.

The Isle du Ravageur was nearer to the left bank of the river than it
was to the right, from which Fleur-de-Marie and Madame Séraphin had
embarked. La Louve stood on the left bank. Without being extremely high,
the surface of the isle completely prevented those on one side the river
from seeing what was passing on the opposite bank; thus La Louve had
been unable to witness the embarkation of La Goualeuse, while the
Martial family had been equally prevented from seeing La Louve, who, at
that very instant, was rushing in wild desperation along the banks of
the other side of the river.

Let us also recall to the reader, that the country-house belonging to
Doctor Griffon, and temporarily occupied by the Count Saint-Remy was
midway between the land and that part of the shore where La Louve
arrived half wild with apprehension and impatience. Unconsciously she
rushed past two individuals, who, struck with her excited manner and
haggard looks, turned back to watch her proceedings. These two
personages were the Count Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon.

The first impulse of La Louve, upon learning the danger which threatened
her lover, was to hurry towards the spot from whence the peril
proceeded; but, as she reached the water's edge, she became painfully
sensible of the difficulties that stood in the way of her reaching the
opposite land. As the old fisherman had assured her, she well knew the
folly of expecting any strangers to pass by, and none of the Martial
family would take the trouble of rowing over to fetch her to the isle.

Heated and breathless, her eyes sparkling with eager excitement, she
stopped opposite that point of the isle which, taking a sudden bend in
this direction, was the nearest approach from the shore. Through the
leafless branches of the willows and poplars, La Louve could see the
roof of the very house where Martial perhaps lay dying.

At this distracting idea La Louve uttered a wild cry of desperation,
then, snatching off her shawl and cap, she slipped out of her gown; and,
undressed as she was to her petticoat, she threw herself intrepidly into
the river, waded until she got out of her depth, and then, fearlessly
striking out, she swam determinedly towards the isle, affording a
strange spectacle of wild and desperate energy. At each fresh impulsion
of the arms the long, thick hair of La Louve, unfastened by the violent
exercise she was using, shook and waved about her head like the rich
mane of a war-horse. But for the fixedness of her gaze, constantly
riveted on the house which contained Martial, and the contraction of her
features, drawn together by almost the convulsive agonies of fear and
dreadful anticipation of arriving too late, the poacher's mistress might
have been supposed to have been merely enjoying the cool refreshment of
the water for her own sport and diversion, so boldly and freely did she
swim.

Tattooed in remembrance of her lover, her white but sinewy arms, strong
as those of a man, divided the waters with a stroke which sent the
sparkling element in rushing streams of liquid pearls over her broad
shoulders and strong, expansive chest, resembling a block of
half-submerged marble. All at once, from the other side of the isle,
rose a cry of distress,--a cry of agony at once fearful and despairing.
La Louve started, and suddenly stopped in her rapid course; then
supporting herself with one hand, with the other she pushed back her
thick, dripping hair, and listened. Again the cry was repeated, but
more feebly, supplicatory, convulsive, and expiring; and then the most
profound silence reigned around.

"'Tis Martial--'tis his cry! He calls me to his aid!" exclaimed La
Louve, swimming with renewed vigour, for, in her excited state of mind,
the voice which had rent the air, and sent a pang through her whole
frame, seemed to her to be that of her lover.

The count and the doctor, whom La Louve had rushed so quickly by, were
quite unable to overtake her in time to prevent her daring attempt; but
both arrived immediately opposite the isle at the moment when those
frightful cries were heard. Both stopped, as perfectly shocked and
startled as La Louve had been. Observing the desperate energy with which
she battled with the water, they exclaimed:

"The unfortunate creature means to drown herself!"

But their fears were vain. Martial's mistress swam like an otter, and,
with a few more vigorous strokes, the intrepid creature had reached the
land. She gained her feet, and, to assist her in climbing up the bank,
she took hold of one of the stakes used as a sort of protecting stockade
at the extremity of the isle, when at that instant, as partially in the
water and holding on by one hand, she saw drifting along the form of a
young female, dressed after the fashion of the country girls who come to
Paris with their wares. The body floated slowly on with the current,
which drove it against the piles, while the garments served to render it
buoyant. To cling to one of the strongest stakes, and with the hand left
free to snatch at the clothes of the female as it was passing, was the
instantaneous impulse of La Louve,--an impulse executed as rapidly as
conceived. In her extreme eagerness, however, she drew the unfortunate
being she sought to save so suddenly and violently towards herself and
within the small enclosure formed by the piles, that the body sunk
completely under water, though here it was shallow enough to walk to
land. Gifted with skill and strength far from common, La Louve raised La
Goualeuse (for she it was, although not as yet recognised by her late
friend), took her up in her powerful arms as though she had been a
child, and laid her on the grassy banks of the isle.

"Courage! Courage!" shouted M. de Saint-Remy, from the opposite side,
having, as well as Doctor Griffon, witnessed this bold deliverance. "We
will make all haste to cross the bridge of Asnières, and bring a boat to
your assistance."

After thus speaking, both the count and his companion proceeded as
quickly as they were able in the direction of the bridge; but La Louve
heard not the words addressed to her.

Let us again repeat, that, from the right bank of the Seine, on which
Nicholas, Calabash, and their mother assembled after the commission of
their atrocious crime, it was impossible, owing to its steepness, to
observe what was passing on the opposite shore. Fleur-de-Marie, abruptly
drawn by La Louve within the piles, having first sunk completely from
the eyes of her murderers, was thus in safety from any further pursuit
on their part, they believing that she had effectually perished.

A few instants after, the current, as it swept by, carried with it a
second body, floating near to the surface of the water; but La Louve
perceived it not. It was the corpse of Madame Séraphin, the notary's
_femme de charge_. She, however, was perfectly dead.

It was as much the interest of Nicholas and Calabash as it was of
Jacques Ferrand to remove so formidable a witness as well as sharer of
their crime; seizing the opportunity, therefore, when the boat sunk with
Fleur-de-Marie, to spring into that rowed by his sister, and in which
was Madame Séraphin, he contrived to give the small vessel so great a
shock as almost threw the _femme de charge_ into the water, and, while
struggling to recover herself, he managed to thrust her overboard, and
then to finish her with his boat-hook.

       *       *       *       *       *

Breathless and exhausted, La Louve, kneeling on the grass beside
Fleur-de-Marie, tried to recover her strength, and, at the same time, to
make out the features of her she had saved from certain death. Who can
describe her surprise, her utter astonishment, as she recognised her
late prison companion,--she who had exercised so beneficial an influence
on her mind, and produced so complete a change in her conduct and ideas?
In the first bewilderment of her feelings even Martial was forgotten.

"La Goualeuse!" exclaimed she, as, with head bent down, her hair
dishevelled, her garments streaming with wet, she, kneeling,
contemplated the unhappy girl stretched almost dying before her on the
grass.

Pale, motionless, her half closed eyes vacant and senseless, her
beautiful hair glued to her pallid brows, her lips blue and livid, her
small, delicate hands stiff and cold, La Goualeuse might well have
passed for dead to any but the watchful eye of affection.

"La Goualeuse!" again cried La Louve. "What a singular chance that I
should have come hither to relate to my man all the good and harm she
has done me with her words and promises, as well as the resolution I
have taken, and to find the poor thing thus to give me the meeting! Poor
girl! She is cold and dead. But, no, no!" exclaimed La Louve, stooping
still more closely over Fleur-de-Marie, and, as she did so, finding a
faint--indeed, almost imperceptible--breath escape her lips; "no, she
lives! Merciful Father, she breathes! And 'tis I have snatched her from
death! I, who never yet saved any one! Oh, how happy the thought makes
me! My heart glows with a new delight. How thankful I feel that none but
I saved her! Ha! but my man,--I must save him also. Perhaps he is even
now in his death-throes--his mother and brother are even wretches
enough to murder him! What shall I do? I cannot leave this poor creature
here,--I will carry her to the widow's house. She must and she shall
succour the poor Goualeuse and let me see Martial, or I will smash
everything in my way. No mother, brother, or sister shall hinder me from
going wherever my man is!"

And, springing up as she spoke, La Louve raised Fleur-de-Marie in her
strong arms. Charged with this slender burthen, she hurried towards the
house, never for a moment doubting that, spite of their hard and wicked
natures, the widow and her daughter would bestow on Fleur-de-Marie every
requisite care.

When Martial's mistress had reached that point of the isle from which
both sides of the Seine were distinguishable, Nicholas, his mother, and
Calabash had quitted the place, certain of the accomplishment of their
double crime; they then repaired, in all haste, to the house of
Bras-Rouge.

At this moment a man who, hidden in one of the recesses of the river
concealed by the lime-kiln, had, without being seen himself, witnessed
the whole progress of this horrible scene, also disappeared; believing,
as well as the guilty perpetrators, that the fell deed had been fully
achieved. This man was Jacques Ferrand.

One of Nicholas's boats was rocking to and fro, moored to a stake on the
river's bank, just by where Madame Séraphin and La Goualeuse had
embarked.

Scarcely had Jacques Ferrand quitted the lime-kiln to return to Paris
than M. de Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon hastily crossed the bridge of
Asnières, for the purpose of reaching the isle; which they contemplated
doing by means of Nicholas's boat, which they had discerned from afar.

To the extreme astonishment of La Louve, when she arrived at the house
in the Isle du Ravageur, she found the door shut and fastened. Placing
the still inanimate form of Fleur-de-Marie beneath the porch, she more
closely examined the dwelling. The window of Martial's chamber was well
known to her; what was her surprise to find the shutters belonging to it
closed, and sheets of tin nailed over them, strongly secured from
without by two bars of iron!

Suspecting a part of the cause of this, La Louve, in a loud, hoarse
voice of mingled fury and deep tenderness, screamed out as loudly as she
could:

"Martial! My man!"

No answer was returned.

Terrified at this silence, La Louve began pacing round and round the
house like a wild beast who scents the spot whither her mate has been
entrapped, and with deep roars and savage growls demands admittance to
him.

Still pursuing her agitated search, La Louve kept shouting from time to
time, "My man! Are you there, my man?" And in her desperate fury she
shook and rattled the bars of the kitchen windows, beat against the
walls, and knocked long and loudly at the door. All at once a dull,
indistinct noise was heard from withinside the house. Eagerly and
attentively La Louve listened; the noise, however, ceased.

"My man heard me! I must and will get in somehow, if I gnaw the door
away with my teeth."

And again she reiterated her frantic cries and adjurations to Martial.
Several faint blows struck inside the closed shutters of Martial's
chamber replied to the yells and screams of La Louve.

"He is there!" cried she, suddenly stopping beneath the window of her
lover. "He is there! I am sure of it; and if all other means fail I will
strip off that tin with my nails, but I will wrench those shutters
open!"

So saying, she glanced frantically around in search of something to aid
her efforts to free her lover, when her eye caught sight of a ladder
partly hanging against one of the outside shutters of the sitting-room.
Hastily pulling the shutter, the more quickly to disengage the ladder,
the key of the outer door, left by the widow on the sill of the window,
fell to the ground.

"Oh, if this be only the right key!" cried La Louve, trying it in the
lock of the entrance door; "I can go straight up stairs to his chamber.
Oh, it turns! It opens!" exclaimed La Louve, with delight; "and my man
is saved!"

Once in the kitchen she was struck by the cries of the two children,
who, shut up in the cellar, and hearing an unusual noise, called loudly
for help. The widow, persuaded that no person would visit the isle or
her dwelling, had contented herself with double-locking the door upon
François and Amandine, leaving the key in the lock.

Released by La Louve, the two children hurried from the cellar to the
kitchen.

"Oh, La Louve!" exclaimed François, "save our dear Brother Martial; they
want him to die! For two days he has been shut up in his room!"

"They have not wounded him, have they?"

"No, no, I think not!"

"I have arrived just in time, it seems," cried La Louve, rushing towards
the staircase, and hastily mounting the stairs. Then, suddenly stopping,
she exclaimed, "Ah, but La Goualeuse! I quite forgot her. Amandine, my
child, light a fire directly; and then do you and your brother fetch a
poor, half-drowned girl you will find lying outside the door under the
porch, and place her before the fire. She would have been quite dead, if
I had not saved her. François, quick! Bring me a crowbar, a hatchet, an
axe, anything, that I may break in the door that confines my man!"

"There is the cleaver we split wood with, but it is too heavy for you,"
said the lad, dragging forward an enormous chopper.

"Too heavy! I don't even feel it!" cried La Louve, swinging the
ponderous weapon, which, at another time, she would have had much
difficulty in lifting, as though it had been a feather.

Then, proceeding with hurried steps up-stairs, she called out to the
children:

"Go and fetch the young girl I told you of, and place her by the fire."

And, with two bounds, La Louve reached the corridor, at the end of which
was situated the apartment of Martial.

"Courage! Courage, my man! Your Louve is here!" cried she, and, lifting
the cleaver with both hands, she dashed it furiously against the door.

"It is fastened on the outside," moaned Martial, in a feeble voice;
"draw out the nails,--you cannot open it otherwise."

Throwing herself upon her knees in the passage, by the help of the edge
of the cleaver, her nails, which she almost tore bleeding from their
roots, and her fingers, which were lacerated and torn, La Louve
contrived to extract the huge nails which fastened the door all around.
At length her heroic exertions were crowned with success,--the door
yielded to her efforts, and Martial, pale, bleeding, and almost
exhausted, fell into the arms of his mistress.

"At last--I have you--I hold you--I press you to my heart!" exclaimed La
Louve, as she received and tenderly pressed Martial in her arms, with a
joy of possession that partook almost of savage energy. She supported,
or, rather, carried him to a bench placed in the corridor. For several
minutes Martial remained weak and haggard, endeavouring to recover from
the violent surprise which had proved nearly too much for his exhausted
strength. La Louve had come to the succour of her lover at the very
instant when, worn-out and despairing, he felt himself dying,--less from
want of food than air, which it was impossible to obtain in so small an
apartment, unprovided with a chimney or any other outlet, and
hermetically closed, thanks to the fiendish contrivance of Calabash, who
had stopped even the most trifling crevices in the door and window with
pieces of old rag.

Trembling with joy and apprehension, her eyes streaming with tears, La
Louve, kneeling beside Martial, watched his slightest movements, and
intently gazed on his features. The unfortunate youth seemed gradually
to recover as his lungs inhaled a freer and more healthful atmosphere.
After a few convulsive shudderings he raised his languid head, heaved a
deep sigh, and, opening his eyes, looked eagerly around him.

"Martial! 'Tis I!--your Louve! How are you now?"

"Better!" replied he, in a feeble voice.

"Thank God! Will you have a little water or some vinegar?"

"No, no," replied Martial, speaking more naturally; "air, air! Oh, I
want only air!"

At the risk of gashing the backs of her hands, La Louve drove them
through the four panes of a window she could not have opened without
first removing a large and heavy table.

"Now I breathe! I breathe freely! And my head seems quite relieved!"
said Martial, entirely recovering his senses and voice.

Then, as if recalling for the first time the service his mistress had
rendered him, he exclaimed, with a burst of ineffable gratitude:

"But for you, my brave Louve, I should soon have been dead!"

"Oh, never mind thinking of that! But tell me, how do you find yourself
now?"

"Better--much better!"

"You are hungry, I doubt not?"

"No; I feel myself too weak for that. What I have suffered most cruelly
from has been want of air. At last I felt suffocating, strangling,
choking. Oh, it was dreadful!"

"But now?"

"I live again. I come forth from the very tomb itself; and that, too,
thanks to you!"

"And these cuts upon your poor bleeding hands! For God's sake, what have
they done to you?"

"Nicholas and Calabash, not daring to attack me openly a second time,
fastened me up in my chamber to allow me to perish of hunger in it. I
tried to prevent their nailing up my shutters, and my sister chopped my
fingers with a hatchet."

"The monsters! They wished to make it appear that you had died of
sickness. Your mother had spread the report of your being in a hopeless
state. Your mother, my man,--your own mother!"

"Hold!" cried Martial, with bitterness; "mention her not." Then for the
first time remarking the wet garments and singular state of La Louve's
attire, he added, "But what has happened to you? Your hair is dripping
wet; you have only your underclothes on; and they are drenched through."

"No matter, no matter what has happened to me, since you are saved. Oh,
yes,--saved!"

"But explain to me how you became thus wet through."

"I knew you were in danger, and finding no boat--"

"You swam to my rescue?"

"I did. But your hands? Give them to me that I may heal them with my
kisses! You are in pain, I fear? Oh, the monsters! And I not here to
help you!"

"Oh, my brave Louve!" exclaimed Martial, enthusiastically; "bravest and
best of all brave creatures!"

"Did not your hand trace on my arm 'Death to the cowardly?' See!" cried
La Louve, showing her tattooed arm, on which these very words were
indelibly engraved.

"Yes, you are bold and intrepid; but the cold has seized you,--you
tremble!"

"Indeed, it is not with cold."

"Never mind,--go in there. You will find Calabash's cloak; wrap yourself
well in it."

"But--"

"I insist!"

In an instant La Louve, who had quickly flown at her lover's second
command, returned wrapped in a plaid mantle.

"To think you ran the risk of drowning yourself,--and all for me!"
resumed Martial, gazing on her with enthusiastic delight.

"Oh, no, not altogether for you. A poor girl was nearly perishing in the
river, and I saved her as I landed."

"Saved her also. And where is she?"

"Below with the children, who are taking care of her."

"And who is she?"

"Oh, dear, you can scarcely credit what a singular and lucky chance
brought me to her rescue! She was one of my companions at St. Lazare,--a
most extraordinary sort of girl. Oh, you don't half know--"

"How so?"

"Only conceive my both hating and loving her; for she had introduced
happiness and death into my heart and thoughts."

"Who? This girl?"

"Yes; and all on your account."

"On mine?"

"Hark ye, Martial!" Then interrupting her proposed speech, La Louve
continued, "No, no; I never, never can--"

"What?"

"I had a request to make to you, and for that purpose I came hither;
because when I quitted Paris I knew nothing of your danger."

"Then speak,--pray do!"

"I dare not."

"Dare not,--after all you have done for me?"

"No; for then it would appear as though I claimed a right to be
rewarded."

"A right to be rewarded? And have you not already earned that right? Do
I not already owe you much? And did you not tend my sick bed with
unfailing watchfulness, both night and day during my illness of the past
year?"

"Are you not 'my man,--my own dear man?'"

"And for the reason that I am and ever shall be 'your man,' are you not
bound to speak openly and candidly to me?"

"For ever, Martial?"

"Yes, for ever; as true as my name is Martial. I shall never care for
any other woman in the world but you, my brave Louve. Never mind what
you may have been, or what you may have done; that is nobody's affair
but mine. I love you, and you love me; and, moreover, I owe you my life.
But somehow, do you know, since you have been in prison I have not been
like the same person. All sorts of fresh thoughts have come into my
mind. I have thought it well over, and I have resolved that you shall no
more be what you have been."

"What can you mean?"

"That I will never more quit you; neither will I part from François and
Amandine."

"Your young sister and brother?"

"Yes; from this day forward I must be as a second father to these poor
children. Don't you see, by imposing on myself fresh duties, I am
compelled to alter and amend what is amiss in my way of conducting
myself? But I consider it my positive task to take charge of these young
things, or they will be made artful thieves. And the only way to save
them is to take them from here."

"Where to?"

"That I know not; but certainly far from Paris."

"And me?"

"You? Why, of course, you go with me!"

"With you?" exclaimed La Louve, with joyful surprise,--she could not
credit the reality of such happiness. "And shall I never again be parted
from you?"

"No, my brave girl--never! You will help me to bring up my little sister
and young brother. I know your heart. When I say to you, 'I greatly wish
my poor little Amandine to grow up a virtuous and industrious woman.
Just talk to her about it, and show her what to do,' I am quite sure and
certain that you will be to her all the best mother could be to her own
child."

"Oh, thanks, Martial,--thanks, thanks!"

"We shall live like honest workpeople. Never fear but we shall find
work; for we will toil like slaves to content our employers; but, at
least, these children will not be depraved and degraded beings like
their parents. I shall not continually hear myself taunted with my
father and brother's disgraceful end, neither shall I go through streets
where you are known. But what is the matter,--what ails you?"

"Oh, Martial, I feel as though I should go mad."

"Mad!--for what?"

"For joy."

"And why should you go mad with joy?"

"Because--because,--it is too much--"

"What?"

"I mean that what you propose is too great happiness for one like me to
hope for. Oh, indeed, indeed, it is more than I can bear! But who knows?
Perhaps saving La Goualeuse has brought me good luck,--that's it, I am
sure and certain."

"Still, I ask you, what is the matter, and why are you thus agitated?"
exclaimed Martial.

"Oh, Martial, Martial, the very thing you have been proposing--"

"Well?"

"I was going to ask you."

"To quit Paris?"

"Yes," replied she, in a hurried tone; "and to try your consent to
accompany you to the forests, where we should have a nice, neat little
house, and children whom I should love as La Louve would the children of
her man--or, if you would permit me," continued La Louve, in a faltering
voice, "instead of calling you 'my man,' to say 'my husband?' For,"
added she, confusedly and rapidly, "for without that change, we should
not obtain the place."

Martial, in his turn, regarded La Louve with deep astonishment, unable
to comprehend her meaning.

"What place are you speaking of?" said he, at length.

"Of that of gamekeeper."

"That I should have?"

"Yes."

"And who would give it to me?"

"The protector of the young girl I saved."

"They do not know me."

"But I have told her all about you, and she will recommend us to her
protector."

"And what have you told her about me?"

"Oh, Martial, can you not guess? Of what could I speak but of your
goodness--and my love for you?"

"My excellent Louve!"

"And then, you know, being in prison together makes folks talk to each
other, and open their hearts in the way of confidence. Besides which,
there was something so gentle and engaging about this young creature,
that I could not help feeling drawn towards her, even in spite of
myself; for I very quickly discovered she was a very different person to
such as you and I have been used to."

"And who is she?"

"I know not, neither can I guess; but certainly I never met with any one
like her. Bless you, she can read the very thoughts of your heart, the
same as if she were a fairy. I merely told her of my love for you, and
she immediately interested herself in us. She made me feel ashamed of my
past life; not by saying harsh and severe things,--you know very well
that would not have done much good with me,--but by talking of the
pleasures of a life passed in hard but peaceful labour, tranquilly
within the quiet shades of deep forests, where you might be occupied
according to your tastes and inclinations; only, instead of your being a
poacher, she made you a gamekeeper, and in place of my being only your
mistress, she pictured me as your true and lawful wife. And then we were
to have fine, healthy children who ran joyfully to meet you when you
returned at night, followed by your faithful dogs, and carrying your gun
on your shoulder. Then we all sat down so gay and happy, to eat our
supper beneath the cool shade of the large trees that overhung our
cottage door, while the fresh wind blew, and the moon peeped at us from
amongst the thick branches, and the little ones prattled and you related
to us all you had seen and done during the day, while wandering in the
forests; until, at last, cheerful and contented, we retired to rest, to
rise the following day, and with light hearts to recommence our labours.
I cannot tell you how it was, but I listened and listened to these
delightful pictures till I quite believed in their reality. I seemed
bound by a spell when she spoke of happiness like this, though I tried
ever so much against it. I always found it impossible to disbelieve that
it would surely come to pass. Oh, but you have no idea how beautifully
she described it all! I fancied I saw it--you--our children--our forest
home. I rubbed my eyes, but it was ever before them, although a waking
dream."

"Ah, yes!" said Martial, sighing; "that would, indeed, be a sweet and
pleasant life! Without being bad at heart, poor François has been quite
enough in the society of Calabash and Nicholas to make it far better he
should dwell in the solitude of woods and forests, rather than be
exposed to the further contamination of great towns. Amandine would help
you in your household duties, and I should make a capital gamekeeper,
from the very fact of my having been a poacher of some notoriety. I
should have you for my housekeeper and companion, my good Louve; and
then, as you know, we should have our children also. Bless their little
hearts, I doubt not our having a fine flock about us! And what more
could we wish for or desire? When once we got used to a forest life, it
would seem as though we had always lived there; and fifty or a hundred
years would glide away like a single day. But you must not talk to me of
such happiness; it makes one so full of sadness and regrets that it
cannot be realised. No, no, don't let us ever mention it again; because,
don't you see, La Louve, it comes over one like--I should soon work
myself up to madness if I allowed my thoughts to dwell on it."

"Ah, Martial, I let you go on because I thought I was quite as bad
myself. I said just those very words to La Goualeuse."

"Did you, really?"

"I did, indeed. For, after listening to all these tales of enchantment,
I said to her, 'What a pity, La Goualeuse, that these castles in the
air, as you call them, are not true!' And what do you think, Martial,"
asked La Louve, her eyes flashing with joy, "what do you think she
answered me?"

"I don't know."

"'Why,' said she, 'only let Martial marry you, and give me your promise
to live honestly and virtuously henceforward, and directly I quit the
prison I will exert myself to get the place I have been speaking of for
him.'"

"Get me a gamekeeper's place?"

"Yes; I declare to you, Martial, she said so."

"Oh, but as you say, that can be but a dream--a mere fancy. If, indeed,
nothing were requisite for our obtaining the place but our being
married, my good girl, that should be done to-morrow, if I had the
means; though, from this very day and hour, I consider you as my true
and lawful wife."

"Oh, Martial! I your lawful wife?"

"The only woman who shall ever bear that title. And, for the future, I
wish you to call me 'husband;' for such I am in word and heart, as
firmly and lastingly as though we had been before the _maire_."

"Oh, La Goualeuse was right. A woman feels so proud and happy to say 'My
husband!' Oh, Martial, you shall see what a good, faithful, devoted wife
I will be to you; how hard I will work! Oh, I shall be so delighted to
labour for you!"

"And do you really think there is any chance of our getting this place?"

"If the poor dear Goualeuse deceives herself about it, it is that others
deceive her; for she seemed quite sure of being able to fulfil her
promises. And besides, when I was quitting the prison a little while
ago, the inspectress told me that the protectors of La Goualeuse, who
were people of rank and consequence, had removed her from confinement
that very day. Now that proved her having powerful friends; so that she
can keep her word to us if she likes."

"But," cried Martial, suddenly rising, "I don't know what we have been
thinking of all this time!"

"Thinking about--what do you mean, Martial?"

"Why, the poor girl you saved from drowning is down-stairs--perhaps
dying; and, instead of rendering her any assistance, we are attending to
our own affairs up-stairs."

"Make yourself perfectly easy; François and Amandine are there watching
her, and they would have come to call us had there been any danger or
necessity. Still you are right; let us go to her. You must see her to
whom we shall, perhaps, owe all our future happiness."

And Martial, supported by La Louve, descended to the lower part of the
house. Before they have reached the kitchen, let us in a few words
describe what had occurred there from the time when Fleur-de-Marie had
been confided to the charge of the two children.




CHAPTER XVII.

DOCTOR GRIFFON.


François and Amandine had contrived to convey Fleur-de-Marie near the
fire, when M. de Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon, who had crossed the
river in Nicholas's boat, entered the house. Whilst the children were
making the fire burn up, Doctor Griffon bestowed on the young girl his
utmost care.

"The poor girl cannot be more than seventeen at most!" exclaimed the
count, who was looking on. "What do you think of her, doctor?"

"Her pulse is scarcely perceptible; but, strange to say, the skin of the
face is not livid in the subject, as is usually the case in asphyxia
from submersion," replied the doctor, with professional calmness, and
contemplating Fleur-de-Marie with a deeply meditative air.

Doctor Griffon was a tall, thin man, pallid and completely bald, except
two tufts of thin black hair, carefully brushed back on the poll, and
flattened on the temples. His countenance, wrinkled and furrowed by the
fatigues of study, was calm, intelligent, and reflective. Profoundly
learned, of great experience, and a skilful practitioner, first surgeon
at a civil hospital, where we shall again encounter him, Doctor Griffon
had but one defect, that of completely abstracting himself from the
patient, and only considering the disease. Young or old, rich or poor,
was no matter,--he only thought of medical fact, more or less
remarkable, which the subject presented. For him there was nothing but
subjects.

"What a lovely face! How beautiful she is in spite of this frightful
paleness!" said M. de Saint-Remy. "Did you ever see milder or more
expressive features, my dear doctor? And so young--so young!"

"Age is no consequence," said the doctor, abruptly, "no more than the
presence of water in the lungs, which was formerly thought fatal. It was
a gross error, which the admirable experiments of Goodwin--the famous
Goodwin--incontestably detected and exposed."

"But doctor--"

"But it is a fact," replied M. Griffon, absorbed by the love of his art.
"To detect the presence of any foreign liquid in the lungs, Goodwin
plunged some cats and dogs several times into tubs filled with ink for
some seconds, taking them out alive, and then, after a time, dissected
the animals. Well, he was convinced from the dissection that the ink had
penetrated the lungs, and that the presence of this liquid in the
respiratory organs had not caused the death of the subject."

The count knew the doctor was a worthy creature at heart, but that his
mad passion for science made him often appear harsh and cruel.

"Have you any hope?" inquired M. de Saint-Remy, impatiently.

"The extremities of the subject are very cold," said the doctor; "there
is but very slight hope."

"Ah, poor child! To die at that age is indeed terrible!"

"Pupil fixed--dilated!" observed the doctor, impassive, and pushing up
the frigid eyelid of Fleur-de-Marie with his forefinger.

"What a singular man!" exclaimed the comte, almost with indignation.
"One would suppose you pitiless, and yet I have seen you watch by my
bedside for nights together. Had I been your brother, you could not have
been more generously devoted to me."

Doctor Griffon, still occupied in doing all that was requisite and
possible for Fleur-de-Marie, replied to the comte without looking at
him, and with imperturbable phlegm:

"_Parbleu!_ Do you think one meets with an intermittent fever so
wonderfully complicated as that you had! It was wonderful, my dear
friend--astonishing! Stupor, delirium, muscular action of the tendons,
syncopes,--that important fever combined the most varied symptoms. You
were, indeed, affected by a partial and momentary attack of paralysis;
and, if it had presented nothing else, why, your attack was entitled to
all the attention in my power. You presented a magnificent study; and,
truth to say, my dear friend, what I desire most in the world is to meet
with such another glorious fever. But that is a piece of good fortune
that never occurs twice!"

At this moment Martial descended, leaning on the arm of La Louve, who
still retained over her wet clothes the plaid cloak which belonged to
Calabash. Struck with the paleness of Martial, and remarking his hands
covered with dried blood, the comte exclaimed, "Who is this man?"

"My husband!" replied La Louve, looking at Martial with an expression of
happiness and noble pride impossible to describe.

"You have a good and intrepid wife, sir," said the comte to him. "I saw
her save this unfortunate young girl with singular courage."

"Yes, sir, my wife is good and intrepid," replied Martial, with
emphasis, and regarding La Louve with an air at once full of love and
tenderness. "Yes, intrepid; for she has also come in time to save my
life."

"Your life?" exclaimed the comte.

"Look at his hands--his poor hands!" said La Louve, wiping away the
tears which softened the wild brightness of her eyes.

"Horrible!" cried the comte. "See, doctor, how his hands are hacked!"

Doctor Griffon, turning his head slightly, and looking over his shoulder
at Martial's hands, said to him, "Open and shut your hand."

Martial did so with considerable pain. The doctor shrugged his
shoulders, and continued his attentions to Fleur-de-Marie, saying
merely, and as if with regret:

"There's nothing serious in those cuts,--there's no tendon injured. In a
week the subject will be able to use his hands again."

"Then, sir, my husband will not be crippled?" said La Louve, with
gratitude.

The doctor shook his head affirmatively.

"And La Goualeuse will recover--won't she, sir?" inquired La Louve. "Oh,
she must live, for I and my husband owe her so much!" Then turning
towards Martial, "Poor dear girl! There she is, as I told you,--she who
will, perhaps, be the cause of our happiness; for it was she who gave me
the idea of coming and saying to you all I have said. What a chance that
I should save her--and here, too!"

"She is a providence," said Martial, struck by the beauty of La
Goualeuse. "What an angel's face! Oh, she will recover, will she not,
doctor?"

"I cannot say," replied the doctor. "But, in the first place, can she
remain here? Will she have all necessary attention?"

"Here?" cried La Louve; "why, they commit murder here!"

"Silence--silence!" said Martial.

The comte and the doctor looked at La Louve with surprise.

"This house in the isle has a bad reputation hereabouts, and I am not
astonished at it," observed the doctor, in a low tone, to M. de
Saint-Remy.

"You have, then, been the victim of some violence?" observed the comte
to Martial. "How did you come by those wounds?"

"They are nothing--nothing, sir. I had a quarrel--a struggle ensued, and
I was wounded. But this young peasant girl cannot remain in this house,"
he added, with a gloomy air. "I cannot remain here myself--nor my wife,
nor my brother, nor my sister, whom you see. We are going to leave the
isle, never to return to it."

"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed the two children.

"Then what are we to do?" said the doctor, looking at Fleur-de-Marie.
"It is impossible to think of conveying the subject to Paris in her
present state of prostration. But then my house is quite close at hand,
my gardener's wife and her daughter are capital nurses; and since this
asphyxia by submersion interests you, my dear Saint-Remy, why, you can
watch over the necessary attentions, and I will come and see her every
day."

"And you assume the harsh and pitiless man," exclaimed the comte, "when,
as your proposal proves, you have one of the noblest hearts in the
world!"

"If the subject sinks under it, as is possible, there will be an
opportunity for a most interesting dissection, which will allow me to
confirm once again Goodwin's assertions."

"How horridly you talk!" cried the comte.

"For those who know how to read, the dead body is a book in which they
learn to save the lives of the diseased!" replied Dr. Griffon,
stoically.

"At last, then, you do good?" said M. de Saint-Remy, with bitterness;
"and that is important. What consequence is the cause provided that
benefit results? Poor child! The more I look at her the more she
interests me."

"And well does she deserve it, I can tell you, sir," observed La Louve,
with excitement, and approaching him.

"Do you know her?" inquired the comte.

"Do I know her, sir? Why, it is to her I owe the happiness of my life;
and I have not done for her half what she has done for me." And La Louve
looked passionately towards her husband,--she no longer called him her
man!

"And who is she?" asked M. de Saint-Remy.

"An angel, sir,--all that is good in this world. Yes; and although she
is dressed as a country girl, there is no merchant's wife, no great
lady, who can discourse as well as she can, with her sweet little voice
just like music. She is a noble girl, I say,--full of courage and
goodness."

"By what accident did she fall into the water?"

"I do not know, sir."

"Then she is not a peasant girl?" asked the comte.

"A peasant girl,--look at her small white hands, sir!"

"True," observed M. de Saint-Remy; "what a strange mystery! But her
name--her family?"

"Come along," said the doctor, breaking into the conversation; "we must
convey the subject into the boat."

Half an hour after this, Fleur-de-Marie, who had not yet recovered her
senses, was in the doctor's abode, lying in a good bed, and maternally
watched by M. Griffon's gardener's wife, to whom was added La Louve. The
doctor promised M. de Saint-Remy, who was more and more interested in La
Goualeuse, to return to see her again in the evening. Martial went to
Paris with François and Amandine, La Louve being unwilling to quit
Fleur-de-Marie before she had been pronounced out of danger.

The Isle du Ravageur remained deserted. We shall presently find its
sinister inhabitants at Bras-Rouge's, where they were to be joined by
the Chouette for the murder of the diamond-matcher. In the meantime we
will conduct the reader to the rendezvous which Tom, Sarah's brother,
had with the horrible hag, the Schoolmaster's accomplice.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE PORTRAIT.


Thomas Seyton, the brother of the Countess Sarah Macgregor, was walking
impatiently on the boulevards near the Observatory, when he saw the
Chouette arrive. The horrible beldame had on a white cap and her usual
plaid shawl. The point of a stiletto, as round as a thick swan's quill,
and very sharp, having perforated a hole at the bottom of her large
straw basket which she carried on her arm, the extremity of this
murderous weapon, which had belonged to the Schoolmaster, might be seen
projecting. Thomas Seyton did not perceive that the Chouette was armed.

"It has just struck three by the Luxembourg," said the old woman. "Here
I am, like the hand of the clock."

"Come," replied Thomas Seyton. And, preceding her, he crossed some open
fields; and turning down a deserted alley near the Rue Cassini, he
stopped half way down the lane, which was barred by a turnstile, opened
a small door, motioned to the Chouette to follow him; and, after having
advanced with her a few steps down a path overgrown by thick trees, he
said, "Wait here," and disappeared.

"That is, if you don't keep me on the 'waiting lay' too long," responded
the Chouette; "for I must be at Bras Rouge's at five o'clock to meet the
Martials, and help silence the diamond-matcher. It's very well I have my
'gulley' (poniard). Oh, the vagabond, he has got his nose out of
window!" added the hag, as she saw the point of the stiletto coming
through the seam in the basket. And taking the weapon, which had a
wooden handle, from the basket, she replaced it so that it was
completely concealed. "This is _fourline's_ tool," she continued, "and
he has asked me for it so many times to kill the rats who came skipping
about him in his cellar. Poor things! They have no one but the old blind
man to divert them and keep them company. They ought not to be hurt if
they play about a bit; and so I will not let him hurt the dears, and I
keep his tool to myself. Besides, I shall soon want it for this woman,
perhaps. Thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds,--what a 'haul' for
each of us! It'll be a good day's work, and not like that of the other
day with that old notary whom I thought to squeeze. It was no use to
threaten him if he would not 'stand some blunt' that I would lay
information that it was his housekeeper who had sent La Goualeuse to me
by Tournemine when she was a little brat. Nothing frightened the old
brute, he called me an old hag, and shoved me out-of-doors. Well, well,
I'll send an anonymous letter to these people at the farm where
Pegriotte was, to inform them that it was the notary who formerly
abandoned her to me. Perhaps they know her family; and when she gets out
of St. Lazare, why, the matter will get too hot for that old brute,
Jacques Ferrand. Some one comes,--ah, it is the pale lady who was
dressed in men's clothes at the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, and with
the tall fellow who just left me, the same that the _fourline_ and I
robbed by the excavations near Notre-Dame," added the Chouette, as she
saw Sarah appear at the extremity of the walk. "Here's another job for
me, I see; and this little lady must have something to do with our
having carried off La Goualeuse from the farm. If she pays well for
another job of work, why, that will be 'the ticket.'"

As Sarah approached the Chouette, whom she saw again for the first time
since their rencontre at the _tapis-franc_, her countenance expressed
the disdain, the disgust, which persons of a certain rank feel when they
come in contact with low wretches whom they take as tools or
accomplices.

Thomas Seyton, who, until now, had actively served the criminal
machinations of his sister, although he considered them as all but
futile, had refused any longer to continue this contemptible part,
consenting, nevertheless, for the first and last time to put his sister
in communication with the Chouette, without himself interfering in the
fresh projects they might plan. The countess, unable to win back Rodolph
to her by breaking the bonds or the affections which she believed so
dear to him, hoped, as we have seen, to render him the dupe of a base
deceit, the success of which might realise the vision of this obstinate,
ambitious, and cruel woman. Her design was to persuade Rodolph that
their daughter was not dead, and to substitute an orphan for the child.

We know that Jacques Ferrand--having formally refused to participate in
this plot in spite of Sarah's menaces--had resolved to make away with
Fleur-de-Marie, as much from the fear of the Chouette's disclosure, as
from fear of the obstinate persistence of the countess. But the latter
had by no means abandoned her design, feeling persuaded that she should
corrupt or intimidate the notary when she should be assured of having
obtained a young girl capable of filling the character which she desired
her to assume.

After a moment's silence Sarah said to the Chouette, "You are adroit,
discreet, and resolute?"

"Adroit as a monkey, resolute as a bulldog, and mute as a fish; such is
the Chouette, and such the devil made her; at your service if you want
her,--and you do," replied the old wretch, quickly. "I hope we have
managed well with the young country wench who is now in St. Lazare for
two good months."

"We are not talking of her, but of something else."

"Anything you please, my handsome lady, provided there's money at the
end of what you mean to propose, and then we shall be as right as my
fingers."

Sarah could not control a movement of disgust. "You must know," she
resumed, "many people in the lower ranks of life,--persons who are in
misfortune?"

"There are more of them than there are of millionaires; you may pick and
choose. We have plentiful wretchedness in Paris."

"I want to meet with a poor orphan girl, and particularly if she lost
her parents young. She must be good-looking, of gentle disposition, and
not more than seventeen years of age."

The Chouette gazed at Sarah with amazement.

"Such an orphan girl must be by no means difficult to meet with,"
continued the countess; "there are so many foundling children!"

"Why, my good lady, you forget La Goualeuse. She is the very thing."

"Who is La Goualeuse?"

"The young thing we carried off from Bouqueval."

"We are not talking of her now, I tell you."

"But hear me, and be sure you pay me well for my advice. You want an
orphan girl, as quiet as a lamb, as handsome as daylight, and who is
only seventeen, you say?"

"Certainly."

"Well, then, take La Goualeuse when she leaves St. Lazare; she is the
very thing for you, as if we had made her on purpose. For she was about
six years of age when that scamp, Jacques Ferrand (and it's now ten
years ago), gave her to me with a thousand francs, in order to get rid
of her,--that is to say, it was Tournemine, who is now at the galleys at
Rochefort, who brought her to me, saying there was no doubt she was
some child they wanted to get rid of or pass off for dead."

"Jacques Ferrand, do you say?" exclaimed Sarah, in a voice so choked
that the Chouette receded several paces. "The notary, Jacques Ferrand,
gave you this child--and--?" She could not finish, her emotion was too
violent; and with her two clasped hands extended towards the Chouette,
she trembled convulsively, surprise and joy agitating her features.

"I don't know what it is that makes you so much in earnest, my good
lady," replied the old hag; "but it is a very simple story. Ten years
ago Tournemine, an old pal of mine, said to me: 'Have you a mind to take
charge of a little girl that they want to get out of the way? No matter
whether she slips her wind or not. There's a thousand francs for the
job, and do what you like with the 'kinchin.'"

"Ten years ago?" cried Sarah.

"Ten years."

"A little fair girl?"

"A little fair girl."

"With blue eyes?"

"Blue eyes--as blue as blue bells."

"And it was she who was at the farm?"

"And we packed her up and carted her off to St. Lazare. I must say,
though, that I didn't expect to find her--Pegriotte--in the country as I
did, though."

"Oh, _mon Dieu!_ _mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Sarah, falling on her knees, and
elevating her hands and eyes to heaven, "Thy ways are inscrutable, and I
bow down before thy providence! Oh, if such happiness be possible! But,
no, I cannot yet believe it; it would be too fortunate! No!" Then rising
suddenly she said to the Chouette, who was gazing at her with the utmost
astonishment, "Follow me!" And Sarah walked before her with hasty steps.

At the end of the alley she ascended several steps that led by a glass
door to a small room sumptuously furnished. At the moment when the
Chouette was about to enter, Sarah made a sign to her to remain outside,
and then rang the bell violently. A servant appeared.

"I am not at home to anybody, and let no one enter here,--no one, do you
hear?"

The servant bowed and retired. Sarah, for the sake of greater security,
pushed to the bolt. The Chouette heard the order given to the servant,
and saw Sarah fasten the bolt. The countess then turning towards her,
said: "Come in quickly, and shut the door."

The Chouette did as she was bidden.

Hastily opening a _secrétaire_, Sarah took from it an ebony coffer,
which she placed on a writing-table in the centre of the room, and
beckoned the Chouette towards her. The coffer was filled with small
caskets lying one upon the other, and containing splendid jewelry. Sarah
was in so much haste to arrive at the bottom of the coffer, that she
hastily scattered over the table these jewel-cases, splendidly filled
with necklaces, bracelets, tiaras of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds,
which sparkled with a thousand fires.

The Chouette was dazzled. She was armed, was alone with the countess;
escape was easy--certain. An infernal idea shot through the brain of
this monster. But to put this new crime into execution it was necessary
to extricate her stiletto from her basket, and approach Sarah without
exciting her suspicions.

With the craft of the tiger-cat, who grovels along treacherously towards
its prey, the beldame profited by the countess's preoccupation to move
imperceptibly around the table which separated her from her victim. The
Chouette had already begun her perfidious movement, when she was
compelled suddenly to stop short. Sarah took a locket from the bottom of
the box, leaned over the table, and, handing it to the Chouette with a
trembling hand, said:

"Look at this portrait."

"It is Pegriotte!" exclaimed the Chouette, struck with the strong
resemblance; "it is the little girl who was handed to me! I think I see
her just as she was when Tournemine brought her to me. That's just like
her long curling hair, which I cut off and sold directly, _ma foi!_"

"You recognise her; it is really she? Oh, I conjure you, do not deceive
me--do not deceive me!"

"I tell you, my good lady, it is Pegriotte, as if I saw herself there,"
said the Chouette, trying to draw nearer to Sarah without being
remarked. "And even now she is very like this portrait; if you saw her
you would be struck by the likeness."

Sarah had not uttered one cry of pain or alarm when she learned that her
daughter had been for ten years leading a wretched existence, forsaken
as she was. Not one feeling of remorse was there when she reflected that
she herself had snatched her away disastrously from the peaceful retreat
in which Rodolph had placed her. This unnatural mother did not eagerly
question the Chouette with terrible anxiety as to the past life of the
child. No! In her heart ambition had long since stifled every sentiment
of maternal tenderness. It was not joy at again being restored to a lost
daughter that transported her,--it was the hope of seeing at length
realised the vain dream of her whole existence. Rodolph had felt deeply
interested in this unfortunate girl, had protected her without knowing
her; what would then be his feelings when he discovered that she
was--his daughter? He was free--the countess was a widow! Sarah already
saw the sovereign crown sparkling on her brow.

The Chouette, still stealing on with slow steps, had at length reached
one end of the table, and had her stiletto perpendicularly in her
basket, its handle on a level with the opening, and within her clutch.
She was but a step or two from the countess.

"Do you know how to write?" inquired Sarah of her; and, pushing from her
the casket and gems, she opened a blotting-book, which was by an
inkstand.

"No, madame; I do not!" replied the Chouette, at all risks.

"I will write, then, at your dictation. Tell me all the circumstances of
the abandonment of this little girl."

And Sarah, sitting in an armchair before the writing-table, took up a
pen, and made a sign to the Chouette to come close to her. The old
wretch's one eye sparkled. At last she was standing up, close to the
seat on which Sarah was sitting, and, stooping over a table, was
preparing to write.

"I will read aloud, and then," said the countess, "you can correct any
mistakes."

"Yes, madame," replied the Chouette, narrowly watching every motion of
Sarah; and she furtively introduced her hand into her basket, that she
might be able to grasp the poniard without being observed.

The countess commenced writing.

"I declare that--"

Then interrupting herself, and turning towards the Chouette, who was at
the moment touching the handle of her poniard, Sarah added:

"At what period was the child brought to you?"

"In the month of February, 1827."

"And by whom?" continued Sarah, turning towards the Chouette.

"By Pierre Tournemine, now at the galleys at Rochefort. It was Madame
Séraphin, the notary's housekeeper, who brought the young girl to him."

The countess continued writing, and then read aloud:

"I declare that, in the month of February, 1827, a person named--"

The Chouette had drawn the poniard; already had she raised her arm to
strike her victim between the shoulders; Sarah turned again. The
Chouette, that she might not be off her guard, leaned her right hand,
armed as it was, on the back of Sarah's armchair, and then stooped
towards her, as if in attitude to reply to her question.

"Tell me again the name of the man who handed the child to you?" said
the countess.

"Pierre Tournemine," repeated Sarah, as she wrote it down, "at this time
at the galleys of Rochefort, brought me a child, which had been confided
to him by the housekeeper of--"

The countess could not finish. The Chouette having got rid of her basket
by allowing it to slide from her arm onto the floor, threw herself on
the countess with equal fury and rapidity; and having grasped the back
of her neck with her left hand, forced her face down on the table, and
then with her right hand drove the stiletto in between her two
shoulders.

This atrocious assassination was so promptly effected that the countess
did not utter a cry--a moan. Still sitting, she remained with her head
and the front of her body on the table. Her pen fell from her fingers.

"Just the very blow which _fourline_ gave the little old man in the Rue
du Roule!" said the monster. "One more who will never wag tongue again!
Her account is settled!" And the Chouette, gathering up the jewels
together, huddled them into her basket, not perceiving that her victim
still breathed.

The murder and robbery effected, the horrid old devil opened the glass
door, ran swiftly along the tree-covered path, went out by the small
side door, and reached the lone tract of ground. Near the Observatory
she took a hackney-coach, which drove her to Bras-Rouge's in the Champs
Elysées.

The widow Martial, Nicholas, Calabash, and Barbillon had, as we know, an
appointment with the Chouette in this den of infamy, in order to rob and
murder the diamond-matcher.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE AGENT OF SAFETY.


The reader already knows the Bleeding Heart in the Champs Elysées, near
the Court de la Reine, in one of the deep ditches which, a few years
since, were close to this promenade. The inhabitants of the Isle du
Ravageur had not yet arrived.

After the departure of Bradamanti, who had, as we know, accompanied
Madame d'Harville's stepmother into Normandy, Tortillard had returned to
his father. Placed as a sentinel at the top of the staircase, the little
cripple was to announce the arrival of the Martials by a certain cry,
Bras-Rouge being at this moment in secret conference with an
_agent-de-sûreté_ named Narcisse Borel, whom the reader may perchance
remember to have seen at the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, when he came
there to arrest two miscreants accused of murder.

This agent, a man about forty years of age, was thickset and powerful,
with a high colour, a keen, quick eye, his face entirely shaven, in
order that he might better assume the various disguises necessary for
his dangerous expeditions; for it was frequently necessary for him to
unite the transformations of the actor to the courage and energy of the
soldier, in order to seize on certain ruffians with whom he had to
contend in cunning and determination. Narcisse Borel was, in a word, one
of the most useful and most active instruments of that providence on a
small scale which is modestly and commonly termed the police.

       *       *       *       *       *

We will return to the conversation between Narcisse Borel and
Bras-Rouge, which appeared to be very animated.

"Yes," said the agent of safety; "you are accused of profiting by your
double-faced position, and of taking with impunity a share in the booty
of a band of most dangerous malefactors, and then giving false
information respecting them to the protective police. Take care,
Bras-Rouge; for if you are detected no mercy will be shown you!"

"Alas! I know I am accused of this; and it is very distressing for me,
my good M. Narcisse," replied Bras-Rouge, whilst his weasel's face
assumed a hypocritical air of vexation. "But I hope that this day will
at last do me justice, and my good faith will be recognised."

"That remains to be proved."

"How can I be distrusted--have I not given proofs? Was it I or was it
not who, at the time, enabled you to apprehend Ambroise Martial, one of
the most dangerous malefactors in Paris, in the very fact?"

"All this is very fine and good; but Ambroise was warned they were going
to arrest him, and if I had not been earlier than the hour you told me
of, he would have escaped."

"Do you think me capable, M. Narcisse, of having secretly told him of
your coming?"

"I only know that I received from the scoundrel a pistol-shot aimed full
at me, but which, fortunately, only grazed my arm."

"Why, to be sure, M. Narcisse, in your profession you must be
occasionally exposed to such mistakes!"

"Ah, you call these mistakes, eh?"

"Certainly; for, no doubt, the wicked fellow intended to lodge the ball
in your body."

"In the arm, body, or head, no matter, I don't complain of that; every
profession has its disagreeables."

"And its pleasures, too, M. Narcisse, and its pleasures. For instance,
when a man as cunning, as skilful, and as courageous as you, has been
for a long time on the track of a gang of villains, whom he follows from
quarter to quarter, from lurking-place to lurking-place, with a good
bloodhound like your poor servant to command, Bras-Rouge, and, finally,
marks them down and comes upon them in a trap from which not one of them
can escape, why, then, you must say, M. Narcisse, that there is great
pleasure in it,--the joy of a sportsman,--not including the service he
renders to justice!" added the host of the Bleeding Heart, with a grave
air.

"I should fully agree with you if the bloodhound were faithful, but I
fear it is not."

"Ah, M. Narcisse, you think--"

"I think that, instead of putting us on the track, you amuse yourself
with setting us on a false scent, and abuse the confidence placed in
you. Every day you promise to aid us to lay hands on the gang, and that
day never arrives."

"What if the day arrives to-day, M. Narcisse, as I am sure it will? What
if I bring together in a parcel Barbillon, Nicholas Martial, the widow,
her daughter, and the Chouette? Will that or will it not be a good sweep
of the net? Will you then mistrust me any longer?"

"No; and you will have rendered a real service; for there are very
strong presumptive facts against this gang,--suspicions almost assured,
but, unfortunately, no proofs."

"So, then, a small fag-end of actual crime, which would allow of their
being apprehended, would help amazingly to unravel the difficult
skein,--eh, M. Narcisse?"

"Most decidedly. And you assure me that there has not been the
slightest incitement on your part towards the _coup_ which they are now
going to attempt?"

"No, on my honour! It is the Chouette, who came to me to propose
inveigling the diamond-matcher here when that infernal hag learned from
my son that Morel, the lapidary, who lives in the Rue du Temple, was a
workman in real stones, and not in false, and that Mother Mathieu had
frequently considerable value about her person, I acceded to the
proposition, and suggested to the Chouette that the Martials and
Barbillon should join her, so that I might be able to put the whole
party into your hands."

"And the Schoolmaster,--that fellow who is so dangerous, so powerful,
and so ferocious, and who was always with the Chouette,--one of the
frequenters of the _tapis-franc_?"

"The Schoolmaster?" said Bras-Rouge, feigning astonishment.

"Yes, a convict escaped from the galleys at Rochefort, Anselm Duresnel
by name, sentenced for life. We know now that he disfigured himself on
purpose, that he might not be recognised. Have you no trace of him?"

"None," replied Bras-Rouge, boldly, for he had his reasons for the lie,
the Schoolmaster being at this very moment shut up in one of the cellars
of the cabaret.

"There is every reason to believe that the Schoolmaster is the author of
fresh murders. He would be an important capture."

"No one knows what has become of him for the last six weeks."

"And that's the reason you are reproached with having lost all trace of
him."

"Always reproaches, M. Narcisse, always!"

"Not for want of ample cause! And how goes on the smuggling?"

"Is it not necessary that I should know something of all kinds of
persons--smugglers as well as others--in order to put you on the scent?
I disclosed to you that pipe to introduce liquids, established outside
the Barrière du Trône, and coming into a house in the street."

"I know that," said Narcisse, interrupting Bras-Rouge; "but for one that
you denounce, you allow ten to escape, and continue your traffic with
impunity. I am sure you eat at two mangers, as the saying is."

"Oh, M. Narcisse, I am incapable of an appetite so dishonest!"

"That is not all: in the Rue du Temple, No. 17, there lives a woman
named Burette, who lends money on deposit, who, they say, is a private
receiver of stolen goods on your account."

"What would you have me do, M. Narcisse? The world is so
slanderous,--says so many wicked things! Once again, I say, it is
necessary for me to mix with as many rogues as possible, that I even
seem one of themselves--so much the worse for them--in order that they
may not have any suspicions; but it cuts me to the heart to imitate
them,--cuts me to the heart. I must, indeed, be devoted to the service,
to give myself up to such a thing as that."

"Poor, dear man! I pity you with all my soul!"

"You are laughing at me, M. Narcisse; but, if that was believed, why has
there not been a search made at Mother Burette's and in my house?"

"You know well enough,--that we might not alarm the ruffians, whom, for
so long a time, you have promised to deliver into our hands."

"And I am now about to deliver them, M. Narcisse; before an hour you
will have them all handcuffed, and that without much trouble, for there
are three women. As to Barbillon and Nicholas Martial, they are as
savage as tigers, but as cowardly as pullets."

"Tigers or pullets," said Narcisse, half opening his long frock coat,
and showing the butts of two pistols in the pockets of his trousers, "I
have wherewithal here for them."

"You will do well to have two of your men with you, M. Narcisse. When
they see themselves caught, the most cowardly sometimes show fight."

"I shall station two of my men in the small parlour at the entrance, by
the side of the room into which you are to introduce the jewel-matcher.
At the first cry, I shall appear at one door, and my two men at the
other."

"You must be speedy, then, for I expect the gang here every moment, M.
Narcisse."

"Very well, I will go at once and place my men, provided that all this
is not another humbug."

The conversation was cut short by the peculiar whistle intended as a
signal. Bras-Rouge looked out of a window to see whom it was that
Tortillard announced.

"Ah, ha! It is the Chouette already. Well, do you believe me now, M.
Narcisse?"

"Why, this looks something like; but it is not all. But we shall see.
And now to station my men."

And the agent of safety disappeared at a side door.




CHAPTER XX.

THE CHOUETTE.


The precipitation of the Chouette's step, the fierce throbbings of a
fever of rapine and murder which still animated her, had suffused her
hideous features with a deep purple, whilst her green eye sparkled with
savage joy. Tortillard followed her, hopping and skipping. At the moment
when she descended the last steps of the stairs, Bras-Rouge's son, from
pure mischief, put his foot on the long and dragging skirts of the
Chouette's gown. This sudden stoppage made the old woman stumble, and,
unable to catch hold of the baluster, she fell on her knees, her two
hands extended, and dropping her precious basket, whence escaped a gold
bracelet set with emeralds and pearls. The Chouette having, in her fall,
somewhat excoriated her fingers, picked up the bracelet, which had not
escaped the keen sight of Tortillard, and, recovering her feet, turned
furiously to the little cripple, who approached her with a hypocritical
air, saying to her:

"Oh, dear me! Did your foot slip?"

Without making any reply, the Chouette seized Tortillard by the hair,
and, stooping to a level with his cheek, she bit it with such fury that
the blood spurted out beneath her teeth. Strange, however, Tortillard,
in spite of his usual vindictiveness, in spite of feeling such intense
pain, did not utter a murmur or a cry. He only wiped his bleeding cheek,
and said, with a forced laugh:

"I hope next time you will not kiss me so hard,--eh, La Chouette?"

"Wicked little brat! Why did you tread on my gown on purpose to make me
fall?"

"Me? Oh! How could you think so? I swear I didn't do it on purpose, my
dear Chouette! Don't think your little Tortillard would do you any harm;
he loves you too well for that. You should never beat him, or scold him,
or bite him, for he is as fond of you as if he were a poor little dog,
and you were his mistress!" said the boy, in a gentle and insinuating
tone.

Deceived by Tortillard's hypocrisy, the Chouette believed him, and
replied:

"Well, well, if I was wrong to bite you, why, let it go for all the
other times you have deserved it, you little villain! But, _vive la
joie_! To-day I bear no malice. Where is your old rogue of a father?"

"In the house. Shall I go and find him for you?"

"No; are the Martials here?"

"Not yet."

"Then I have time to go down and visit _fourline_. I want to speak to
old No-Eyes."

"Will you go into the Schoolmaster's cellar?" inquired Tortillard,
scarcely concealing his diabolical delight.

"What's that to you?"

"To me?"

"Yes, you ask me the question with such an odd air."

"Because I was thinking of something odd."

"What?"

"Why, that you ought, at least, to have brought him a pack of cards to
pass away his time," replied Tortillard, with a cunning look; "that
would divert him a little; now he has nothing to play at but not to be
bitten by the rats; and he always wins at that game, and after awhile it
becomes tiresome."

The Chouette laughed heartily at Tortillard's wit, and said to the
cripple:

"Love of a baby boy to his mammy! I do not know any chap who has more
vice than this scamp. Go and get me a candle, that you may light me down
to see _fourline_, and you can help me to open his door. You know that I
can hardly push it by myself."

"Well, no, it is so very dark in the cellar," said Tortillard, shaking
his head.

"What! What! You who are as wicked as devil to be a coward? I like to
see that, indeed! Go directly, and tell your father that I shall be with
him almost immediately; that I am with _fourline_; and that we are
talking of putting up the banns for our marriage. He, he, he!" added the
disgusting wretch, grinning. "So make haste, and you shall be bridesman,
and, if you are a good boy, you shall have my garter."

Tortillard went, with a sulky air, to fetch a light. Whilst she was
waiting for him, the Chouette, perfectly intoxicated with the success of
her robbery, put her hand into her basket to feel the precious jewels it
enclosed. It was for the purpose of temporarily concealing this treasure
that she desired to descend into the Schoolmaster's cellar, and not,
according to her habit, to enjoy the torments of her new victim.

We will presently explain why, with Bras-Rouge's connivance, the
Chouette had immured the Schoolmaster in the very subterranean cave into
which this miscreant had formerly precipitated Rodolph.

Tortillard, holding a light, now appeared at the door of the cabaret.
The Chouette followed him into the lower room, in which opened the trap
with the folding-doors, with which we are already acquainted.
Bras-Rouge's son, sheltering the light in the hollow of his hand, and
preceding the old woman, slowly descended a stone staircase, which led
to a sharp declivity, at the end of which was the thick door of the
cellar which had so nearly proved Rodolph's grave. When he reached the
bottom of the staircase, Tortillard pretended to hesitate in following
the Chouette.

"Well, now, you little vagabond, go on!" she said.

"Why, it is so dark; and you go so fast, Chouette! And, indeed, I'd
rather go back again, and leave you the light."

"And then, foolish imp, how am I to open the cellar door by myself? Will
you come on?"

"No, I am so frightened!"

"If I begin with you! Mind--"

"If you threaten me, I'll go back again!" and Tortillard retreated
several paces.

"Well, listen to me, now,--be a good boy," said the Chouette, repressing
her anger, "and I'll give you something."

"Well, what?" said Tortillard, coming up to her. "Speak to me so always,
and I'll do anything you wish me, Mother Chouette."

"Come, come, I'm in a hurry!"

"Yes; but promise me that I may have some fun with the Schoolmaster."

"Another time; I haven't time to-day."

"Only a little bit,--just let me tease him for five minutes?"

"Another time; I tell you that I want to return up-stairs as quickly as
possible."

"Why, then, do you want to open the door of his apartment?"

"That's no affair of yours. Come, now, have done with this. Perhaps the
Martials are come by this time, and I must have some talk with them. So
be a good boy, and you sha'n't be sorry for it. Come along."

"I must love you very much, Chouette, for you make me do just what you
like," said Tortillard, slowly advancing.

The dim, wavering light of the candle, which but imperfectly lighted
this gloomy way, reflected the black profile of this hideous brat on the
slimy walls, which were full of crevices and reeking with damp. At the
end of this passage, through the half obscurity, might be seen the low
and crumbling arch of the entrance to the cellar, the thick door
strengthened with iron bars, and, standing out in the shade, the red
shawl and white cap of the Chouette.

By the united exertions of the two, the door opened harshly on its rusty
hinges; a puff of humid vapour escaped from this den, as dark as
midnight. The light, placed on the ground, threw its faint beams on the
first steps of the stone staircase, the bottom of which was completely
lost in the darkness. A cry, or, rather, a savage roar, came from the
depths of the cave.

"Ah, there's _fourline_ wishing his mamma good-morning!" said the
Chouette, with a sneer.

And she descended several steps, in order to conceal her basket in some
hole.

"I'm hungry!" exclaimed the Schoolmaster, in a voice that shook with
rage; "do you wish to kill me like a mad dog?"

"What's the deary lovey hungry?" said the Chouette, with a laugh of
mockery; "then smell its thumb."

There was a sound like that of a chain twisted violently; then a groan
of mute, repressed passion.

"Take care! Take care, or you'll have a bump in your leg, as you had at
Bouqueval farm, poor dear pa!" said Tortillard.

"He's right, the boy is,--keep yourself quiet, _fourline_," continued
the hag; "the ring and chain are solid, old No-Eyes, for they came from
Father Micou's, and he sells nothing but the best goods. It is your
fault, too; why did you allow yourself to be bound whilst you were
asleep? We only had then to put the ring and chain in this place, and
bring you down here in the cool to preserve you, old darling."

"That's a pity! He'll grow mouldy," said Tortillard.

Again the clank of the chain was heard.

"He, he, _fourline_! Why, he's dancing like a cockchafer tied by the
claw," said the beldame, "I think I see him!"

"Cockchafer, cockchafer, fly away home! Fly, fly, fly! Your husband is
the Schoolmaster!" sung Tortillard.

This increased the Chouette's hilarity. Having deposited her basket in a
hole formed by the lowering of the wall of the staircase, she stood
erect, and said:

"You see, _fourline_--"

"He don't see," said Tortillard.

"The brat's right. Will you hear, _fourline_? There was no occasion,
when we came away from the farm, to be such a booby as to turn
compassionate, and prevent me from marking Pegriotte's face with my
vitriol; and then, too, you talked of your conscience, which was getting
troubled. I saw you were growing lily-livered, and meant to come the
'honest dodge;' and so, some of these odd-come-shortlies, you would have
turned 'nose' (informer), and have 'made a meal' of us, old No-Eyes; and
then--"

"Then old No-Eyes will make a meal of you, for he is hungry, Chouette,"
said Tortillard, suddenly, and with all his strength pushing the old
woman by her back.

The Chouette fell forward with a horrible imprecation. She might have
been distinctly heard as she rolled from the top to the bottom of the
staircase.

"Bump, bump, bump, bump! There's the Chouette for you--there she is! Why
don't you jump upon her, old buffer?" added Tortillard.

Then, seizing the basket from under the stone where he had seen the old
woman place it, he scampered up the stairs, exclaiming, with a shout of
savage joy:

"Here's a pull worth more than that you had before,--eh, Chouette? This
time you won't bite me till the blood comes,--eh? Ah, you thought I bore
no spite--much obliged--my cheek bleeds still!"

"Oh, I have her! I have her!" cried the Schoolmaster, from the depth of
the cave.

"If you have her, old lad, I cry snacks," said Tortillard, with a laugh.

And he stopped on the top step of the stairs.

"Help!" shrieked the Chouette, in a strangling voice.

"Thanks, Tortillard!" said the Schoolmaster, "thanks. And, to reward
you, you shall hear the night-bird (Chouette) shriek! Listen,
boy,--listen to the bird of death!"

"Bravo! Here I am in the dress-boxes!" said Tortillard, seating himself
on the top of the stairs.

As he said this, he raised the light to endeavour to see the fearful
scene which was going on in the depths of the cavern; but the darkness
was too thick, so faint a light could not disperse it: Bras-Rouge's son
could not see anything. The struggle with the Schoolmaster and the
Chouette was mute, deadly, without a word, without a cry; only from time
to time was heard the hard breathing, or the stifled groan, which always
accompanies violent and desperate efforts. Tortillard, seated on the
step, began to stamp his feet with that cadence peculiar to an audience
impatient to see the beginning of a play; then he uttered the cry so
familiar to the frequenters of the gallery of the minor theatres:

"Music! Music! Play up! Up with the curtain!"

"Oh, now I have hold of you, as I desired," murmured the Schoolmaster,
from the recess of the cellar; "and you were going--"

A desperate movement of the Chouette interrupted him; she struggled with
all the energy which the fear of death inspires.

"Louder! Can't hear!" bawled Tortillard.

"It is in vain you try to gnaw my hand, I will hold you as I like," said
the Schoolmaster. Then, having, no doubt, succeeded in keeping the
Chouette down, he added, "That's it! Now listen--"

"Tortillard, call your father!" shrieked the Chouette, with a faltering,
exhausted voice. "Help! Help!"

"Turn her out, the old thing! She won't let us hear," said the little
cripple, with a shout of laughter; "put her out!"

The Chouette's cries were not audible from this cavern, low as it was.
The wretched creature, seeing that there was no chance of help from
Bras-Rouge's son, resolved to try a last effort.

"Tortillard, go and fetch help, and I will give you my basket; it is
full of jewels. There it is, under a stone."

"How generous! Thank ye, madame. Why, haven't I got it already? Hark!
Don't you hear how it rattles?" said Tortillard, shaking it. "But now,
if you'll give us half a pound of gingerbread nuts, I'll go and fetch
pa."

"Have pity on me, and I will--"

The Chouette was unable to conclude. Again there was a profound silence.
The little cripple again began to beat time on the stone staircase on
which he was seated, accompanying the noise of his feet with the
repeated cry:

"Why don't you begin? Up with the curtain! Music! Music!"

"In this way, Chouette, you can no longer disturb me with your cries,"
said the Schoolmaster, after a few minutes, during which he had, no
doubt, gagged the old woman. "You know very well," he continued, in a
slow, hollow voice, "that I do not wish to end this all at once; torture
for torture! You have made me suffer enough, and I must speak at length
to you before I kill you,--yes, at length. It will be very terrible for
you, agonising!"

"Come, no stuff and nonsense, old parson," said Tortillard, raising
himself half up from his seat; "punish her, but don't do her any harm.
You say you'll kill her,--that's only a hum; I am very fond of my
Chouette; I have only lent her to you, and you must give her back again.
Don't spoil her,--I won't have my Chouette spoiled,--if you do, I'll go
and fetch pa!"

"Be quiet, and she shall only have what she deserves, a profitable
lesson," said the Schoolmaster, in order to assure Tortillard, and for
fear the cripple should go and fetch assistance.

"All right! Bravo! Now the play's going to begin!" said Bras-Rouge's
son, who did not seriously believe that the Schoolmaster intended to
kill the Chouette.

"Let us discourse a little, Chouette," continued the Schoolmaster, in a
calm voice. "In the first place, you see, since that dream at the
Bouqueval farm, which brought all my crimes before my eyes, since that
dream, which did all but drive me mad,--which will drive me mad, for, in
my solitude, in the deep isolation in which I live, all my thoughts
dwell on this dream, in spite of myself,--a strange change has come over
me; yes, I have a horror of my past ferocity. In the first place, I
would not allow you to make a martyr of La Goualeuse, though that was
nothing. Chaining me here in the cellar, making me suffer from cold and
hunger, and detaining me for your wicked suggestions, you have left me
to all the fear of my own reflections. Oh, you do not know what it is to
be left alone,--always alone,--with a dark veil over your eyes, as the
pitiless man said who punished me. Oh, it is horrid! It was in this very
cavern that I flung him, in order to kill him; and this cavern is the
place of my punishment, it may be my grave. I repeat that this is
horrid! All that that man predicted to me has come to pass; he said to
me, 'You have abused your strength,--you will be the plaything, the
sport of the most weak.' And it has been so. He said to me,
'Henceforward separated from the exterior world, face to face with the
eternal remembrance of your crimes, one day you will repent those
crimes.' And that day has come; the loneliness has purified me; I could
not have believed it possible. Another proof that I am perhaps less
wicked than formerly, is that I feel inexpressible joy in holding you
here, monster! Not to avenge myself, but to avenge your victims,--yes, I
shall have accomplished a duty when, with my own hands, I shall have
punished my accomplice. A voice says to me, that, if you had fallen into
my power earlier, much blood, much blood would have been spared. I have
now a horror of my past murders; and yet, is it not strange? It is
without fear, it is even with security, that I am now about to
perpetrate on you a fearful murder, with most fearful refinements. Say,
say! Do you understand that?"

"Bravo! Well played, old No-Eyes! He gets on," exclaimed Tortillard,
applauding. "It is really something to laugh at."

"To laugh at?" continued the Schoolmaster, in a hollow voice. "Keep
still, Chouette; I must complete my explanation as to how I gradually
came to repentance. This revelation will be hateful to you, heart of
stone, and will prove to you also how remorseless I ought to be in the
vengeance which I should wreak on you in the name of our victims. I must
be quick. My delight at grasping you thus makes my blood throb in my
veins,--my temples beat with violence, just as when, by thinking of my
dream, my reason wanders. Perhaps one of my crises will come on; but I
shall have time to make the approaches of death frightful to you by
compelling you to hear me."

"At him, Chouette!" cried Tortillard. "At him! And reply boldly! Why,
you don't know your part. Tell the 'old one' to prompt you, my worthy
elderly damsel."

"It is useless for you to struggle and bite me," said the Schoolmaster,
after another pause. "You shall not escape me,--you have bitten my
fingers to the bone; but I will pull your tongue out, if you stir. Let
us continue our discourse. When I have been alone--alone in the night
and silence--I have begun to experience fits of furious, impotent rage;
and, for the first time, my senses wandered. Oh! though I was awake, I
again dreamed the dream--you know--the dream. The little old man in the
Rue du Roule, the drowned woman, the cattle-dealer, and you--soaring
over these phantoms! I tell you it was horrible! I am blind, and my
thoughts assume a form, a body, in order to represent to me incessantly,
and in a visible, palpable manner, the features of my victims. I should
not have dreamed this fearful vision, had not my mind, continually
absorbed by the remembrance of my past crimes, been troubled with the
same fantasies. Unquestionably, when one is deprived of sight, the ideas
that beset us form themselves into images in the brain. Yet sometimes,
by dint of viewing them with resigned terror, it would appear that these
menacing spectres have pity on me,--they grow dim--fade away--vanish.
Then I feel myself awakened from my horrid dream, but so weak--cast
down--prostrated--that--would you believe it? ah, how you will laugh,
Chouette!--that I weep! Do you hear? I weep! You don't laugh? Laugh!
Laugh! Laugh, I say!"

The Chouette gave a dull and stifled groan.

"Louder," said Tortillard; "can't hear."

"Yes," continued the Schoolmaster, "I weep, for I suffer and rage in
vain. I say to myself, 'To-morrow, next day, for ever, I shall be a prey
to the same attacks of delirium and gloomy desolation. 'What a life! Oh,
what a life! And I would not choose death rather than be buried alive
in this abyss which incessantly pervades my thoughts! Blind, alone, and
a prisoner,--what can relieve me from my remorse? Nothing, nothing! When
the fantasies disappear for a moment, and do not pass and repass the
black veil constantly before my eyes, there are other tortures,--other
overwhelming reflections. I say to myself, 'If I had remained an honest
man, I should be at this moment free, tranquil, happy, beloved, and
honoured by my connections, instead of being blind and chained in this
dungeon at the mercy of my accomplices.' Alas! the regret of happiness
lost from crime is the first step towards repentance; and when to
repentance is joined an expiation of fearful severity,--an expiation
which changes life into a long, sleepless night, filled with avenging
hallucinations or despairing reflections,--perhaps then man's pardon
succeeds to remorse and expiation."

"I say, old chap," exclaimed Tortillard, "you are borrowing a bit from
M. Moissard's part! Come, no cribbing--gammon!"

The Schoolmaster did not hear Bras-Rouge's son.

"You are astonished to hear me speak thus, Chouette? If I had continued
to imbrue myself either in bloody crimes or the fierce drunkenness of
the life of the galleys, this salutary change would never have come over
me I know full well. But alone, blind, stung with remorse, which eats
into me, of what else could I think? Of new crimes,--how to commit them?
Escape,--how to escape? And, if I escaped, whither should I go? What
should I do with my liberty? No; I must henceforth live in eternal
night, between the anguish of repentance and the fear of formidable
apparitions which pursue me. Sometimes, however, a faint ray of hope
comes to lighten the depth of my darkness, a moment of calm succeeds to
my torments,--yes, for sometimes I am able to drive away the spectres
which beset me by opposing to them the recollections of an honest and
peaceable past, by ascending in thought to my youthful days, to my hours
of infancy. Happily, the greatest wretches have, at least, some years of
peace and innocence to oppose to their criminal and blood-stained years.
None are born wicked; the most infamous have had the lovely candour of
infancy,--have tasted the sweet joys of that delightful age. And thus, I
again say, I sometimes find a bitter consolation in saying to myself, 'I
am, at this hour, doomed to universal execration, but there was a time
when I was beloved, protected, because I was inoffensive and good. Alas!
I must, indeed, take refuge in the past, when I can, for it is there
only that I can find calm.'"

As he uttered these last words, the tones of the Schoolmaster lost their
harshness; this man of iron appeared deeply moved, and he added:

"But now the salutary influence of these thoughts is such that my fury
is appeased; courage, power will fail me to punish you. No, it is not I
who will shed your blood."

"Well said, old buck! So, you see, Chouette, it was only a lark," cried
Tortillard, applauding.

"No, it is not I who will shed your blood," continued the Schoolmaster;
"it would be a murder, excusable perhaps, but still a murder; and I have
enough with three spectres; and then--who knows?--perhaps one day you
will repent also?"

And, as he spake thus, the Schoolmaster had mechanically given the
Chouette some liberty of movement. She took advantage of it to seize the
stiletto which she had thrust into her stays after Sarah's murder, and
aimed a violent blow with this weapon at the ruffian, in order to
disengage herself from him. He uttered a cry of extreme pain.

The ferocity of his hatred, his vengeance, his rage, his bloody
instincts, suddenly aroused and exasperated by this attack, now all
burst forth suddenly, terribly, and carried with it his reason, already
so strongly shaken by so many shocks.

"Ah, viper, I feel your teeth!" he exclaimed in a voice that shook with
passion, and seizing, with all his might, the Chouette, who had thought
thus to escape him. "You are in this dungeon, then?" he added, with an
air of madness. "But I will crush the viper or screech-owl. No doubt you
were waiting for the coming of the phantoms. Yes; for the blood beats in
my temples,--? my ears ring,--my head turns--as when they are about to
appear! Yes; I was not deceived; here they are,--they advance from the
depths of darkness,--they advance! How pale they are; and their blood,
how it flows,--red and smoking! It frightens you,--you struggle. Well,
be still, you shall not see the phantoms,--no, you shall not see them. I
have pity on you; I will make you blind. You shall be, like
me,--eyeless!"

Here the Schoolmaster paused. The Chouette uttered a cry so horrible
that Tortillard, alarmed, bounded off the step, and stood up. The horrid
shrieks of the Chouette served to place the copestone on the fury of the
Schoolmaster.

"Sing," he said, in a low voice, "sing, Chouette,--night-bird! Sing your
song of death! You are happy; you do not see three phantoms of those we
have assassinated,--the little old man in the Rue du Roule, the drowned
woman, the cattle-dealer. I see them; they approach; they touch me. Ah,
so cold,--so cold! Ah!"

The last gleam of sense of this unhappy wretch was lost in this cry of
condemnation. He could no longer reason, but acted and roared like a
wild beast, and only obeyed the savage instinct of destruction for
destruction. A hurried trampling was now heard, interrupted frequently
at intervals with a heavy sound, which appeared like a box of bones
bounding against a stone, upon which it was intended to be broken.
Sharp, convulsive shrieks, and a burst of hellish laughter accompanied
each of these blows. Then there was a gasp of agony. Then--nothing.

Suddenly a distant noise of steps and voices reached the depths of the
subterranean vault. Tortillard, frozen with terror by the fearful scene
at which he had been present without seeing it, perceived several
persons holding lights, who descended the staircase rapidly. In a moment
the cave was full of agents of safety, led by Narcisse Borel. The
Municipal Guards followed. Tortillard was seized on the first steps of
the cellar, with the Chouette's basket still in his hand.

Narcisse Borel, with some of his men, descended into the Schoolmaster's
cavern. They all paused, struck by the appalling sight. Chained by the
leg to an enormous stone placed in the middle of the cave, the
Schoolmaster, with his hair on end, his long beard, foaming mouth, was
moving like a wild beast about his den, drawing after him by the two
legs the dead carcase of the Chouette, whose head was horribly
fractured. It required desperate exertions to snatch her from his grasp
and manacle him. After a determined resistance they at length conveyed
him into the low parlour of the cabaret, a large dark room, lighted by a
solitary window. There, handcuffed and guarded, were Barbillon, Nicholas
Martial, his mother and sister. They had been apprehended at the very
moment when laying violent hands on the jewel-matcher to cut her throat.
She was recovering herself in another room. Stretched on the ground, and
hardly restrained by two men, the Schoolmaster, slightly wounded, but
quite deranged, was roaring like a wild bull.

Barbillon, with his head hanging down, his face ghastly, lead-coloured,
his lips colourless, eye fixed and savage, his long and straight hair
falling on the collar of his blouse, torn in the struggle, was seated
on a bench, his wrists, enclosed in handcuffs, resting on his knees. The
juvenile appearance of this fellow (he was scarcely eighteen years of
age), the regularity of his beardless features, already emaciated and
withered, were rendered still more deplorable by the hideous stamp which
debauchery and crime had imprinted on his physiognomy. Impassive, he did
not say a word. It could not be determined whether this apparent
insensibility was owing to stupor or to a calm energy; his breathing was
rapid, and, at times, he wiped away the perspiration from his pale brow
with his fettered hands.

By his side was Calabash, whose cap had been torn off, and her yellowish
hair, tied behind with a piece of tape, hung down in several scanty and
tangled meshes. More savage than subdued, her thin and bilious cheeks
were somewhat suffused, as she looked disdainfully at her brother,
Nicholas, who was in a chair in front of her. Anticipating the fate that
awaited him, this scoundrel was dejected. With drooping head and
trembling knees he was overcome with fright; his teeth chattered
convulsively, and he heaved heavy groans.

The Mother Martial, the only one unmoved, exhibited every proof that she
had lost nothing of her accustomed audacity. With head erect, she looked
unshrinkingly around her. However, at the sight of Bras-Rouge,--whom
they brought into the low room, after having made him accompany the
commissary and his clerk in the minute search they had made all over the
place,--the widow's features contracted, in spite of herself, and her
small and usually dull eyes lighted up like those of an infuriated
viper; her pinched-up lips became livid, and she twisted her manacled
arms. Then, as if sorry she had made this mute display of impotent rage,
she subdued her emotion, and became cold and calm again.

Whilst the commissary and his clerk were writing their depositions,
Narcisse Borel, rubbing his hands, cast a satisfied look on the
important capture he had made, and which freed Paris from a band of
dangerous criminals; but, confessing to himself how useful Bras-Rouge
had really been in the affair, he could not help casting on him an
expressive and grateful look.

Tortillard's father was to share until after trial the confinement and
lot of those he had informed against, and, like them, he was handcuffed;
and even more than them did he assume a trembling air of consternation,
twisting his weasel's features with all his might, in order to give them
a despairing expression, and heaving tremendous sighs. He embraced
Tortillard, as if he should find some consolation in his paternal
caresses.

The little cripple did not seem much moved by these marks of tenderness;
he had just learned that, for a time, he would be moved off to the
prison for young offenders.

"What a misery to have a dear child!" cried Bras-Rouge, pretending to be
greatly affected. "It is we two who are most unfortunate, madame, for we
shall be separated from our children."

The widow could no longer preserve her calmness; and having no doubt of
Bras-Rouge's treachery, which she had foretold, she exclaimed:

"I was sure it was you who had sold my son at Toulon. There, Judas!" and
she spat in his face. "You sell our heads! Well, they shall see the
right sort of deaths,--deaths of true Martials!"

"Yes; we shan't shrink before the carline (guillotine)," added Calabash,
with savage excitement.

The widow, glancing towards Nicholas, said to her daughter, with an air
of unutterable contempt:

"That coward there will dishonour us on the scaffold!"

Some minutes afterwards the widow and Calabash, accompanied by two
policemen, got into a hackney-coach to go to St. Lazare; Barbillon,
Nicholas, and Bras Rouge were conveyed to La Force, whilst the
Schoolmaster was conveyed to the Conciergerie, where there are cells for
the reception of lunatics.


END OF VOLUME IV.


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Transcriber's Notes:


This e-text was prepared from numbered edition 505 of the 1000 printed.

Minor punctuation and capitalization corrections have been made without
comment.

Minor typographical errors of single words, otherwise spelled correctly
throughout the text have been made without comment.

p. 87, "that'll" to "that" (that I'll slash your eyes out;)

p. 188, "caligraphy" to "calligraphy" (expert in calligraphy)

Word Variations appearing in the original text which have been retained:

"Bras Rouge" (10) and "Bras-Rouge" (49)
"Halloa" (3) and "Holloa" (3) and "Holla" (1)
"Ile du Ravageur" (2) and "Isle du Ravageur" (13)
"rencontre" (1) and "rencounter" (1)
"work-people" (1) and "workpeople" (1)

Words using the [oe] ligature, which have been here represented as "oe":
"manoeuvre".

Throughout the text, illustrations and their captions were placed on
facing pages. For the purpose of this e-text these pages have been
combined into one entry.

Footnotes, originally at the bottom of a printed page, have been placed
directly below the paragraph in which their anchor symbol appears.