Title: The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 2 of 6
Author: Sue, Eugène, 1804-1857
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 2 of 6" ***


(Stanford University, SUL Books in the Public Domain)



Transcriber's Notes:

1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.

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

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



[Illustration: "_He Took from the Bed a Large Plaid Shawl_"
Etching by Adrian Marcel, after the drawing by Frank T. Merrill]



+The Mysteries of Paris.+

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

                 _BY EUGENE SUE_


      _IN SIX VOLUMES
          VOLUME II._


        _PRINTED FOR
   FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.
           BOSTON_


      _EDITION DE LUXE._

_Limited to One Thousand Copies._

          No.______



CONTENTS.


   CHAPTER                                                     PAGE
         I. THE BALL                                             11
        II. THE RENDEZVOUS                                       36
       III. AN IDYL                                              61
        IV. THE AMBUSCADE                                        74
         V. THE RECTORY-HOUSE                                    88
        VI. THE RENCOUNTER                                       99
       VII. AN EVENING AT THE FARM                              105
      VIII. THE DREAM                                           150
        IX. THE LETTER                                          159
         X. THE HOLLOW WAY                                      195
        XI. CLÉMENCE D'HARVILLE                                 201
       XII. MISERY                                              256
      XIII. JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION                              286
       XIV. RIGOLETTE                                           310



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                                               PAGE
      "HE TOOK FROM THE BED A LARGE PLAID SHAWL"      _Frontispiece_
      "AT LENGTH ALIGHTED ON HER SHOULDER"                       66
      "'SO I HAVE BROUGHT TURK WITH ME'"                         97
      "'YOU MUST GIVE ME LEAVE'"                                208



THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.



CHAPTER I.

THE BALL.


Belonging to one of the first families in France, still young, and with
a face that would have been agreeable had it not been for the almost
ridiculous and disproportionate length of his nose, M. de Lucenay joined
to a restless love of constant motion the habit of talking and laughing
fearfully loud upon subjects quite at variance with good taste or
polished manners, and throwing himself into attitudes so abrupt and
awkward that it was only by recalling who he was, that his being found
in the midst of the most distinguished societies in Paris could be
accounted for, or a reason assigned for tolerating his gestures and
language; for both of which he had now, by dint of long practice and
adherence, acquired a sort of free license or impunity. He was shunned
like the plague, although not deficient in a certain description of wit,
which told here and there amid the indescribable confusion of remarkable
phraseology which he allowed himself the use of; in fact, he was one of
those unintentional instruments of vengeance one would always like to
employ in the wholesale chastisement of persons who have rendered
themselves either ridiculous or abhorrent.

The Duchess de Lucenay, one of the most agreeable, and, at the same
time, most fashionable women in Paris (spite of her having numbered
thirty summers), had more than once furnished matter of conversation
among the scandal-dealers of Paris; but her errors, whatever they were
supposed to be, were pardoned, in consideration of the heavy drawback of
such a partner as M. de Lucenay.

Another feature in the character of this latter-named individual was a
singular affectation of the most absurd and unknown expressions,
relative to imaginary complaints and ridiculous infirmities he amused
himself in supposing you suffered from, and concerning which he would
make earnest inquiries, in a loud voice, and in the immediate presence
of a hundred persons. But possessed of first-rate courage, and always
ready to take the consequences of his disagreeable jokes, M. de Lucenay
had been concerned in various affairs of honour arising out of them,
with varied success; coming off sometimes victor, sometimes vanquished,
without being in any way cured of his unpleasant and annoying tricks.

All this premised, we will ask the reader to imagine the loud, harsh
voice of the personage we have been describing, shouting from the
distance at which he first recognised Madame d'Harville and Sarah:

"Holla! holla! who is that out there? Come, who is it? Let's see. What!
the prettiest woman at the ball sitting out here, away from everybody! I
can't have this; it is high time I returned from the other end of the
world to put a stop to such doings as this. I tell you what, marquise,
if you persist in thus concealing yourself from general view, and
cheating people from looking at you, I will set up a cry of fire! fire!
that shall bring every one out of the ballroom, around you."

And then, by way of terminating his discourse, M. de Lucenay threw
himself almost on his back beside the two ladies, crossed his left leg
over his right thigh, and held his foot in his hand.

"You have soon returned from Constantinople, my lord," observed Madame
d'Harville, fancying it was necessary to say something, and, at the same
time, drawing away from her unpleasant neighbour with ill-concealed
impatience.

"Ah, that is just what my wife said! 'Already back, my lord?' exclaimed
she, when she saw me alight from my travelling-carriage; 'Why, bless me,
I did not expect you so soon!' And, do you know, instead of flying to my
arms, as if the surprise had delighted her, she turned quite sulky, and
refused to appear with me at this, my first ball since my return! And,
upon my soul, I declare her staying away has caused a far greater
sensation than my presence,--droll, isn't it? 'Pon my life, I declare I
can't make it out. When she is with me, nobody pays the least attention
to me; but when I entered the room alone to-night, such a crowd came
humming and buzzing around me, all calling out at once, 'Where is Madame
de Lucenay? Is not she coming this evening? Oh, dear, what a
disappointment! How vexatious! How disagreeable!' etc., etc. And then,
marquise, when I come where you are, and expect, after returning all the
way from Constantinople, you will be overjoyed to see me, you look upon
me as if I were a dog running amidst an interesting game of ninepins;
and yet, for all I see, I am just as agreeable as other people."

"And it would have been so easy for you to have continued agreeable--in
the East," added Madame d'Harville, slightly smiling.

"Stop abroad, you mean, I suppose; yes, I dare say. I tell you I could
not, and I would not; and it is not quite what I like, to hear you say
so!" exclaimed M. de Lucenay, uncrossing his legs, and beating the crown
of his hat after the fashion of a tambourine.

"Well, for heaven's sake, my lord, be still, and do not call out so very
loudly," said Madame d'Harville, angrily, "or really you will compel me
to change my place."

"Change your place! Ah, to be sure! You want to take my arm, and walk
about the gallery a little; come along then, I'm ready."

"Walk with you! Certainly not! And pray let me beg of you not to meddle
with that bouquet--and have the goodness not to touch the fan either;
you will only break it, as you always do."

"Oh, bless you! talking of breaking fans, I am unlucky. Did my wife ever
show you a magnificent Chinese fan, given to her by Madame de Vaudémont?
Well, I broke that!" And, having delivered himself of these comforting
words, M. de Lucenay again threw himself back on the divan he had been
lounging on, but, with his accustomed gaucherie, contrived to pitch
himself over the back of it, on to the ground, grasping in his hand a
quantity of the floating wreaths of climbing plants which depended from
the boughs of the trees under which the party was sitting, and which he
had been, for some time, amusing himself with essaying to catch, as,
moved by the light breeze admitted into the place, they undulated
gracefully over his head. The suddenness of his fall brought down, not
only those he held, but the parent stems belonging to them; and poor De
Lucenay was so covered by the mass of foliage thus unexpectedly
obtained, that, ere he could thoroughly disengage himself from their
circling tendrils, he presented the appearance of some monarch of
May-day crowned with his leafy diadem. So whimsical an appearance as he
presented drew down roars of deafening, stunning laughter; much to the
annoyance of Madame d'Harville, who would quickly have got out of the
vicinity of so awkward and unpleasant a person had she not perceived M.
Charles Robert (the commandant of Madame Pipelet's accounts) advancing
from the other end of the gallery; and, unwilling to appear as though
going to meet him, she once more resumed her seat beside M. de Lucenay.

"I say, Lady Macgregor," vociferated the incorrigible De Lucenay,
"didn't I look preciously like a wild man of the woods, or the god Pan,
or a sylvan, or a naiad, or some of those savage creatures, with that
green wreath round my head? Oh, but talking of savages," added he,
abruptly approaching Sarah, "Lady Macgregor, I must tell you a most
outrageously indecent story. Just imagine that at Otaheite--"

"My lord duke--" interrupted Sarah, in a tone of freezing rebuke.

"Just as you like,--you are not obliged to hear my story if you don't
like it; you are the loser, that's all. Ah! I see Madame de Fonbonne out
there; I shall keep it for her; she is a dear, kind creature, and will
be delighted to hear it; so I'll save it for her."

Madame de Fonbonne was a fat little woman, of about fifty years of age,
very pretending, and very ridiculous. Her fat double chin rested on her
equally fat throat; and she was continually talking, with upturned eyes,
of her tender, her sensitive soul; the languor of her soul; the craving
of her soul; the aspirations of her soul. To these disadvantages, she
added the additional one of being particularly ill-dressed, upon the
present occasion, in a horrible-looking copper-coloured turban, with a
sprinkling of green flowers over it.

"Yes," again asserted De Lucenay, in his loudest voice, "that charming
anecdote shall be told to Madame de Fonbonne."

"May I be permitted, my lord duke, to inquire the subject of your
conversation?" said the lady thus apostrophised, who, hearing her name
mentioned, immediately commenced her usual mincing, bridling attempts to
draw up her chubby self, but, failing in the effort, fell back upon the
easier manoeuvre of "rolling up the whites of her eyes," as it is
commonly called.

"It refers, madame, to a most horribly indecent, revolting, and strange
story."

"Heaven bless me! and who dares--oh, dear me, who would venture--"

"I would, madame. I can answer for the truth of the anecdote, and that
it would make a stick or a stone blush to hear it; but, as I am aware
how dearly you love such stories, I will relate it to you. You must
know, then, that in Otaheite--"

"My lord," exclaimed the indignant lady, turning up her eyes with
indignant horror, "it really is surprising you can allow yourself to--"

"Now for those unkind looks you shall not hear my pretty story either,
though I had been reserving it for you. And, now I look at you, I can
but wonder that you, so celebrated for the taste and good style of your
dress, should have put that wretched thing on your head for a turban,
but which looks more like an old copper baking-dish spotted all over
with verdigris." So saying, the duke, as if charmed with his own wit,
burst into a loud and long peal of laughter.

"If, my lord," exclaimed the enraged lady, "you merely returned from the
East to resume your offensive jokes, which are tolerated because you are
supposed to be only half in your senses, all who know you are bound to
hope you intend to return as quickly as you came;" saying which she
arose, and majestically waddled away.

"I tell you what, Lady Macgregor, if I don't take devilish good care, I
shall let fly at that stupid old prude and pull her old stew-pan off her
head," said M. de Lucenay, thrusting his hands deep down into his
pockets as if to prevent their committing the retaliating mischief he
contemplated. "But no," said he, after a pause, "I won't hurt the
'sensitive soul,' poor innocent thing! Ha! ha! ha! Besides, think of her
being an orphan at her tender age!" And renewed peals of laughter
announced that the imagination of the duke had again found a fresh fund
of amusement in some reminiscence of Madame de Fonbonne; which, however,
soon gave place to an expression of surprise, as the figure of the
commandant, sauntering towards them, caught his eye.

"Holla!" cried he, "there's M. Charles Robert. I met him last summer at
the German baths; he is a deuced fine fellow,--sings like a swan. Now,
marquise, I'll show you some fun,--just see how I'll bother him. Would
you like me to introduce him to you?"

"Be quiet, if you can," said Sarah, turning her back most
unceremoniously upon M. de Lucenay, "and let us alone, I beg."

As M. Charles Robert, while affecting to be solely occupied in admiring
the rare plants on either side of him, continued to advance, M. de
Lucenay had cleverly contrived to get possession of Sarah's _flacon
d'esprit_, and was deeply and silently engaged in the interesting
employment of demolishing the stopper of the trinket.

Still M. Charles Robert kept on his gradual approach to the party he
was, in reality, making the object of his visit. His figure was tall and
finely proportioned; his features boasted the most faultless regularity;
his dress was in the first style of modern elegance; yet his
countenance, his whole person, were destitute of grace, or that
_distingué_ air which is more to be coveted than mere beauty, whether of
face or figure; his movements were stiff and constrained, and his hands
and feet large and coarse. As he approached Madame d'Harville his
insipid and insignificant countenance assumed, all at once, an
expression of the deepest melancholy, too sudden to be genuine;
nevertheless he acted the part as closely to nature as might be. M.
Robert had the air of a man so thoroughly wretched, so oppressed by a
multitude of sorrows, that as he came up to Madame d'Harville she could
not help recalling to mind the fearful mention made by Sarah touching
the violence to which grief such as his might drive him.

"How are you? How are you, my dear sir?" exclaimed the Duke de Lucenay,
interrupting the further approach of the commandant. "I have not had the
pleasure of seeing you since we met at the spas of ----. But what the
devil ails you,--are you ill?"

Hereupon M. Charles Robert assumed a languid and sentimental air, and,
casting a melancholy look towards Madame d'Harville, replied, in a tone
of deep depression:

"Indeed, my lord, I am very far from being well."

"God bless me! Why, what is the matter with you? Ah! I suppose that
confounded plaguy cough still sticks to you," said M. de Lucenay, with
an appearance of the most serious interest in the inquiry.

At this ridiculous question, M. Charles Robert stood for a moment as
though struck dumb with astonishment, but, quickly recovering himself,
said, while his face crimsoned, and his voice trembled with rage, in a
short, firm voice, to M. de Lucenay:

"Since you express so much uneasiness respecting my health, my lord, I
trust you will not fail calling to-morrow to know how I am."

"Upon my life and soul, my dear sir, I--but most certainly I will send,"
said the duke, with a haughty bow to M. Charles Robert, who, coolly
returning it, walked away.

"The best of the joke is," said M. de Lucenay, throwing himself again by
the side of Sarah, "that our tall friend there had no more of a spitting
complaint than the great Turk himself,--unless, indeed, I stumbled upon
the truth without knowing it. Well, he might have that complaint for
anything I know or care. What do you think, Lady Macgregor,--did that
great, tall fellow look, to you, as though he were suffering from _la
pituite_?"[1]

  [1] A sort of viscous, phlegmy complaint.

Sarah's only reply was an indignant rising from her seat, and hasty
removal from the vicinage of the annoying Duke de Lucenay.

All this had passed with the rapidity of thought. Sarah had experienced
considerable difficulty in restraining her inclination to indulge in a
hearty fit of laughter at the absurd question put by the Duke de Lucenay
to the commandant; but Madame d'Harville had painfully sympathised with
the feelings of a man so ridiculously interrogated in the presence of
the woman he loved. Then, horror-struck as the probable consequences of
the duke's jest rose to her mind, led away by her dread of the duel
which might arise out of it, and still further instigated by a feeling
of deep pity for one who seemed to her misled imagination as marked out
for every venomed shaft of envy, malice, and revenge, Clémence rose
abruptly from her seat, took the arm of Sarah, overtook M. Charles
Robert, who was boiling over with rage, and whispered to him, as she
passed:

"To-morrow, at one o'clock, I will be there."

Then, regaining the gallery with the countess, she immediately quitted
the ball.

Rodolph, in appearing at this fête, besides fulfilling a duty imposed on
him by his exalted rank and place in society, was further influenced by
the earnest desire to ascertain how far his suspicions, as regarded
Madame d'Harville, were well founded, and if she were, indeed, the
heroine of Madame Pipelet's account. After quitting the winter garden
with the Countess de ----, he had, in vain, traversed the various salons
in the hopes of meeting Madame d'Harville alone. He was returning to the
hothouse when, being momentarily delayed at the top of the stairs, he
was witness to the rapid scene between Madame d'Harville and M. Charles
Robert after the joke played off by the Duke de Lucenay. The significant
glances exchanged between Clémence and the commandant struck Rodolph
powerfully, and impressed him with the firm conviction that this tall
and prepossessing individual was the mysterious lodger of the Rue du
Temple. Wishing for still further confirmation of the idea, he returned
to the gallery. A waltz was about to commence, and in the course of a
few minutes he saw M. Charles Robert standing in the doorway, evidently
revelling in the satisfaction of his own ideas; enjoying, in the first
place, the recollection of his own retort to M. de Lucenay (for M.
Charles Robert, spite of his egregious folly and vanity, was by no means
destitute of bravery), and, secondly, revelling in the triumph of thus
obtaining a voluntary assignation with Madame d'Harville for the morrow;
and something assured him that this time she would be punctual. Rodolph
sought for Murphy.

"Do you see that fair young man," said he, "standing in the midst of
that group out there?"

"You mean the tall individual who seems so much amused with his own
thoughts, do you not? Yes, yes, I see him."

"Endeavour to get sufficiently near to him to be enabled to whisper, so
that he alone can catch the words, while you carefully avoid allowing
him to see the person who utters them, this sentence, 'You are late, my
angel!'"

The squire gazed at Rodolph with a perplexed air.

"My lord, do you seriously wish me to do this?"

"Seriously, my dear Murphy, I do; and should he hastily turn around when
you have spoken, assume that incomparable air of perfect nonchalance for
which you are so justly celebrated, so as to prevent his being able to
fix upon you as the person who has spoken."

"Depend upon my perfect obedience, my lord, although I am far from
having the slightest idea of your intention in assigning to me such a
task."

Before the conclusion of the waltz, the worthy Murphy had contrived to
place himself immediately behind M. Charles Robert, while Rodolph,
posted in a situation most advantageous for watching the effect of this
experiment, carefully observed Murphy's movements. In a minute, M.
Charles Robert turned suddenly around, as though struck with
astonishment and wonder. The immovable squire stirred not a feature; and
certainly Murphy's tall, portly figure, bald head, and grave, composed
countenance, appeared the least likely of any in the room to be those of
a man taking part in such a trick; and, indeed, it was evident, from the
continued gaze of the commandant in every other part of the space they
stood in, that M. Charles Robert was far from suspecting his
respectable, middle-aged neighbour of giving utterance to a phrase so
disagreeably recalling the _quid pro quo_ of which Madame Pipelet had
been alike the cause and the heroine. The waltz concluded, Murphy
rejoined Rodolph.

"Well, my lord," said he, "that smart young gentleman jumped as though
he had trodden on a hornet's nest. The words I uttered appeared to have
the effect of magic on him."

"They were so far magical, my dear Murphy, as they assisted me to
discover a circumstance I was most anxious to find out."

Conviction thus painfully obtained, Rodolph could only deplore the
dangerous position in which Madame d'Harville had placed herself, and
which seemed to him fraught with fresh evils, from a vague presentiment
of Sarah's being either a sharer or a confidant in the transaction, and
with this discovery came the fresh pain of believing that he had now
found out the source of M. d'Harville's secret sorrow; the man he so
highly esteemed, and for whom he felt a brother's regard, was pining in
silence over the misconduct of a wife he so tenderly loved, yet who, in
spite of her many charming qualities, could sacrifice her own and her
husband's happiness for the sake of an object so every way unworthy.
Master of so important a secret, yet incapable of betraying it, unable
to devise any plan to open the eyes of Madame d'Harville, who seemed
rather to yield to than resist her unlicensed passion for her lover,
Rodolph found himself obliged to remain a passive witness to the utter
ruin of a woman he had so passionately adored with as much silence as
devotion; nay, whom, spite of his best efforts, he still loved. He was
roused from these reflections by M. de Graün.

"If your royal highness," said the baron, bowing, "will deign to grant
me a brief interview in one of the lower rooms, which is now quite
devoid of company, I shall have the honour to lay before you the
particulars you desired me to collect."

Rodolph signed to M. de Graün to conduct him to the place named, when
the baron proceeded with his recital, as follows:

"The only duchess to whose name the initials 'N.' and 'L.' can possibly
belong is Madame de Lucenay, whose maiden name was Normant. Her grace is
not here this evening. I have just seen M. de Lucenay, her husband, who,
it seems, left Paris five months ago, with the expressed intention of
travelling in the East during the next year or two, but has unexpectedly
returned within the last day or two."

It may be recollected that, during Rodolph's visit to the Rue du Temple,
he picked up, on the landing-place adjoining the door of the charlatan
dentist's apartments, a cambric handkerchief, richly embroidered and
trimmed with costly lace, and bearing in the corner a ducal coronet with
the initials "N. L." It will also be borne in mind that this elegant
indication of high rank was wetted with the bitter tears of its noble
owner. In pursuance of his instructions, but in total ignorance of the
circumstances suggesting them, M. de Graün had inquired the name of
every duchess then in Paris, and gleaned the information now repeated to
Rodolph, and which the latter perfectly comprehended. He had no reason
for interesting himself in the fate of Madame de Lucenay; but he could
not reflect without a shudder that, if it were really she who visited
the pretended doctor (but who, he felt assured, was no other than the
infamous Polidori), this wretch, having possessed himself of her real
name and address through the agency of Tortillard, might make a fearful
use of a secret which placed the duchess so completely in his power.

"Chance is a strange thing, my lord, is it not?" resumed M. de Graün.

"It is; but how does it apply to the present case?"

"Why, at the very instant that M. de Grangeneuve was giving me these
facts concerning M. and Madame de Lucenay, and was adding, rather
ill-naturedly, that the unlooked-for return of the duke must have proved
particularly disagreeable, not only to the duchess but to the Viscount
de Saint-Remy, one of the most elegant and fashionable men in Paris, his
excellency the ambassador came up and inquired whether your royal
highness would permit him to present the viscount to you, as, having
just been appointed on the legation to Gerolstein, he would be happy to
avail himself of the present opportunity of paying his court to your
highness."

An expression of impatience escaped Rodolph, who exclaimed:

"Nothing could have been less agreeable to me. However, it is impossible
to refuse. Let the count know, therefore, that I am ready to receive M.
de Saint-Remy."

Rodolph knew too well how to support his princely dignity to allow his
feelings to interfere with the courtesy and affability required on the
present occasion; added to which, the world gave M. de Saint-Remy as a
favoured lover to the Duchess de Lucenay, and this circumstance greatly
excited the curiosity of Rodolph.

The Viscount de Saint-Remy, conducted by the Count de ----, now
approached. He was an exceedingly handsome young man, of about
twenty-five years of age, tall and slender, with the most _distingué_
air and prepossessing physiognomy; his olive complexion had that rich,
soft glow of amber cast over its transparent surface, so remarkable in
the paintings of Murillo; his glossy black hair, parted over his left
temple, was worn smooth over his forehead, and fell in light and easy
curls down the sides of his face, almost concealing the pale,
well-shaped ear. The deep, dark eyelash contrasted well with the clear
eye it shaded, the crystal of which was tinged with that blue cast which
bestows so much and such charming expression to the Indian eye. By a
singular caprice of nature, the thick, silky moustache which graced his
lip was the only ornament of a similar description visible on his
countenance, the chin and cheeks being smooth as those of a young
maiden. Perhaps it might be vanity which dictated the narrow black satin
cravat placed so low as to reveal the perfect contour of a throat which,
for whiteness and symmetrical roundness, might have furnished a model
for the artist's studio. The long ends of his cravat were confined by a
single pearl, inestimable for its size, the beauty of its shape, and the
splendour of its colour,--so vivid, that an opal could scarcely have
rivalled its continued prismatic changes. The perfect taste, and
exquisite style of M. de Saint-Remy harmonised well with the magnificent
simplicity of this jewel.

Once seen, the face and figure of M. de Saint-Remy was never forgotten,
so entirely did it differ from the usual style of _élégants_. He spared
no expense in procuring the most faultless turnout, and his carriages
and horses were everywhere cited as models of taste and correct
judgment. He played high, but skilfully; while the annual amount of his
betting-book was never less than from two to three thousand louis. The
costly elegance of his mansion, in the Rue de Chaillot, was everywhere
spoken of and admired. There he gave the most exquisite dinner-parties.
The highest play followed, and the hospitable host would lose large and
heavy sums with the most perfect indifference, though it was known that
his fortune had been dissipated long ago. All the viscount's property
had been derived from his mother; while his father lived in utter
seclusion in the wilds of Anjou, upon an income of the most slender
description.

By way of accounting for the unbounded expenditure of M. de Saint-Remy,
many among the envious or ill-natured referred, as Sarah had done, to
the large fortune of the Duchess de Lucenay; but they forgot that,
setting aside the infamy of the idea, M. de Lucenay would naturally
direct the disposal of his wife's property, and that M. de Saint-Remy's
annual expenses were at least two hundred thousand francs. Suspicions
were entertained of his being deeply indebted to imprudent
money-lenders; for Saint-Remy had no further inheritance to look forward
to. Others, again, spoke of his great successes on the turf, and hinted,
in an undertone, dark stories of training-grounds, and jockeys bribed by
him to make the horses against which he had betted largely lose; but by
far the greater number of the crowd by which Saint-Remy was surrounded
was content to eat his dinners, and occasionally to win his rouleaux,
without troubling themselves with conjectures as to how the one was
provided, and where the other came from.

By birth and education he was fully entitled to the rank he occupied in
the fashionable world; he was lively, witty, brave, a most amusing
companion, obliging and complaisant to the wishes of others; he gave
first-rate bachelor dinners, and afterwards took every bet that was
offered him. What more was required to secure his popularity? He was an
universal favourite with the fair sex, and could boast the most unvaried
success in all his love affairs; he was young, handsome, gallant, and
unsparingly munificent upon all occasions where opportunities occurred
of marking his devotion towards the high-bred females with whom he
associated in the _grande monde_; in a word, thanks to the general
infatuation he excited, the air of mystery thrown over the source of the
Pactolus from which he derived his golden supplies rather embellished
him with a certain mysterious charm, which seemed but to add to his
attractions. Sometimes it would be said, with a careless smile, "What a
fellow that Saint-Remy is: he must have discovered the philosopher's
stone to be able to go the pace he does." And when it was known that he
had caused himself to be attached to the legation of France to the court
of Gerolstein, there were not wanting voices to assert that it was a
"devilish good way of making an honourable retreat." Such was M. de
Saint-Remy.

"Allow me," said the Count de ----, presenting M. de Saint-Remy, "to
introduce to your royal highness the Viscount de Saint-Remy, attached to
the embassy of Gerolstein."

The viscount bowed profoundly, saying:

"May I trust your royal highness will deign to pardon my impatience in
requesting the honour of this introduction during the present evening? I
am, perhaps, unduly hasty in my wishes to secure a gratification I have
so long aspired to."

"It will give me much pleasure, my lord, to welcome you to Gerolstein.
Do you propose going thither immediately?"

"Your royal highness being in Paris diminishes very materially my desire
to do so."

"I fear the peaceful contrast of our German courts will scarcely assort
with a life of Parisian fashion, such as you have always been accustomed
to."

"Permit me to assure your royal highness that the gracious kindness you
have now shown me, and which it shall be my study to merit a continuance
of in Gerolstein, would of itself far outweigh any attractions Paris
may have had for me."

"It will not be my fault, my lord, should you see cause to alter your
sentiments when at Gerolstein."

A slight inclination of Rodolph's head announced that the presentation
was concluded, upon which the viscount bowed and retired. The prince, a
practised physiognomist, was subject to involuntary likes and dislikes
upon the first interview with an individual, and these impulses were in
his case almost invariably borne out by after-circumstances. His first
sensation after the exchange of the very few words we have related
between himself and Saint-Remy was an unaccountable feeling of
repugnance and aversion for the gay and fascinating young man; to his
eye, the handsome features wore a sinister look, and danger seemed to
lurk even in his honeyed words and smooth, polished manner.

We shall hereafter meet M. de Saint-Remy under circumstances differing
widely and fearfully from the splendour of the position he occupied at
his first interview with Rodolph. It will then be seen how far these
presentiments were ill or well founded.

The presentation over, Rodolph, in deep meditation upon the singular
rencontres effected by the hand of chance, bent his steps towards the
winter garden. It was now the hour of supper, and the rooms were nearly
deserted. The most retired spot in the hothouse was at the end of a
clump of trees placed against the corner of a wall, and an enormous
banana, covered with climbing plants, effectually concealed a small side
door, masked by the trellis, and conducting to the banquetting-hall by a
long corridor. This door, which was scarcely a yard distant from the
tree above mentioned, had been left temporarily ajar. Sheltered by this
verdant screen, Rodolph seated himself, and was soon lost in a profound
reverie, when the sound of a well-known voice, pronouncing his name,
made Rodolph start. It was Sarah, who, seated with her brother Tom on
the other side of the clump of trees which effectually hid Rodolph from
their view, was conversing with him in the English language. The prince
listened attentively, and the following dialogue ensued:

"The marquise has just gone to show herself for a few minutes at Baron
de Nerval's ball," said Sarah; "she has luckily quitted this place
without once having an opportunity of exchanging a word with Rodolph,
who has been looking everywhere for her. I still dread the influence he
possesses over her, even unknown to herself,--an influence it has cost
me so much labour and difficulty to combat, and partly to destroy.
However, to-morrow will rid me of any further fears of a rival who, if
not effectually destroyed, might so powerfully derange and overthrow my
plans. Listen to me, brother, for it is of serious matters I would speak
to you. To-morrow witnesses the eternal ruin of my hated rival."

"You are mistaken, Sarah," answered Tom's well-remembered voice;
"Rodolph never loved the marquise; of that I am certain; your jealous
fears mislead you."

"It is time," returned Sarah, "that I enlightened you on this subject.
Many things occurred during your last journey, and as it is necessary to
take decisive steps even earlier than I had expected,--nay, this very
night,--so soon as we quit this place, it becomes indispensably
necessary we should take serious counsel together. Happily we are now
quite alone, for the gay butterflies of the night have found fresh
attraction around the supper-tables. Now, then, brother, give your close
and undivided attention to what I am about to say."

"Proceed, I am all impatience."

"Well, before Clémence d'Harville met Rodolph, I feel assured the
passion of love was wholly unknown to her, for what reason I have never
been able to discover. She entertains the most invincible repugnance and
aversion towards her husband, who perfectly adores her. There is some
deep mystery in this part of the business I have never succeeded in
fathoming. A thousand new and delightful emotions sprang up in the
breast of Clémence after she became acquainted with Rodolph; but I
stifled her growing love by the most frightful disclosures, or rather
ingeniously invented calumnies, concerning the prince. Still, the void
in her heart required an object to fill it, and chance having thrown M.
Charles Robert in her way during a morning call she was making at my
house, she appeared struck with his appearance, much after the manner in
which we are attracted by a fine picture. Unfortunately, however, this
man is as silly as he is handsome, though he certainly has a very
prepossessing _tout ensemble_. I praised him enthusiastically to Madame
d'Harville, exalted the nobleness of his sentiments, the elevation of
his mind, and, as I knew her weak side, I worked upon her sympathy and
pity, by representing him as loaded with every trouble and affliction
unrelenting fate could heap upon a devoted but most innocent head. I
directed M. Robert to assume a melancholy and sentimental air; to utter
only deep sighs, and to preserve a gloomy and unbroken silence in the
presence of Madame d'Harville. He carefully pursued the path marked out
by me, and, thanks to his vocal skill, his fine person and the constant
expression of silent suffering, so far engaged the interest of Madame
d'Harville, that, ere long, she transferred to my handsome friend the
warm and sympathising regard Rodolph had first awakened. Do you
comprehend me thus far?"

"Perfectly; proceed."

"Madame d'Harville and Robert met only upon terms of intimacy at my
house; to draw them more effectually together I projected devoting three
mornings in the week to music, and my mournful ally sighed softly as the
breath of evening while turning over the leaves of the music, ventured
to utter a few impassioned words, and even to slip two or three billets
among the pieces he copied out for the marquise to practise at home. I
own I was more fearful of his epistolary efforts than even his powers of
speech; but a woman always looks indulgently upon the first declaration
of love she receives; so far, therefore, the written nonsense of my
silly pupil did no harm, for, in obedience to my advice, his _billets
doux_ were very laconic. The great point was to obtain a rendezvous, and
this was no easy matter, for Clémence's principles were stronger than
her love; or, rather, her passion was not sufficiently deep to induce
her to sacrifice those principles. Unknown, even to herself, the image
of Rodolph still filled her heart, and seemed in a manner to preserve
her from yielding to her weak fancy for M. Charles Robert,--a fancy, as
I well knew, far more imaginary than real; but, led on by my continual
and exaggerated praises of this brainless Apollo, whom I persisted in
describing as suffering under the daily increase of every imaginary evil
I could invent, Clémence, vanquished by the deep despair of her dejected
adorer, consented one day, more from pity than love, to grant him the
rendezvous so long desired."

"Did she, then, make you her confidant?"

"She confessed to me her regard for M. Charles Robert,--nothing more;
neither did I seek to learn more; it would have annoyed and vexed her.
But, as for him, boiling over with love, or, rather, intoxicated with
pride, he came voluntarily to impart his good fortune, without, however,
entrusting me either with the time or place of the intended meeting."

"How, then, did you know it?"

"Why, Karl, by my order, hovered about the door of M. Robert during the
following day from an early hour; nothing, however, transpired till the
next day, when our love-stricken youth proceeded in a _fiacre_ to an
obscure part of the town, and finally alighted before a mean-looking
house in the Rue du Temple; there he remained for an hour and a half,
when he came out and walked away. Karl waited a long while to see
whether any person followed M. Charles Robert out of the house; but no
one came. The marquise had evidently failed in her appointment. This was
confirmed to me on the morrow, when the lover came to pour out all his
rage and disappointment. I advised him to assume even an increase of
wretchedness and despair. The plan succeeded; the pity of Clémence was
again excited; a fresh assignation was wrung from her, but which she
failed to keep equally with the former; the third and last rendezvous,
however, produced more decided effects, Madame d'Harville positively
going as far as the door of the house I have specified as the appointed
place; then, repenting so rash a step, returned home without having even
quitted the humble _fiacre_ in which she rode. You may judge by all
these capricious changes of purpose how this woman struggles to be free.
And wherefore? Why, because (and hence arises my bitter, deadly hatred
to Clémence d'Harville) because the recollection of Rodolph still
lingers in her heart, and, with pertinacious love she shrinks from aught
that she fancies breathes of preference for another; thus shielding
herself from harm or danger beneath his worshipped image. Now this very
night the marquise has made a fresh assignation with M. Charles Robert
for to-morrow, and this time I doubt not her punctuality; the Duke de
Lucenay has so grossly ridiculed this young man that, carried away by
pity for the humiliation of her admirer, the marquise has granted that
to compassion he would not else have obtained. But this time, I feel
persuaded she will keep her word, and be punctual to the appointed time
and hour."

"And how do you propose to act?"

"M. Charles Robert is so perfectly unable to comprehend the delicacy of
feeling which this evening dictated the marquise's resolution of meeting
him, that he is safe to rush with vulgar eagerness to the rendezvous,
and this will effectually ruin his plans, for pity alone has instigated
Clémence to take this compromising step. No love,--no infatuation has
hurried her into a measure so fatal to her future resolution. I know
every turn of her mind; and I am confident she will keep her appointment
solely from a courageous idea of generous devotion, but with a firm
resolve not for one instant to forget her duties as a wife and mother.
Now the coarse, vulgar mind of M. Charles Robert is sure to take the
fullest advantage of the marquise's concession in his favour. Clémence
will detest him from that instant; and the illusion once destroyed which
has bound herself and Charles Robert in bonds of imaginary sympathy, she
will fall again beneath the influence of her love for Rodolph, which I
am certain still nestles in her heart."

"Well?"

"Well! I would have her for ever lost to Rodolph, whose high sense of
honour and deep friendship for M. d'Harville I feel perfectly sure would
not have proved equal to preventing his returning the love of Clémence;
but I will so manage things that he shall henceforward look upon her
with loathing and disgust, as the guilty partner in a crime committed
without his participation. No, no! I know my man. He might pardon the
offence, but never the being excluded from his share in it."

"Then do you propose apprising the husband of all that is going on, so
that the prince should learn the disgraceful circumstances from the
publicity the affair would obtain?"

"I do. And the thing is so much the easier to accomplish as, from what
fell from Clémence to-night, I can learn that the marquis has vague and
undefined suspicions, without knowing on whom to fix them. It is now
midnight; we shall almost directly leave the ball, I will set you down
at the first café we meet with, whence you shall write M. d'Harville a
minute account of his wife's love affair, with the projected assignation
of to-morrow, with the time and place where it is arranged to take
place. Oh! but I forgot, I didn't state that the place of meeting is No.
17 Rue du Temple. And the time, to-morrow at one o'clock. The marquis is
already jealous of Clémence; well, he will by this information surprise
her under most suspicious circumstances; the rest follows as a matter of
course."

"But this is a most abominable mode of action," said Seyton, coldly.

"What! my trusty and well-behaved brother and colleague growing
scrupulous?" said Sarah, sarcastically. "This will never do; suppose my
modes of action are odious,--so be it. I trample on all and every thing
that interferes with my designs,--agreed. I do--I shall, till I have
secured my purpose. But let me ask you, Who thought of scruples when my
destruction was aimed at? Who thought of me or my feelings, let me ask
you? How have I been treated?"

"Say no more, sister,--say no more,--here is my hand, and you may safely
reckon upon my firm participation in all that concerns you, even to
writing the letter to M. d'Harville. But still I say, and repeat, such
conduct is horrible!"

"Never mind sermonising, but say, do you consent fully and entirely to
what I wish you, or do you not? Ay, or nay?"

"Since it must be so, M. d'Harville shall this night be fully instructed
as to all his wife's proceedings,--but--what is that? I fancied I heard
some one on the other side of this thicket,--there was a rustling of
leaves and branches," said Seyton, interrupting himself, and speaking to
Sarah in a low and suppressed voice.

"For heaven's sake," cried Sarah, uneasily, "don't stop to talk about
it, but quick! and examine the other side of this place!"

Seyton rose,--made the tour of the clump of trees,--but saw no one.

Rodolph had just disappeared by the side door, of which we have before
spoken.

"I must have made a mistake," said Seyton, returning; "there is no
appearance of any persons but ourselves being in this place."

"I thought there could not possibly be."

"Now, then, Sarah, hear what I have got to say on the subject of Madame
d'Harville, who, I feel quite satisfied, you make an object of
unnecessary apprehension, as far as it would be possible for her to
interfere with your schemes. The prince, moreover, has certain
principles nothing would induce him to infringe. I am infinitely more
alarmed, and with greater justice, too, as to what can have been his
intentions in conducting that young girl to his farm at Bouqueval, five
or six weeks ago. He is constant in his superintendence of her health
and comfort; is having her well educated, and, moreover, has been
several times to see her. Now we are altogether ignorant who she is or
where she came from; she seems, however, to belong only to the humbler
ranks of society; still, the exquisite style of her beauty, the fact of
the prince having worn the disguise he did when escorting her to the
farm, the increasing interest he seems to take in her welfare, all go to
prove that his regard for her is of no common description. I have,
therefore, in this affair anticipated your wishes; but to remove this
greater, and, as I believe, more serious obstacle to our plans, the
utmost circumspection was requisite to obtain information respecting the
lives and habits of these mysterious occupants of the farm, and
particularly concerning the girl herself. I have been fortunate enough
to learn nearly sufficient to point out what is to be done the moment
for action has arrived. A most singular chance threw that horrid old
woman in my way, to whom, as you remember, I once gave my address,
which she it seems has carefully preserved. Her connection with such
persons as the robber who attacked us during our late visit to the Cité
will powerfully assist us. All is provided for and preconsidered,--there
can be no proof against us,--and, besides, if, as seems evident, this
young creature belongs to the humblest class of society it is not very
probable she will hesitate between our offers and the splendid prospect
she may, perchance, picture to herself, for the prince, I have
ascertained, has preserved a strict incognito towards her. But to-morrow
shall decide the question otherwise,--we shall see,--we shall see."

"And these two obstacles overcome, then, Tom, for our grand project."

"There are many, and serious obstacles in the way; still, they may be
overcome."

"And would it not be a lucky chance if we should bring it to pass at the
very moment when Rodolph would be writhing under the double misery
occasioned by the disclosure of Madame d'Harville's conduct, and the
disappearance of the creature for whom he chooses to evince so deep an
interest? Would not that be an auspicious moment to persuade him that
the daughter, whose loss he daily more and more deplores, still lives?
And then--"

"Silence, sister," interrupted Seyton, "I hear the steps of the guests
from the supper-table, returning to resume the ball. Since you deem it
expedient to apprise the Marquis d'Harville of the morrow's rendezvous,
let us depart; it is past midnight."

"The lateness of the hour in which the anonymous information will reach
M. d'Harville, will but tend still more to impress him with an idea of
its importance."

And with these words Tom and Sarah quitted the splendid ball of the
ambassadress of the court of ----.



CHAPTER II.

THE RENDEZVOUS.


Determined at all risks to warn Madame d'Harville of the danger she was
incurring, Rodolph had quitted the winter garden without waiting to hear
the remainder of the conversation between Sarah and her brother, thus
remaining ignorant of their designs against Fleur-de-Marie, and of the
extreme peril which threatened the poor girl. But, spite of his earnest
desire to apprise the marquise of the plot laid against her peace and
honour, he was unable to carry his design into execution, for Madame
d'Harville, unable to bear up longer after the trying events of the
evening, had abandoned her original intention of visiting the
entertainment given by Madame de Nerval and gone direct home.

This contretemps ruined his hopes. Nearly the whole of the company
present at the ambassadress's ball had been invited to that of Madame de
Nerval's, and Rodolph drove rapidly thither, taking with him M. de
Graün, to whom he gave instructions to look for Madame d'Harville among
the guests, and to acquaint her that the prince, having something of the
utmost consequence to communicate to her without the least delay, would
walk onwards to the Hôtel d'Harville, and await her return home, when he
would say a few words at the carriage-door while her servants were
attending to the opening of the entrance-gates.

After much time spent in fruitless endeavours to find Madame d'Harville,
De Graün was compelled to return with the account of his ill success.
This failure made Rodolph despair of being able, now, to save the
marquise from impending ruin; his first thought had been to warn her of
the treachery intended, and so prevent the statement of Sarah, which he
had no means of keeping from the hands of M. d'Harville, from obtaining
the slightest credence. Alas! it was now too late. The infamous epistle
dictated by the Countess Macgregor had reached the Marquis d'Harville
shortly after midnight on the night in question.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was morning; and M. d'Harville continued slowly to pace his
sleeping-apartment, the bed of which gave no indication of having been
used during the night, though the silken counterpane hung in fragments,
evidently proving that some powerful and devastating storm had possessed
the mind of its owner.

The chamber in question was furnished with elegant simplicity, its only
ornaments consisting of a stand of modern arms and a range of shelves
furnished with a well-chosen collection of books. Yet a sudden frenzy,
or the hand of ungovernable rage, had reduced the quiet elegance which
ordinarily reigned to a scene of frantic disorder. Chairs, tables,
broken and overset; the carpet strewed with fragments of the crystal
lamp kept burning through the night; the wax-lights and gilded
chandelier which had contained them, lying around, gave manifest
evidence of a fearful scene.

M. d'Harville was about thirty years of age, with a fine, manly
countenance, whose usual expression was mild and prepossessing, but now
contracted, haggard, and livid. He had not changed his dress since the
preceding evening; his throat was bare, his waistcoat thrown open, and
on the torn and rumpled cambric of his shirt-front were drops of blood.
His rich, dark hair, which generally fell in curls around his face, now
hung in tangled wildness over his pale countenance. Wholly buried in
the misery of his own thoughts, with folded arms, drooping head, and
fixed, bloodshot eyes, M. d'Harville continued to pace his chamber;
then, stopping opposite his fireplace, in which, spite of the almost
unendurable severity of the frost of the past night, the fire had been
allowed to expire, he took from the marble mantelpiece the following
brief note, which he continued to read over and over with the most eager
attention by the wan, pale light of the cold glimmer of an early winter
morning:

      "To-morrow, at one o'clock, your wife has appointed to meet
    her favoured lover. Go to the Rue du Temple, No. 17, and you
    will obtain every requisite confirmation of this intelligence.

                                     "FROM ONE WHO PITIES YOU."

Whilst reading these words, perused, with such deep anguish and sickness
of heart, so many times through the long midnight hours, the blue, cold
lips of M. d'Harville appeared convulsively to spell each syllable of
this fatal _billet_.

At this moment the chamber door opened and a servant entered; the man
who now made his appearance was old, even gray-headed, but the
expression of his countenance was frank and honest. The noise of the man
entering disturbed not the marquis from his bitter contemplations; he
merely turned his head without altering his position, but still grasped
the letter in his clenched hands.

"What do you want?" inquired he, sternly, of the servant.

The man, instead of answering, continued to gaze with an air of painful
surprise at the disordered state of the room; then, regarding his master
more attentively, exclaimed:

"Blood on your clothes! My lord, my lord! How is this? You have hurt
yourself,--and all alone, too; why, my lord, did you not summon me, as
of old, when these attacks came on?"

"Begone!"

"I entreat your lordship's pardon, but your fire is out,--the cold is
intense,--indeed, I must remind your lordship that after your
late--your--"

"Will you be silent? Leave me I say!"

"Pray do not be angry, my lord," replied the trembling valet; "but, if
your lordship pleases to recollect, you appointed M. Doublet to be here
to-day at half past ten, and he is now waiting with the notary."

"Quite proper," said the marquis, with a bitter smile; "when a man is
rich he ought, he should look carefully to his affairs. Fortune is a
fine thing,--a very fine thing; or would be if it could but purchase
happiness." Then, resuming a cold and collected manner, he added:

"Show M. Doublet into my study."

"I have done so, my lord marquis."

"Then give me my clothes,--quick, I am in haste; I shall be going out
shortly. I--"

"But if your lordship would only--"

"Do as I desire you, Joseph," said M. d'Harville, in a more gentle tone;
then added, "Is your lady stirring yet?"

"I have not yet heard her ladyship's bell, my lord marquis."

"Let me know when she rings."

"I will, my lord."

"Heaven and earth, man, how slow you are!" exclaimed M. d'Harville,
whose raging thoughts almost chafed him into madness; "summon Philip to
assist you; you will keep me all day."

"My lord, please to allow me to set matters a little straight first,"
replied Joseph, sorrowfully; "I would much rather no one but myself
witnessed the state of your chamber, or they would wonder, and talk
about it, because they could not understand what had taken place during
the night, my lord."

"And if they were to find out, it would be a most shocking
affair,--would it not?" asked M. d'Harville, in a tone of gloomy irony.

"Thank God, my lord, not a soul in the house has the least suspicion of
it!"

"No one suspects it," repeated M. d'Harville, despondingly; "no
one,--that's well, for her at least; well, let us hope to keep the
secret."

And, while Joseph was occupying himself in repairing the havoc in his
master's apartment, D'Harville walked up to the stage of arms we before
mentioned, examined them with an expression of deep interest, then,
turning towards Joseph, with a sinister smile, said:

"I hope you have not omitted to clean the guns which are placed at the
top of the stand,--I mean those in my hunting-case."

"I had not your lordship's orders to do so," replied the astonished
servant.

"You had, sir, and have neglected them!"

"I humbly assure you, my lord--"

"They must be in a fine state!"

"Your lordship will please to bear in mind that it is scarcely a month
since they were regularly repaired and put in order for use by the
gunsmith."

"Never mind! As soon as I am dressed reach down my shooting-case; I will
examine the guns myself. I may very possibly go out shooting either
to-morrow or next day."

"I will reach them down directly, my lord."

The chamber being by this time replaced in its ordinary state, a second
_valet de chambre_ was summoned to assist Joseph.

His toilet concluded, M. d'Harville repaired to his study, where the
steward (M. Doublet) and his lawyer's clerk were awaiting him.

"We have brought the agreement that my lord marquis may hear it read
over," said the bowing clerk; "my lord will then only have to sign it,
and the affair is concluded."

"Have you perused it, M. Doublet?"

"I have, my lord, attentively."

"In that case I will affix my signature at once."

The necessary forms completed, the clerk withdrew, when M. Doublet,
rubbing his hands, and looking triumphantly, exclaimed:

"Now, then, by this last addition to your lordship's estates, your
manorial property cannot be less than a hundred and twenty-six thousand
francs per annum, in round numbers. And permit me to say, my lord
marquis, that a rent-roll of a hundred and twenty-six thousand francs
per annum is of no common occurrence nowadays."

"I am a happy man, am I not, M. Doublet? A hundred and twenty-six
thousand livres per annum! Surely the man owning such an income must be
blessed indeed,--sorrow or care cannot reach him through so golden a
shield!"

"And that is wholly independent of my lord's funded property, amounting
at least to two millions more; or reckoning--"

"Exactly; I know what you would say; without reckoning my other
blessings and comforts."

"Why, heaven be praised, your lordship is as rich in all earthly
blessings as in revenue. Not a precious gift but it has been largely
bestowed upon you; ay, and such as even money will not buy: youth,
uninterrupted health, the power of enjoying every happiness, amongst
which, or, rather, at the head of which," said M. Doublet, gracefully
smiling, and gallantly bowing, "place that of being the husband of so
sweet a lady as Madame la Marquise, and the parent of a lovely little
girl, who might be mistaken for a cherubim."

M. d'Harville cast a look of gloomy mistrust on the poor steward; who,
revelling in his own ecstasy at seeing the princely rent-roll committed
to his charge, exceeding all others in magnificent amount, was far from
perceiving the scowling brow of his master, thus congratulated on being
the happiest man alive, when, to his own view, a verier wretch, or more
complete bankrupt in happiness existed not. Striking M. Doublet
familiarly on the shoulder, and breaking into a wild, ironical laugh, M.
d'Harville rejoined:

"Then you think that with an income of two hundred and sixty thousand
livres, a wife like mine, and a daughter resembling a cherubim, a man
has nothing more to wish for?"

"Nay, my lord," replied the steward, with honest zeal, "you have still
to wish for the blessing of lengthened days, that you may be spared to
see mademoiselle married as happily as yourself. Ah, my lord, I may not
hope to see it, but I should be thankful to witness you and my honoured
lady surrounded by your grandchildren,--ay, and great-grandchildren
too,--why not?"

"Excellent, M. Doublet! A regular Baucis and Philemon idea. You have
always a capital illustration to your ideas."

"You are too good to me, my lord. Has your lordship any further orders
for me?"

"None. Stay, though; what cash have you in hand?"

"Twenty-nine thousand three hundred and odd francs for current expenses,
my lord marquis; but there is a heavy sum at the bank belonging to this
quarter's income."

"Well, bring me twenty thousand francs in gold, and, should I have gone
out, give them to Joseph for me."

"Does your lordship wish for them this morning?"

"I do."

"Within an hour the gold shall be here. You have nothing else to say to
me, my lord?"

"No, M. Doublet."

"A hundred and twenty-six thousand francs per annum, wholly
unincumbered," repeated the steward, as he was about to quit the room;
"this is a glorious day for me to see; I almost feared at one time that
we should not secure this desirable property. Your lordship's most
humble servant, I take my leave."

"Good morning, M. Doublet."

As the door closed upon the steward, M. d'Harville, overcome with the
mental agony he had repressed thus far, threw himself into an armchair,
leaned his elbows on the desk before which he sat, and covering his face
with his hands, for the first time since receiving the fatal _billet_,
gave vent to a flood of hot, burning tears.

"Cruel mockery of fate!" cried he, at length, "to have made me rich, but
to have given me only shame and dishonour to place within the gilded
frame: the perjury of Clémence, the disgrace which will descend upon my
innocent child. Can I suffer this? Or shall I for the sake of her
unoffending offspring spare the guilty mother from the opprobrium of an
exposure?" Then rising suddenly from his seat, with sparkling eyes and
clenched teeth he cried, in a deep, determined voice, "No, no! Blood,
blood! The fearful protection from laughter and derision. Ah, full well
I can now comprehend her coldness, her antipathy, wretched, wretched
woman!" Then, stopping all at once, as though melted by some tender
recollection, he resumed, in a hoarse tone, "Aversion! Alas! too well I
know its cause. I inspire her with loathing, with disgust!" Then, after
a lengthened silence, he cried, in a voice broken by sighs, "Yet, was it
my fault or my misfortune? Should she have wronged me thus for a
calamity beyond my power to avert? Surely I am a more fitting object for
her pity than scorn and hatred." Again rekindling into his excited
feelings, he reiterated, "Nothing but blood--the blood of both--can wash
out this guilty stain! Doubtless he, the favoured lover, has been
informed why she flies her husband's arms."

This latter thought redoubled the fury of the marquis. He elevated his
tightly compressed hands towards heaven, as though invoking its
vengeance; then, passing his burning fingers over his eyes as he
recollected the necessity that existed for concealing his emotion from
the servants of his establishment, he returned to his sleeping-apartment
with an appearance of perfect tranquillity. There he found Joseph.

"Well, in what state are the guns?"

"In perfect order. Please to examine them, my lord."

"I came for the purpose of so doing. Has your lady yet rung?"

"I do not know, my lord."

"Then inquire."

Directly the servant had quitted the room, M. d'Harville hastily took
from the gun-case a small powder-flask, some balls and caps; then,
locking the case, put the key in his pocket. Then going to the stand of
arms, he took from it a pair of moderate-sized Manton's pistols, loaded
them, and placed them without difficulty in the pockets of his morning
wrapper. Joseph returned with the intimation that Madame d'Harville was
in her dressing-room.

"Has your lady ordered her carriage?"

"My lord, I heard Mlle. Juliette say to the head-coachman, when he came
to inquire her ladyship's orders for the day, that, 'as it was cold, dry
walking, if her ladyship went out at all, she would prefer going on
foot.'"

"Very well. Stay,--I forgot. I shall not go out hunting before
to-morrow, or probably, next day. Desire Williams to look the small
travelling-britcska carefully over. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, my lord; it shall be attended to. Will not your lordship
require a stick?"

"No. Pray tell me, is there not a hackney coach-stand near here?"

"Quite close, my lord,--in the Rue de Lille."

After a moment's hesitation, the marquis continued: "Go and inquire of
Mlle. Juliette whether Madame d'Harville can see me for a few minutes."
Joseph obeyed.

"Yes," murmured the marquis, "I will see the cause of all my misery,--my
disgrace. I will contemplate the guilty mask beneath which the impure
heart conceals its adulterous designs. I will listen to the false lips
that speak the words of innocence, while deep dishonour lurks in the
candid smile,--a smile that seemed to me as that of an angel. Yet 'tis
an appalling spectacle to watch the words, the looks, of one who,
breathing only the sentiments of a chaste wife and mother, is about to
sully your name with one of those deep, deadly stains which can only be
washed out in blood. Fool that I am to give her the chance of again
bewildering my senses! She will look at me with her accustomed sweetness
and candour; greet me (all guilty as she is) with the same pure smile
she bestows upon her child, as, kneeling at her lap, it lisps its early
prayer. That look,--those eyes, mirrors of the soul,--the more modest
and pure the glance" (D'Harville shuddered with contempt) "the greater
must be the innate corruption and falsehood! Alas! she has proved
herself a consummate dissembler; and I--I--have been the veriest dupe!
Only let me consider with what sentiments must that woman look upon me,
if just previous to her meeting with her favoured lover I pay her my
accustomed visit, and express my usual devotion and love for her,--the
young, the virtuous wife, the tender, sensible, and devoted mother, as
until this wretched moment I would have died to prove her. Can I, dare
I, trust myself in her presence, with the knowledge of her being but too
impatient for the arrival of that blessed hour which conveys her to her
guilty rendezvous and infamous paramour? Oh, Clémence, Clémence, you in
whom all my hopes and fondest affections were placed, is this a just
return? No! no! no!" again repeated M. d'Harville, with rapidly
returning excitement. "False, treacherous woman! I will not see you! I
will not trust my ears to your feigned words! Nor you, my child. At the
sight of your innocent countenance I should unman myself, and compromise
my just revenge."

Quitting his apartment, M. d'Harville, instead of repairing to those of
the marquise, contented himself with leaving a message for her through
Mlle. Juliette, to the effect that he wished a short conversation with
Madame d'Harville, but that being obliged to go out just then, he should
be glad, if it assorted with Madame la Marquise's perfect convenience,
to breakfast with her at twelve o'clock.

"And so," said the unhappy M. d'Harville, "fancying that after twelve
o'clock I shall be safe at home, she will consider herself more at
liberty to follow out her own plans."

He then repaired to the coach-stand contiguous to his mansion, and
summoned a vehicle from the ranks.

"Now, coachee," said he, affecting to disguise his rank, "what's
o'clock?"

"All right, master," said the man, drawing up to the side of the
footway, "where am I to drive to? Let's have a right understanding, and
a look at the clock. Why, it's as close on half-after eleven as may be."

"Now, then, drive to the corner of the Rue St. Dominique, and wait at
the end of the garden wall which runs along there; do you understand?"

"Yes, yes,--I know."

M. d'Harville then drew down the blinds of the _fiacre_; the coachman
drove on, and soon arrived opposite the Hôtel d'Harville, from which
point of observation it was impossible for any person to enter or quit
the house without the marquis having a full view of them. One o'clock
was the hour fixed in the note; and with his eyes riveted on the
entrance-gates of the mansion, the marquis waited in painful suspense,
absorbed in a whirl of fearful thoughts and maddening conjectures. Time
stole on imperceptibly; twelve o'clock reverberated from the dome of St.
Thomas Aquinas, when the door opened slowly at the Hôtel d'Harville, and
Madame d'Harville herself came timidly forth.

"Already?" exclaimed the unhappy husband; "how punctual she is! She
fears to keep him waiting," cried the marquis, with a mixture of irony
and savage rage.

The cold was excessive; the pavement hard and dry. Clémence was dressed
in a black velvet bonnet, covered with a veil of the same colour, and a
thickly wadded pelisse of dark ruby satin, a large shawl of dark blue
cashmere fell to the very hem of her pelisse, which she lightly and
gracefully held up while crossing the street. Thanks to this movement,
the taper foot and graceful ankle of Madame d'Harville, cased in an
exquisitely fitting boot of black satin, were exposed to view.

It was strange, that amid the painful and bewildering ideas that crowded
the brain of D'Harville, he should have found one thought to waste upon
the beauty of his wife's foot; but so it was; and at the moment that was
about to separate them for ever, to his eager gaze that fairy foot and
well-turned ankle had never looked so charming; and then, as by a rapid
train of thought he recalled the matchless loveliness of his wife, and,
as he had ever believed till now, her purity, her mental graces, he
groaned aloud as he remembered that another was preferred to him, and
that the light figure that glided on before his fixed gaze, was but the
hollow spectre of fallen goodness, a lost, degraded creature, hastening
to steep her husband and infant in irremediable disgrace, for the
indulging of a base and guilty passion. Even in that wretched moment he
felt how dearly, how exclusively he had loved her; and for the first
time during the blow which had fallen on him, he knew that he mourned
the lovely woman almost equally with the virtuous mother and chaste
wife. A cry of rage and mingled fury escaped him, as he pictured the
rapture of her meeting with the lover of her choice; and a sharp,
darting pain quivered through his heart as he remembered that Clémence,
with all her youth and beauty, her countless charms, both of body and
mind, was lost to him for ever.

Hitherto his passionate grief had been unmixed by any alloy of self. He
had bewailed the sanctity of the marriage-vow trampled under foot, the
abandonment of all sworn and sacred duties; but his sufferings of rage,
jealousy, and regret almost overpowered him, and with much difficulty
was he able to command his voice sufficiently to say to the coachman,
while partially drawing up the blind:

"Do you see that lady in the blue shawl and black bonnet walking along
by the wall?"

"Yes, yes! I see her safe enough."

"Well, then, go slowly along, and keep up with her. Should she go to the
coach-stand I had you from, pull up; and when she has got into a
_fiacre_, follow it wherever it goes."

"All right,--I understand! Now this is what I call a good joke!"

M. d'Harville had conjectured rightly. Madame d'Harville repaired
directly to the coach-stand, and beckoning a _fiacre_ off the stand,
instantly got in, and drove off, closely followed by the vehicle
containing her husband.

They had proceeded but a very short distance, when the coachman took the
road to the church of St. Thomas Aquinas, and, to the surprise of M.
d'Harville, pulled up directly in front.

"What is this for? What are you about?"

"Why, master, the lady you told me to follow has just alighted here, and
a smart, tidy leg and foot of her own she has got. Her dress somehow
caught; so, you see, I couldn't help having a peep, nohow. This is
downright good fun though, this is!"

A thousand varied thoughts agitated M. d'Harville. One minute he fancied
that his wife, fearing pursuit, had taken this step to escape detection;
then hope whispered that the letter which had given him so much
uneasiness, might after all be only an infamous calumny; for if guilty,
what could be gained by this false assumption of piety? Would it not be
a species of sacrilegious mockery? At this suggestion a bright ray of
hope shot across the troubled mind of M. d'Harville, arising from the
striking contrast between Clémence's present occupation and the crime
alleged as her motive for quitting her home. Alas! this consolatory
illusion was speedily destroyed. Leaning in at the open window the
coachman observed:

"I say, master, that nice little woman you are after has got back into
her coach."

"Then follow quickly."

"I'm off! Now this is what I call downright good fun. Capital; hang me
if it ain't!"

The vehicle reached the Quais, the Hôtel de Ville, the Rue St. Avoye,
and, at last, Rue du Temple.

"I say," said the coachman, turning round to speak to M. d'Harville from
his seat, "master, just look. My mate, there, has stopped at No. 17; we
are about at 13. Shall I stop here or go on to 17?"

"Stop here."

"I say,--look'ee,--you'll lose your pretty lady. She has gone into the
alley leading to No. 17."

"Open the door."

"I'm coming, sir."

And quickly following the steps of his wife, M. d'Harville entered the
obscure passage up which she had disappeared. Madame d'Harville,
however, had so far the start as to have entered the house previously.

Attracted by the most devouring curiosity, Madame Pipelet, with her
melancholy Alfred and her friend the oyster-woman, were huddled close
together on the sill at the lodge door. The staircase was so dark that a
person just emerging from the daylight into the gloom of the passage
could not discern a single step of it; and Madame d'Harville, agitated
and almost sinking with apprehension, found herself constrained to apply
to Madame Pipelet for further advice how to proceed, saying, in a low,
tremulous voice:

"Which way must I turn, madame, to find the staircase of the house?"

"Stop, if you please. Pray, whom do you want?"

"I wish to go to the apartments of M. Charles, madame."

"Monsieur who?" repeated the old woman, feigning not to have heard her,
but in reality to afford sufficient leisure to her husband and her
friend thoroughly to scrutinise the unhappy woman's countenance, even
through the folds of her thick veil.

"M. Charles, madame," repeated Clémence, in a low, trembling tone, and
bending down her head, so as to escape the rude and insolent examination
to which her features were subjected.

"Ah! M. Charles; very well; you should have spoken so that one could
hear you. Well, my pretty dear, if you want M. Charles,--and a
good-looking fellow he is as ever won a woman's heart,--go straight on,
and the door will stare you in the face. Eh! eh! eh!" laughed out the
old woman, shaking her fat sides with spiteful glee, "it seems he has
not waited for nothing this time. Success to love and love-makings, and
a merry end to it!"

The marquise, ready to sink with confusion, began slowly to grope her
way up the dingy staircase.

"I say," bawled out the old shell-fish woman, "our commandant knows what
he is about, don't he? Leave him alone to choose a pretty girl. His marm
is a regular swell, ain't she?"

Had it not been requisite for her to run the gauntlet of the trio who
occupied the entrance-door, Madame d'Harville, ready to sink with shame
and terror, would gladly have retraced her steps. She made another
effort, and at last reached the landing-place, where, to her unutterable
consternation and surprise, she saw Rodolph waiting, impatiently, her
arrival. Instantly flying to meet her, he hastily placed a purse in her
hand, saying, in a hurried manner:

"Your husband knows all, and is now following your very steps."

At this instant, the sharp tones of Madame Pipelet were heard crying
out, "Where are you going to, sir?"

"'Tis he!" exclaimed Rodolph, and then, almost forcing Madame d'Harville
up the second staircase, he added, in a rapid manner, "make all haste to
the very top of the house; on the fifth floor you will find a wretched
family, named Morel. Remember your sole business in coming hither was to
relieve their distress."

"I tell you, sir," screamed Madame Pipelet, "that unless you tell me
your name, you shall trample over me, as they walked over our brave men
at Waterloo, before I let you pass."

Having, from the entrance to the alley, observed Madame d'Harville stop
to speak to the porteress, the marquis had likewise prepared himself to
pass through some sort of questioning.

"I belong to the lady who just now entered," said the marquis.

"Bless me!" exclaimed Madame Pipelet, looking the picture of wonderment,
"why, that, of course, is a satisfactory answer. You can pass on, if you
please."

Hearing an unusual stir, M. Charles Robert had set the door of his
apartments ajar, and Rodolph, unwilling to be recognised by M.
d'Harville, whose quick, searching eye might have detected him, spite of
the murkiness of the staircase, hearing him rapidly ascending the
stairs, just as he reached the landing-place, dashed into the chamber of
the astonished commandant, locking the door after him. M. Charles
Robert, magnificently attired in his _robe de chambre_ of scarlet damask
with orange-coloured stripes, and Greek cap of embroidered velvet, was
struck with astonishment at the unexpected appearance of Rodolph, whom
he had not seen the preceding evening at the embassy, and who was upon
the present occasion very plainly dressed.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" asked he at length, assuming a
tone of killing haughtiness.

"Be silent!" replied Rodolph; and there was that in his voice and manner
that Charles Robert obeyed, even in spite of his own determination to
strike terror into the bold invader of his private moments.

A violent and continued noise, as of some heavy substance falling from
one stair to the other, resounded through the dull silence of the gloomy
staircase.

"Unhappy man! He has murdered her!" exclaimed Rodolph.

"Murdered!" ejaculated M. Charles Robert, turning very pale; "for the
love of Heaven, what is all this about?"

But, without heeding his inquiry, Rodolph partially opened the door, and
discovered little Tortillard half rolling, half limping, down the
stairs, holding in his hand the red silk purse Rodolph had just given to
Madame d'Harville. Tortillard, with another scrambling shuffle,
disappeared at the bottom of the last flight of stairs. The light step
of Madame d'Harville, and the heavier tread of her husband, as he
continued his pursuit of her from one story to another, could be
distinctly heard. Somewhat relieved of his worst fears, yet unable to
make out by what chance the purse so recently committed to Madame
d'Harville's hands should have been transferred to those of Tortillard,
Rodolph said, authoritatively, to M. Robert:

"Do not think of quitting your apartments for the next hour, I request!"

"Upon my life and soul, that is a pretty thing to say to a gentleman in
his own house," replied M. Robert in an impatient and wrathful tone. "I
ask you, again, what is the meaning of all this? Who the devil are you,
sir? And how dare you dictate to me, a gentleman?"

"M. d'Harville is informed of everything,--has followed his wife to your
very door,--and is now pursuing her to the upper part of the house."

"God bless me! Here's a situation!" exclaimed Charles Robert, with an
appearance of utter consternation. "But what is to be done? What is the
use of her going up-stairs? And how will she manage to get down again
unobserved?"

"Remain where you are, neither speak nor move until the porteress comes
to you," rejoined Rodolph, who hastened to give his final instructions
to Madame Pipelet, leaving the commandant a prey to the most alarming
apprehensions.

"Well! well!" cried Madame Pipelet, her face radiant with chuckling
exultation; "there's rare sport going on! The lady who came to visit my
fine gentleman on the first floor has been followed by another
gentleman, who seems rather in a passion,--the husband of that silly
young creature, I make no doubt. Directly the truth flashed across me, I
tells him to go straight up; for, thinks I, he'll be sure to murder our
commandant. That'll make a deal of talk in the neighbourhood; and folks
will come crowding to see the house, just as they did at No. 36 after
the man was killed there. Lord! I wonder the fighting has not begun
yet. I have been listening to hear them set to; but I can't catch the
least sound."

"My dear Madame Pipelet, will you do me a great favour?" said Rodolph,
putting five louis into her hand. "When this lady comes down-stairs, ask
her how she found the poor Morels. Tell her she has performed an act of
real charity in coming to see them, according to her promise, the last
time she called to inquire respecting them."

Madame Pipelet looked first at the money and then at Rodolph, with an
air of petrified astonishment.

"What am I to do with this money?" inquired she, at length; "do you give
it to me? Ah, I see! This handsome lady, then, does not come altogether
for the commandant?"

"The gentleman who followed her was her husband, as you justly supposed;
but, being warned in time, the poor lady went straight on to the Morels,
as though her only business here was to afford them succour. Now do you
understand!"

"I should think I did,--clear as noonday. 'A nod is as good as a wink,'
as the old woman said. I know! You want me to help you cheat the
husband? Lord bless you! I'm up to all those things,--quick as
lightning, silent as the grave! Go along with you! I'm a regular good
hand at keeping husbands in the dark; you might fancy I'd been used to
it all my life. But tell me--"

The huge hat of M. Pipelet was here observed sending its dark shadow
across the floor of the lodge.

"Anastasie," said Alfred, gravely, "you are like M. César Bradamanti;
you have no respect for anything or anybody. And let me tell you that
there are subjects that should never be made the subject of a jest, even
amongst the most familiar acquaintances."

"Nonsense, my old darling. Don't stand there rolling up your eyes, and
looking about as wise as a pig in a pound. You know well enough I was
only joking; you know well enough that no living soul beneath the canopy
of heaven can ever say I gave him a liberty. But that'll do; so let's
talk of this good gentleman's business. Suppose I do go out of my usual
way to save this young lady, I'm sure I do it solely to oblige our new
lodger, who, for his generosity, may well deserve to be called the king
of lodgers." Then, turning towards Rodolph, she added, "You shall see
how cleverly I will go to work. Just hide yourself there in that corner
behind the curtain. Quick,--quick! I hear them coming."

Rodolph had scarcely time to conceal himself ere M. and Madame
d'Harville descended the stairs. The features of the marquis shone with
happiness, mingled with a confused and astonished expression, while the
countenance of his wife, as she hung on his arm, looked calm but pale.

"Well, my good lady," cried Madame Pipelet, going out of her lodge to
address her, as she descended the last stair, "how did you find the poor
creatures,--I mean the Morels? Ah, I doubt not, such a sight made your
heart ache? God knows your charity was well bestowed! I told you the
other day, when you called to inquire about them, what a state of
starvation and misery they were in. Be assured, kind lady, these poor
things are fit objects of your bounty; you will never have to regret
coming to this out-of-the-way place to examine into their case. They
really are deserving all your kindness,--don't you think so, Alfred?"

Alfred, the strictness of whose ideas touching a due regard for all
conjugal duties made him revolt at the thoughts of helping to deceive a
husband, replied only by a sort of grumbling sound, as vague as
discordant.

"Please to excuse my husband, madame," resumed Madame Pipelet; "he has
got the cramp in his stomach, and cannot speak loud enough to be
understood, or he would tell you as well as myself that the poor people
you have so fortunately relieved will pray of the Almighty, night and
day, to bless and reward you, my worthy lady."

M. d'Harville gazed on his wife with feelings approaching to adoration,
as he exclaimed, "Angel of goodness, how has base slander dared to
disturb your heavenly work!"

"An angel!" repeated Madame Pipelet; "that she is, and one of the very
best heaven could send. There is not a better."

"Let us return home, I entreat!" said Madame d'Harville, who was
suffering acutely under the restraint she had put upon herself since
entering the house, and, now that the necessity for exertion was over,
found her strength rapidly forsaking her.

"Instantly," replied the marquis.

At the instant of their emerging into the open air from the obscurity of
the alley, M. d'Harville, observing the pale looks of his wife, said,
tenderly:

"Ah, Clémence, I have deep cause to solicit your pity and forgiveness."

"Alas! my lord," said the marquise, sighing deeply, "which of us has not
need of pardon?"

Rodolph quitted his hiding-place, deeply ruminating upon so terrible a
scene, thus intermingled with absurdity and coarseness, and pondering
over the curious termination to a drama, the commencement of which had
called forth such different passions.

"Well, now," exclaimed Madame Pipelet, "you must say I played my part
well. Didn't I send that donkey of a husband home with longer ears than
he came out with? Lord bless you! he'll put his wife under a glass case,
and worship her from this day forward. Poor, dear gentleman! I really
could not help feeling sorry for him. Oh! but about your furniture, M.
Rodolph; it has not come yet."

"I am now going to see about it. By the by, you had better go and inform
the commandant that he may venture out."

"True; I'll go and let the caged bird out. But what stuff and nonsense
for him to hire apartments of no more use to him than they are to the
King of Prussia! He is a fine fellow, he is, with his paltry twelve
francs a month. This is the fourth time he has been made a fool of."

Rodolph quitted the house, and Madame Pipelet, turning to her husband,
said, with a chuckling laugh, "Now, Alfred, the commandant's turn has
come; now for it! I mean to have a jolly good laugh at my gentleman,--up
and dressed for nothing."

Arrived at the apartments of M. Charles Robert, the porteress rang the
bell; the door was opened by the commandant himself.

"Commandant," said Anastasie, giving him a military salute, by placing
the back of her little fat hand against the front of her wig, "I have
come to set you free. Your friends have gone away arm in arm, happy as
doves, under your very nose. Well, you are out of a nice mess, thanks to
M. Rodolph. You ought to stand something very handsome to him for all he
has done upon the present occasion."

"Then this slim individual with the moustachios is called M. Rodolph, is
he?"

"Exactly so; neither more nor less."

"And who and what is the fellow?"

"Fellow, indeed!" cried Madame Pipelet, in a wrathful voice; "he is as
good as other men,--better than some I could mention. Why, he is a
travelling clerk, but the very king of lodgers; for, though he has only
one room, he does not haggle and beat folks down,--not he. Why, he gave
me six francs for doing for him,--six francs, mind, I say, without a
word. Think of that!--without ever offering me a sou less. Oh, he is a
lodger! I wish other people were at all like him!"

"There, there, that's enough; take the key."

"Shall I light the fire to-morrow, commandant?"

"No!"

"Next day?"

"No, no! Don't bother me."

"I say, commandant, if you recollect, I warned you that you would have
your trouble for your pains."

M. Charles Robert threw a glance at his grinning tormentor that spoke of
annihilation at least, and, dashing furiously by her, quitted the house,
wondering much how a mere clerk should have become acquainted with his
assignation with the Marquise d'Harville.

As the commandant left the alley, Tortillard came hobbling along.

"Well, what do you want?" said Madame Pipelet.

"Has the Borgnesse been to call upon me?" asked the young scamp, without
attending to the porteress's question.

"The Chouette? No, you ugly monster! What should she come for?"

"Why, to take me with her into the country, to be sure," said
Tortillard, swinging on the lodge gate.

"And what does your master say to it?"

"Oh, father managed all that. He sent this morning to M. Bradamanti, to
ask him to give me leave to go in the country,--the country,--the
country," sang or rather screamed the amiable scion of M. Bras Rouge,
beating time most melodiously on the window-panes.

"Will you leave off, you young rascal, or are you going to break my
window? Oh, here comes a coach!"

"Oh! oh! oh!" shrieked the urchin; "it is my dear Chouette! Oh, how nice
the ride in a coach!"

And, looking through the window, they saw reflected upon the red blind
of the opposite glass the hideous profile of the Borgnesse. She beckoned
to Tortillard, who ran out to her. The coachman descended from his box,
and opened the door; Tortillard sprang into the vehicle, which instantly
drove off.

Another person beside the Chouette was in the carriage. In the farther
corner, and wrapped in an old cloak with a furred collar, his features
shrouded by a black silk cap pulled down over his brows, sat the
Schoolmaster. His inflamed lids formed a horrible contrast with the
white globeless space beneath; and this fearful spectacle was rendered
still more hideous by the action of the severe cold upon his seamed and
frightful countenance.

"Now, small boy, squat yourself down on the pins of my man; you'll serve
to keep him warm," said the Borgnesse to Tortillard, who crouched like a
dog close to the feet of the Schoolmaster and the Chouette.

"Now, then, my coves," said the driver, "on we go to the 'ken' at
Bouqueval, don't we, La Chouette? You shall see whether I can 'tool a
drag' or not."

"And keep your pads on the move, my fine fellow; for we must get hold of
the girl to-night."

"All right, my blind un; we'll go the pace."

"Shall I give you a hint?" said the Schoolmaster.

"What about?"

"Why, cut it fine as you pass by the 'nabs' at the barrier; the meeting
might lead to disagreeable recollections. It is not every old
acquaintance it is worth while to renew our friendship with. You have
been wanted at the barriers for some time."

"I'll keep my weather-eye open," replied the driver, getting on his box.

It needs scarcely be told, after this specimen of slang, that the
coachman was a robber, one of the Schoolmaster's worthy associates. The
vehicle then quitted the Rue du Temple.

Two hours afterwards, towards the closing of a winter's day, the vehicle
containing the Chouette, the Schoolmaster, and Tortillard, stopped
before a wooden cross, marking out the sunken and lonely road which
conducted to the farm at Bouqueval, where the Goualeuse remained under
the kind protection of Madame Georges.



CHAPTER III.

AN IDYL.


The hour of five had just struck from the church clock of the little
village of Bouqueval; the cold was intense, the sky clear, the sun,
sinking slowly behind the vast leafless woods which crowned the heights
of Ecouen, cast a purple hue over the horizon, and sent its faint,
sloping rays across the extensive plains, white and hard with winter's
frost.

In the country each season has its own distinctive features, its own
peculiar charm; at times the dazzling snow changes the whole scene into
immense landscapes of purest alabaster, exhibiting their spotless
beauties to the reddish gray of the sky. Then may be seen in the glimmer
of twilight, either ascending or descending the hill, a benighted farmer
returning to his habitation; his horse, cloak, and hat, are covered with
the falling snow. Bitter is the cold, biting the north wind, dark and
gloomy the approaching night; but what cares he? There, amid those
leafless trees, he sees the bright taper burning in the window of his
cheerful home; while from the tall chimney a column of dark smoke rolls
upwards through the flaky shower that descends, and speaks to the
toil-worn farmer of a blazing hearth and humble meal prepared by kind
affection to welcome him after the fatigues of his journey. Then the
rustic gossip by the fireside, on which the fagot burns and crackles,
and a peaceful, comfortable night's rest, amid the whistling of the
winds, and the barking of the various dogs at the different farms
scattered around, with the answering cry from the distant watch-dog.

Daylight opens upon a scene of fairy-land. Surely the tiny elves have
been celebrating some grand fête, and have left some of their adornments
behind them, for on each branch hang long spiracles of crystal,
glittering in the rays of a winter's sun with all the prismatic
brilliancy of the diamond. The damp, rich soil of the arable land is
laid down in furrows, where hides the timid hare in her form, or the
speckled partridge runs merrily. Here and there is heard the melancholy
tinkling of the sheep-bell hanging from the neck of some important
leader of the numerous flocks scattered over the verdant heights and
turfy valleys of the neighbourhood; while, carefully wrapped in his dark
gray cloak, the shepherd, seated under shelter of those knotted trunks
and interlaced branches, chants his cheerful lay, while his fingers are
busily employed weaving a basket of rushes.

Occasionally a more animated scene presents itself; distant echo gives
out the faint sound of the hunting-horn, and the cry of hounds; suddenly
a frightened deer bursts from the neighbouring forest, stands for a few
seconds in terrified alarm upon the frozen plain, then darts onward, and
is quickly lost amid the thickets on the opposite side. The trampling of
horses, the barking of dogs, are rapidly brought nearer by the breeze;
and now, in their turn, a pack of dogs with brown and tawny-spotted
skins issue from the brushwood from which the frightened deer but just
now came; they run eagerly over the sterile ground, the fallow fields,
with noses closely pointed to the ground they pursue with loud cries the
traces left by the flying deer. At their heels come the hunters in their
scarlet coats, bending over the necks of their swift steeds; they
encourage their dogs by their voices mingled with the notes of the horn.
Swift as lightning the brilliant cortège passes on; the noise
decreases; by degrees all is still; dogs, horses, and huntsmen are lost
in the tangled mazes of the forest, where the frightened stag had sought
and found a hiding-place. Then peace and calm resumed their reign; and
the profound stillness of these vast plains was interrupted only by the
monotonous song of the shepherd.

These sights,--these rustic views abounded in the environs of the
village of Bouqueval, which, spite of its proximity to Paris, was
situated in a sort of desert, to which there was no approach except by
cross-roads. Concealed during the summer among the trees, like a nest
amid the sheltering foliage, the farm which had become the home of the
poor Goualeuse was now utterly bereft of its leafy screen, and entirely
exposed to view. The course of the little river, now quite frozen over,
resembled a long silver riband stretched along the ever verdant meadows,
through which a number of fine cows were leisurely wending their way to
their stable. Brought home by the approach of night, flocks of pigeons
were successively arriving, and perching on the peaked roof of the
dove-house; while the immense walnut-tree, that during the summer
afforded an umbrageous screen both to the farmhouse and its numerous
out-buildings, stripped of its rich foliage, exhibited only bare
branches, through which could plainly be discerned the tiled roof of the
one, and the thatched tops of the others, overgrown with patches of moss
of mingled green and dingy brown.

A heavy cart, drawn by three strong, sturdy horses, with long, thick
manes and shining coats, with blue collars ornamented with bells and
tassels of red worsted, was bringing in a load of wheat from a
neighbouring rick. This ponderous machine entered the courtyard by the
large gate, while immense flocks of sheep were pressing eagerly round
the side entrances; both men and beasts appeared impatient to escape
from the severity of the cold, and to enjoy the comfort of repose. The
horses neighed joyously at the sight of their stable, the sheep bleated
their satisfaction at returning to their warm folds, while the hungry
labourers cast a longing look towards the kitchen windows, from which
streamed forth pleasant promise of a warm and savoury meal.

The whole of the exterior arrangements of the farm were indicative of
the most scrupulous order, neatness, and exactitude. Instead of being
covered with dirt and dust, scattered about, and exposed to the
inclemency of the season, the carts, rollers, harrows, etc., with every
agricultural implement (and some were of the last and best invention),
were placed, well cleaned and painted, under a vast shed, where the
carters were accustomed to arrange their cart-harness with the most
symmetrical attention to order and method. Large, clean, and well laid
out, the court-yard had none of those huge dung-heaps, those stagnant
pools of filthy water, which deface the finest establishments of La
Beauce or La Brie.

The poultry-yard, surrounded by a green trellising, received and shut in
all the feathered tribe, who after wandering in the fields all day,
returned home by a small door left open till all were collected, when it
was carefully closed and secured. Without dwelling too minutely upon
every detail, we shall merely observe, that in all respects this farm
passed most justly in the environs for a model farm, as much for the
excellency of the method by which it was conducted, and the abundant
crops it produced, as for the respectability and correct mode of life
which distinguished the various labourers employed there, who were soon
ranked among the most creditable and efficient workmen of the place.

The cause of all this prosperity shall be spoken of hereafter. Meanwhile
we will conduct the reader to the trellised gate of the poultry-yard,
which, for the rustic elegance of its perches and poultry-houses, was
noways inferior to the farm itself; while through the centre flowed a
small stream of clear, limpid water, the bed of which was laid down
with smooth pebbles, carefully cleansed from any obstructing substance.

A sudden stir arose among the winged inhabitants of this charming spot;
the fowls flew fluttering and cackling from their perches, the turkeys
gabbled, the guinea-fowls screamed, and the pigeons, forsaking their
elevated position on the summit of the dove-house, descended to the
sandy surface of the yard, and stood cooing and caressing each other
with every manifestation of joy. The arrival of Fleur-de-Marie had
occasioned all these ecstatic delights.

A more charming model than the Goualeuse could not have been desired by
Greuze or Watteau, had her cheeks possessed a little more _rondeur_ or
been visited by a brighter tinge; but, spite of their delicate paleness,
the expression of her features, the _tout ensemble_ of her figure, and
the gracefulness of her attitude would have rendered her worthy of
exercising the crayons of even the celebrated artists we have alluded
to.

The small round cap of Fleur-de-Marie displayed her fair forehead and
light, braided hair, in common with all the young girls in the environs
of Paris; above this cap, but still exposing the crown and ears, she
wore a large red cotton handkerchief, folded smoothly, and pinned behind
her head; while the long ends waving gracefully over her shoulders
formed a costume which, for graceful effect, might be envied by the
tasteful _coiffeurs_ of Italy or Switzerland. A handkerchief of
snow-white linen, crossed over her bosom, was half concealed by the high
and spreading front of her coarse cloth apron. A jacket of blue woollen
cloth with tight sleeves displayed her slender figure, and descended
half way down her thick skirt of dark-striped fustian; white cotton
stockings and tied shoes, partly covered by sabots, furnished with a
leather strap for the instep, completed this costume of rustic
simplicity, to which the natural grace of Fleur-de-Marie lent an
inexpressible charm.

Holding in one hand the two corners of her apron, with the other she
distributed handfuls of grain among the winged crowd by which she was
surrounded. One beautiful pigeon of a silvery whiteness, with beak and
feet of a rich purple colour, more presuming or more indulged than the
rest, after having flown several times around Fleur-de-Marie, at length
alighted on her shoulder; the young girl, as though well used to these
familiarities, continued, wholly undisturbed, to throw out continued
supplies of grain; but, half turning her head till its perfect outline
alone was visible, she gently raised her head, and smilingly offered her
small rosy lips to meet those of her fond, caressing friend. The last
rays of the setting sun shed a pale golden light over this innocent
picture.

While the Goualeuse was thus occupied with her rural cares, Madame
Georges and the Abbé Laporte, curé of Bouqueval, sitting by the fireside
in the neat little parlour of the farm, were conversing on the one
constant theme,--Fleur-de-Marie. The old curé, with a pensive,
thoughtful air, his head bent downwards, and his elbows leaning on his
knees, mechanically stretched his two trembling hands before the fire.
Madame Georges, laying aside the needlework on which she had been
occupied, kept an anxious eye on the abbé, as though eagerly waiting for
some observation from him. After a moment's silence:

"Yes," said he, "you are right, Madame Georges; it will be better for M.
Rodolph to question Marie, for she is so filled with deep gratitude and
devotion to him, that she will probably reveal to him what she persists
in concealing from us."

"Then, since you agree with me, M. le Curé, I will write, this very
evening, to the address he left with me,--the Allée des Veuves."

"Poor child," sighed the kind old man, "she ought to have been so happy
here! What secret grief can thus be preying on her mind?"

[Illustration: "_At Length Alighted on Her Shoulder_"
Original Etching by L. Poiteau]

"Her unhappiness is too deeply fixed to be removed even by her earnest
and passionate application to study."

"And yet she has made a most rapid and extraordinary progress since she
has been under our care, has she not?"

"She has, indeed; already she can read and write with the utmost
fluency, and is already sufficiently advanced in arithmetic to assist me
in keeping my farm accounts; and then the dear child is so active and
industrious, and really affords me so much assistance as both surprises
me and moves me to tears. You know that, spite of my repeated
remonstrances, she persisted in working so hard, that I became quite
alarmed lest such toil should seriously affect her health."

"I am thankful to hear from you," resumed the worthy curé, "that your
negro doctor has fully quieted your apprehensions respecting the cough
your young friend suffered from; he says it is merely temporary, and
gives no reason for uneasiness."

"Oh, that kind, excellent M. David! He really appeared to feel the same
interest in the poor girl that we did who know her sad story. She is
universally beloved and respected by all on the farm; though that is not
surprising, as, thanks to the generous and elevated views of M. Rodolph,
all the persons employed on it are selected for their good sense and
excellent conduct, from all parts of the kingdom; but were it not
so,--were they of the common herd of vulgar-minded labourers, they could
not help feeling the influence of Marie's angelic sweetness, and timid,
graceful manner, as though she were always deprecating anger, or
beseeching pardon for some involuntary fault. Unfortunate being! as
though she alone were to blame."

After remaining for several minutes buried in reflection, the abbé
resumed:

"Did you not tell me that this deep dejection of Marie's might be dated
from the time when Madame Dubreuil, who rents under the Duke de
Lucenay, paid her a visit during the feast of the Holy Ghost?"

"Yes, M. le Curé, I did. And yet Madame Dubreuil and her daughter Clara
(a perfect model of candour and goodness) were as much taken with our
dear child as every one else who approaches her; and both of them
lavished on her every mark of the most affectionate regard. You know
that we pass the Sunday alternately at each other's house; but it
invariably happens that, when we return from our Sunday excursion to
Arnouville, where Madame Dubreuil and her daughter reside, the
melancholy of my dear Marie seems augmented, and her spirits more
depressed than ever. I cannot comprehend why this should be, when Madame
Dubreuil treats her like a second daughter, and the sweet Clara loves
her with the tender affection of a sister."

"In truth, Madame Georges, it is a fearful mystery; what can occasion
all this hidden sorrow, when here she need not have a single care? The
difference between her present and past life must be as great as that
which exists between heaven and the abode of the damned. Surely, hers is
not an ungrateful disposition?"

"She ungrateful! Oh, no, M. le Curé! her sensitive and affectionate
nature magnifies the slightest service rendered her, and she appears as
though her gratitude could never be sufficiently evinced. There is, too,
in her every thought an instinctive delicacy and fineness of feeling
wholly incompatible with ingratitude, which could never be harboured in
so noble a nature as that of my charge. Dear Marie, how anxious does she
seem to earn the bread she eats, and how eagerly she strives to
compensate the hospitality shown her, by every exertion she can make, or
service she can render! And, then, except on Sunday, when I make it a
point she should dress herself with more regard to appearance to
accompany me to church, she will only wear the coarse, humble garments
worn by our young peasant girls; and yet there is in her such an air of
native superiority, so natural a grace, that one would not desire to see
her otherwise attired, would they, M. le Curé?"

"Ah, mother's pride! Beware!" said the old priest, smiling.

At these words, tears filled the eyes of Madame Georges; she thought of
her long-lost child, and of his possible destiny.

"Come, come, dear friend, cheer up! Look upon our dear Marie as sent by
a gracious Providence to occupy your maternal affections until the
blessed moment when he shall restore you your son; and, besides, you
have a sacred duty to perform towards this child of your adoption. Are
you not her baptismal godmother? And, believe me, when that office is
worthily discharged, it almost equals that of a mother. As for M.
Rodolph, he has discharged his obligation of godfather by anticipation,
for, in snatching her from the abyss of crime into which her misfortunes
and her helplessness had cast her, he may be said to have caused her
immortal existence to begin."

"Doubtless the poor thing has never received the sacrament of our holy
church. Do you think, M. le Curé, she is now sufficiently acquainted
with its sanctified purposes to be admitted to a participation of it?"

"I will take an opportunity of learning her sentiments on the subject as
we walk back to the rectory. I shall then apprise her that the holy
ceremony will take place probably in about a fortnight from hence."

"How gratefully she will receive such an information; her religious
feelings are the strongest I have ever met with."

"Alas, poor thing! she has deep and heavy expiation to make for the
errors of her past life."

"Nay, M. l'Abbé, consider. Abandoned so young, without resource, without
friends, almost without a knowledge of good or evil, plunged
involuntarily into the very vortex of crime, what was there to prevent
her from falling the bitter sacrifice she has been?"

"The clear, moral sense of right and wrong implanted by the Creator in
every breast should have withheld her; and, besides, we have no evidence
of her having even sought to escape from the horrible fate into which
she had fallen. Is there no friendly hand to be found in Paris to listen
to the cries of suffering virtue? Is charity so rare, so hard to obtain
in that large city?"

"Let us hope not, M. l'Abbé; but how to discover it is the difficulty.
Ere arriving at the knowledge of one kind, commiserating Christian,
think of the refusals, the rebukes, the denials to be endured. And,
then, in such a case as our poor Marie's, it was no passing temporary
aid that could avail her, but the steady, continued patronage and
support, the being placed in the way to earn an honest livelihood. Many
tender and pitying mothers would have succoured her had they known her
sad case, I doubt not, but it was first requisite to secure the
happiness of knowing where to meet with them. Trust me, I, too, have
known want and misery. But for one of those providential chances which,
alas! too late, threw poor Marie in the way of M. Rodolph,--but for one
of those casualties, the wretched and destitute, most commonly repulsed
with rude denial on their first applications, believe pity irretrievably
lost, and, pressed by hunger, fierce, clamorous hunger, often seek in
vice that relief they despair to obtain from commiseration."

At this moment the Goualeuse entered the parlour.

"Where have you been, my dear child?" inquired Madame Georges,
anxiously.

"Visiting the fruit-house, madame, after having shut up the hen-houses
and gates of the poultry-yard. All the fruit has kept excellently,--all
but those I ran away with and ate."

"Now, Marie, why take all this fatigue upon yourself? You should have
left all this tiring work to Claudine; I fear you have quite tired
yourself."

"No, no! dear Madame Georges; I wouldn't let Claudine help me for the
world. I take so much delight in my fruit-house,--the smell of the
beautiful ripe fruit is so delicious."

"M. le Curé," said Madame Georges, "you must go some day and see Marie's
fruit-house. You can scarcely imagine the taste with which she has
arranged it; each different variety of fruit is separated by rows of
grapes, and the grapes are again divided off by strips of moss."

"Oh, yes, M. le Curé; pray do come and see it," said the Goualeuse,
innocently; "I am sure you would be pleased with it. You would be
surprised what a pretty contrast the moss makes to the bright rosy
apples or the rich golden pears. There are some such lovely waxen
apples, quite a pure red and white; and really, as they lie surrounded
by the soft green moss, I cannot help thinking of the heads of little
cherubim just peeping out from the glorious clouds of heaven," added the
delighted Goualeuse, speaking with all the enthusiasm of an artist of
the work of her creation.

The curé looked at Madame Georges, then smilingly replied to
Fleur-de-Marie:

"I have already admired the dairy over which you preside, my child, and
can venture to declare it perfect in its way; the most particular
dairy-woman might envy you the perfection to which you have brought it.
Ere long, I promise myself the pleasure of visiting your fruit-house,
and passing a similar compliment on your skill in arrangement. You shall
then introduce me to those charming rosy apples and delicious golden
pears, as well as to the little cherubim pippins so prettily peeping
from their mossy beds. But see! the sun has already set; you will
scarcely have sufficient time to conduct me back to the rectory-house
and return before dark. Come, my child, fetch your cloak, and let us be
gone; or, now I think of it, do you remain at home this cold bitter
night, and let one of the farm servants go home with me."

"Oh, M. le Curé," replied the kind Madame Georges, "Marie will be quite
wretched if she is not allowed to accompany you; she so much enjoys the
happiness of escorting you home every evening."

"Indeed, Monsieur le Curé," added the Goualeuse, timidly raising her
large blue eyes to the priest's countenance, "I shall fear you are
displeased with me if you do not permit me to accompany you as usual."

"Well, then, my dear child, wrap yourself up very warm, and let us go."

Fleur-de-Marie hastily threw over her shoulders a sort of cloak of
coarse white cloth, edged with black velvet, and with a large hood, to
be drawn at pleasure over the head. Thus equipped, she eagerly offered
her arm to her venerable friend.

"Happily," said he, in taking it, "the distance is but trifling, and the
road both good and safe to pass at all hours."

"As it is somewhat later to-night than usual," said Madame Georges,
"will you have one of the farm-people to return with you, Marie?"

"Do you take me for a coward?" said Marie, playfully. "I am very much
obliged to you for your good opinion, madame. No, pray do not let any
one be called away on my account. It is not a quarter of an hour's walk
from here to the rectory. I shall be back long before dark."

"Well, as you like. I merely thought it would be company for you; for as
to fearing, thank heaven, there is no cause. Loose vagabond people,
likely to interrupt your progress, are wholly unknown here."

"And, were I not equally sure of the absence of all danger, I would not
accept this dear child's arm," added the curé, "useful as, I confess, I
find it."

And, leaning on Fleur-de-Marie, who regulated her light step to suit the
slow and laboured pace of the old man, the two friends quitted the farm.

A few minutes' walk brought the Goualeuse and the priest close to the
hollow road in which the Schoolmaster, the Chouette, and Tortillard,
were lying in ambush.



CHAPTER IV.

THE AMBUSCADE.


The church and parsonage of Bouqueval were placed on the side of a hill
covered with chestnut-trees, and commanded an entire view of the
village. Fleur-de-Marie and the abbé reached a winding path which led to
the clergyman's home, crossing the sunken road by which the hill was
intersected diagonally. The Chouette, the Schoolmaster, and Tortillard,
concealed in one of the hollows of the road, saw the priest and
Fleur-de-Marie descend into the ravine, and leave it again by a steep
declivity. The features of the young girl being hidden under the hood of
her cloak, the Chouette did not recognise her old victim.

"Silence, my old boy," said the old harridan to the Schoolmaster; "the
young 'mot' and the 'black slug' are just crossing the path. I know her
by the description which the tall man in black gave us; a country
appearance, neither tall nor short; a petticoat shot with brown, and a
woollen mantle with a black border. She walks every day with a
'devil-dodger' to his 'crib,' and returns alone. When she come back,
which she will do presently by the end of the road, we must spring upon
her and carry her off to the coach."

"If she cries for help," replied the Schoolmaster, "they will hear her
at the farm, if, as you say, the out-buildings are visible from here;
for you--you can see," he added, in a sullen tone.

"Oh, yes, we can see the buildings from here quite plainly," said
Tortillard. "It is only a minute ago that I climbed to the top of the
bank, and, lying down on my belly, I could hear a carter who was talking
to his horses in the yard there."

"I'll tell you, then, what we must do," said the Schoolmaster, after a
moment's silence. "Let Tortillard have the watch at the entrance to the
path. When he sees the young girl returning, let him go and meet her,
saying that he is the son of a poor old woman who has hurt herself by
falling down the hollow road, and beg the girl to come to her
assistance."

"I'm up to you, _fourline_; the poor old woman is your darling Chouette.
You're 'wide-awake!' My man, you are always the king of the 'downy ones'
(_têtards_). What must I do afterwards?"

"Conceal yourself in the hollow way on the side where Barbillon is
waiting with the coach. I will be at hand. When Tortillard has brought
the wench to you in the middle of the ravine, leave off whimpering and
spring upon her, put one 'mauley' round her 'squeeze,' and the other
into her 'patter-box,' and 'grab' her 'red rag' to prevent her from
squeaking."

"I know, I know, _fourline_; as we did with the woman at the canal of
St. Martin, when we gave her cold water for supper (drowned her), after
having 'prigged' her 'negress' (the parcel wrapped in black oil-skin)
which she had under her arm,--the same 'dodge,' isn't it?"

"Yes, precisely. But mind, grab the girl tight whilst Tortillard comes
and fetches me. We three will then bundle her up in my cloak, carry her
to Barbillon's coach, from thence to the plain of St. Denis, where the
man in black will await us."

"That's the way to do business, my _fourline_; you are without an equal!
If I could, I would let off a firework on your head, and illuminate you
with the colours of Saint Charlot, the patron of 'scragsmen.' Do you
see, you urchin? If you would be an 'out-and-outer,' make my husband
your model," said the Chouette, boastingly to Tortillard. Then,
addressing the Schoolmaster, "By the way, do you know that Barbillon is
in an awful 'funk' (fright)? He thinks that he shall be had up before
the 'beaks' on a swinging matter."

"Why?"

"The other day, returning from Mother Martial's, the widow of the man
who was scragged, and who keeps the boozing-ken in the Ile du Ravageur,
Barbillon, the Gros-Boiteux, and the Skeleton had a row with the husband
of the milkwoman who comes every morning from the country in a little
cart drawn by a donkey, to sell her milk in the Cité, at the corner of
the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie, close to the ogress's of the 'White
Rabbit,' and they 'walked into him with their slashers' (killed him with
their knives)."

The son of Bras Rouge, who did not understand slang, listened to the
Chouette with a sort of disappointed curiosity.

"You would like to know, little man, what we are saying, wouldn't you?"

"Yes. You were talking of Mother Martial, who is at the Ile du Ravageur,
near Asnières. I know her very well, and her daughter Calebasse and
François and Amandine, who are about as old as I am, and who are made to
bear everybody's snubs and thumps in the house. But when you talked of
'walking into (_buter_) any one,' that's slang, I know."

"It is; and, if you're a very good chap, I'll teach you to 'patter
flash.' You're just the age when it may be very useful to you. Would you
like to learn, my precious lambkin?"

"I rather think I should, too, and no mistake; and I would rather live
with you than with my old cheat of a mountebank, pounding his drugs. If
I knew where he hides his 'rat-poison for men,' I'd put some in his
soup, and then that would settle the quarrel between us."

The Chouette laughed heartily, and said to Tortillard, drawing him
towards her:

"Come, chick, and kiss his mammy. What a droll boy it is--a darling!
But, my manikin, how didst know that he had 'rat-poison for men'?"

"Why, 'cause I heard him say so one day when I was hid in the cupboard
in the room where he keeps his bottles, his brass machines, and where he
mixes his stuffs together."

"What did you hear him say?" asked the Chouette.

"I heard him say to a gentleman that he gave a powder to, in a paper,
'When you are tired of life, take this in three doses, and you will
sleep without sickness or sorrow.'"

"Who was the gentleman?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"Oh, a very handsome gentleman with black moustachios, and a face as
pretty as a girl's. He came another time; and then, when he left, I
followed him, by M. Bradamanti's order, to find out where he perched.
The fine gentleman went into the Rue de Chaillot, and entered a very
grand house. My master said to me, 'No matter where this gentleman goes,
follow and wait for him at the door. If he comes out again, still keep
your eye on him, until he does not come out of the place where he
enters, and that will prove that he lives there. Then Tortillard, my
boy, twist (_tortille_) yourself about to find out his name, or I will
twist your ears in a way that will astonish you.'"

"Well?"

"Well, I did twist myself about, and found out his name."

"How did you manage it?" inquired the Schoolmaster.

"Why, so. I'm not a fool; so I went to the porter at the house in the
Rue de Chaillot, where this gentleman had gone in and not come out
again. The porter had his hair finely powdered, with a fine brown coat
with a yellow collar trimmed with silver. So I says to him, 'Good
gentleman, I have come to ask for a hundred sous which the gentleman of
the house has promised me for having found his dog and brought it back
to him--a little black dog called Trumpet; and the gentleman with dark
features, with black moustachios, a white riding-coat, and light blue
pantaloons, told me he lived at No. 11 Rue de Chaillot, and that his
name was Dupont.' 'The gentleman you're talking of is my master, and his
name is the Viscount de St. Remy, and we have no dog here but yourself,
you young scamp; so "cut your stick," or I'll make you remember coming
here, and trying to do me out of a hundred sous,' says the porter to me;
and he gave me a kick as he said it. But I didn't mind that," added
Tortillard most philosophically, "for I found out the name of the
handsome young gentleman with black moustachios, who came to my master's
to buy the 'rat-poison for men' who are tired of living. He is called
the Viscount de St. Remy,--my--my--St. Remy," added the son of Bras
Rouge, humming the last words, as was his usual habit.

"Clever little darling--I could eat him up alive!" said the Chouette,
embracing Tortillard. "Never was such a knowing fellow. He deserves that
I should be his mother, the dear rascal does."

And the hag embraced Tortillard with an absurd affectation. The son of
Bras Rouge, touched by this proof of affection, and desirous of showing
his gratitude, eagerly answered:

"Only you tell me what to do, and you shall see how I'll do it."

"Will you, though? Well, then, you sha'n't repent doing so."

"Oh, I should like always to stay with you!"

"If you behave well, we may see about that. You sha'n't leave us if you
are a good boy."

"Yes," said the Schoolmaster, "you shall lead me about like a poor blind
man, and say you are my son. We will get into houses in this way, and
then--ten thousand slaughters!" added the assassin with enthusiasm; "the
Chouette will assist us in making lucky hits. I will then teach that
devil of a Rodolph, who blinded me, that I am not yet quite done for. He
took away my eyesight, but he could not, did not remove my bent for
mischief. I would be the head, Tortillard the eyes, and you the
hand,--eh, Chouette? You will help me in this, won't you?"

"Am I not with you to gallows and rope, _fourline_? Didn't I, when I
left the hospital, and learnt that you had sent the 'yokel' from St.
Mandé to ask for me at the ogress's--didn't I run to you at the village
directly, telling those chawbacons of labourers that I was your _rib_?"

These words of the "one-eyed's" reminded the Schoolmaster of an
unpleasant affair, and, altering his tone and language with the
Chouette, he said, in a surly tone:

"Yes, I was getting tired of being all by myself with these honest
people. After a month I could not stand it any longer; I was frightened.
So then I thought of trying to find you out; and a nice thing I did for
myself," he added, in a tone of increasing anger; "for the day after you
arrived I was robbed of the rest of the money which that devil in the
Allée des Veuves had given me. Yes, some one stole my belt full of gold
whilst I was asleep. It was only you who could have done it; and so now
I am at your mercy. Whenever I think of it, I can hardly restrain myself
from killing you on the spot--you cursed old robber, you!" and he
stepped towards the old woman.

"Look out for yourself, if you try to do any harm to the Chouette!"
cried Tortillard.

"I will smash you both--you and she--base vipers as you are!" cried the
ruffian, enraged; and, hearing the boy mumbling near him, he aimed at
him so violent a blow with his fist, as must have killed him if it had
struck him. Tortillard, as much to revenge himself as the Chouette,
picked up a stone, took aim, and struck the Schoolmaster on the
forehead. The blow was not dangerous, but very painful. The brigand grew
furious with passion, raging like a wounded bull, and, rushing forward
swiftly and at random, stumbled.

"What, break your own back?" shouted the Chouette, laughing till she
cried.

Despite the bloody ties which bound her to this monster, she saw how
entirely, and with a sort of savage delight, this man, formerly so
dreaded, and so proud of his giant strength, was reduced to impotence.
The old wretch, by these feelings, justified that cold-blooded idea of
La Rochefoucauld's, that "there is something in the misfortunes of our
best friends which does not displease us." The disgusting brat, with his
tawny cheeks and weasel face, enjoyed and participated in the mirth of
the one-eyed hag. The Schoolmaster tripped again, and the urchin
exclaimed:

"Open your peepers, old fellow; look about you. You are going the wrong
way. What capers you are cutting! Can't you see your way? Why don't you
wipe your eye-glasses?"

Unable to seize on the boy, the athletic murderer stopped, struck his
foot violently on the ground, put his enormous and hairy fists to his
eyes, and then uttered a sound which resembled the hoarse scream of a
muzzled tiger.

"Got a bad cough, I'm afraid, old chap!" said Bras Rouge's brat. "You're
hoarse, I'm afraid? I have some capital liquorice which a _gen-d'arme_
gave me. P'raps you'd like to try it?" and, taking up a handful of sand,
he threw it in the face of the ruffian.

Struck full in his countenance by this shower of gravel, the
Schoolmaster suffered still more severely by this last attack than by
the blow from the stone. Become pale, in spite of his livid and
cicatrised features, he extended his two arms suddenly in the form of a
cross, in a moment of inexpressible agony and despair, and, raising his
frightful face to heaven, he cried, in a voice of deep suffering:

"_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_"

This involuntary appeal to divine mercy by a man stained by every crime,
a bandit in whose presence but very recently the most resolute of his
fellows trembled, appeared like an interposition of Providence.

"Ha! ha! ha!" said the Chouette, in a mocking tone; "look at the thief
making the crucifix! You mistake your road, my man. It is the 'old one'
you should call to your help."

"A knife! Oh, for a knife to kill myself! A knife! since all the world
abandons me!" shrieked the wretch, gnawing his fists for very agony and
rage.

"A knife!--there's one in your pocket, cut-throat, and with an edge,
too. The little old man in the Rue du Roule, you know, one moonlight
night, and the cattle-dealer in the Poissy road, could tell the 'moles'
all about it. But if you want it, it's here."

The Schoolmaster, when thus instructed, changed the conversation, and
replied, in a surly and threatening tone:

"The Chourineur was true; he did not rob, but had pity on me."

"Why did you say that I had 'prigged your blunt'?" inquired the
Chouette, hardly able to restrain her laughter.

"It was only you who came into my room," said the miscreant. "I was
robbed on the night of your arrival, and who else could I suspect? Those
country people could not have done such a thing."

"Why should not country people steal as well as other folks? Is it
because they drink milk and gather grass for their rabbits?"

"I don't know. I only know I'm robbed."

"And is that the fault of your own Chouette? What! suspect me? Do you
think if I had got your belt that I should stay any longer with you.
What a fool you are! Why, if I had chosen to 'pouch your blunt,' I
could, of course; but, as true as I'm Chouette, you would have seen me
again when the 'pewter' was spent, for I like you as well now with your
eyes white, as I did--you rogue, you! Come, be decent, and leave off
grinding your 'snags' in that way, or you'll break 'em."

"It's just as if he was a-cracking nuts," said Tortillard.

"Ha! ha! ha! what a droll baby it is! But quiet, now, quiet, my man of
men; let him laugh, it is but an infant. You must own you have been
unfair; for when the tall man in mourning, who looks like a mute at a
funeral, said to me, 'A thousand francs are yours if you carry off this
young girl from the farm at Bouqueval, and bring her to the spot in the
Plain of St. Denis that I shall tell you,' say, cut-throat, didn't I
directly tell you of the affair and agree to share with you, instead of
choosing some 'pal' with his eyesight clear? Why, it's like making you a
handsome present for doing nothing; for unless to bundle up the girl and
carry her, with Tortillard's assistance, you would be of no more use to
me than the fifth wheel to an omnibus. But never mind; for, although I
could have robbed you if I would, I like, on the contrary, to do you
service. I should wish you to owe everything to your darling
Chouette--that's my way, that is. We must give two hundred 'bob' to
Barbillon for driving the coach, and coming once before with the servant
of the tall man in mourning, to look about the place and determine where
we should hide ourselves whilst we waited for the young miss; and then
we shall have eight hundred 'bob' between us. What do you say to that
old boy? What! still angry with your old woman?"

"How do I know that you will give me a 'mag' when once the thing's done?
Why!--I"--said the ruffian, in a tone of gloomy distrust.

"Why, if I like, I need not give you a dump, that's true enough; for you
are on my gridiron, my lad, as I once had the Goualeuse; and so I will
broil you to my own taste, till the 'old one' gets the cooking of my
darling--ha! ha! ha! What, still sulky with your Chouette?" added the
horrible woman, patting the shoulder of the ruffian, who stood mute and
motionless.

"You are right," said he, with a sigh of concentrated rage; "it is my
fate--mine--mine! At the mercy of a woman and child whom but lately I
could have killed with a blow. Oh, if I were not afraid of dying!" said
he, falling back against the bank.

"What! a coward!--you--you a coward!" said the Chouette, contemptuously.
"Why, you'll be talking next of your conscience! What a precious farce!
Well, if you haven't more pluck than that, I'll 'cut' and leave you."

"And that I cannot have my revenge of the man who in thus making a
martyr of me has reduced me to the wretched situation in which I am!"
screamed the Schoolmaster, in a renewal of fury. "I am afraid of
death--yes, I own it, I am afraid. But if I were told, 'This man Rodolph
is between your arms--your two arms--and now you shall both be flung
into a pit,' I would say, 'Throw us, then, at once.' Yes, for then I
should be safe not to relax my clutch, till we both reached the bottom
together. I would fix my teeth in his face--his throat--his heart. I
would tear him to pieces with my teeth--yes, my teeth; for I should be
jealous of a knife!"

"Bravo, _fourline_! now you are my own dear love again. Calm yourself.
We will find him again, that wretch of a Rodolph, and the Chourineur
too. Come, pluck up, old man; we will yet work our will on them both. I
say it, on both!"

"Well, then, you will not forsake me?" cried the brigand to the Chouette
in a subdued tone, mingled, however, with distrust. "If you do leave me,
what will become of me?"

"That's true. I say, _fourline_, what a joke if Tortillard and I were to
'mizzle' with the 'drag,' and leave you where you are--in the middle of
the fields; and the night air begins to nip very sharp. I say, it would
be a joke, old cutpurse, wouldn't it?"

At this threat the Schoolmaster shuddered, and, coming towards the
Chouette, said tremulously, "No, no, you wouldn't do that, Chouette; nor
you, Tortillard. It would be too bad, wouldn't it?"

"Ha! ha! ha! 'Too bad,' says he, the gentle dear! And the little old man
in the Rue du Roule; and the cattle-dealer and the woman in Saint
Martin's Canal; and the gentleman in the Allée des Veuves; they found
you nice and amiable, I don't think--didn't they--with your
'larding-pin?' Why, then, in your turn, shouldn't you be left to such
tender mercy as you have showed?"

"I'm in your power, don't abuse it," said the Schoolmaster. "Come, come,
I confess I was wrong to suspect you. I was wrong to try and thump
Tortillard; and, you see, I beg pardon; and of you too, Tortillard. Yes,
I ask pardon of both."

"I will have you ask pardon on your knees for having tried to beat the
Chouette," said Tortillard.

"You rum little beggar, how funny you are!" said the Chouette, laughing
loudly; "but I should like to see what a 'guy' you will make of
yourself. So on your knees, as if you were 'pattering' love to your old
darling. Come, do it directly, or we will leave you; and I tell you that
in half an hour it will be quite dark, though you don't look as if you
thought so, old 'No-Eyes.'"

"Night or day, what's that to him?" said Tortillard, saucily. "The
gentleman always has his shutters closed."

"Then here, on my knees, I humbly ask your pardon, Chouette; and yours
also, Tortillard! Will not that content you?" said the robber, kneeling
in the middle of the highway. "And now will you leave me?"

This strange group, enclosed by the embankment of the ravine, and
lighted by the red glimmer of the twilight, was hideous to behold. In
the middle of the road the Schoolmaster, on his knees, extended his
large and coarse hands towards the one-eyed hag; his thick and matted
hair, which his fright had dishevelled, left exposed his motionless,
rigid, glassy, dead eyeballs--the very glance of a corpse. Stooping
deprecatingly his broad-spread shoulders, this Hercules kneels abjectly,
and trembles at the feet of an old woman and a child!

The old hag herself, wrapped in a red-checked shawl, her head covered
with an old cap of black lace, which allowed some locks of her grizzled
hair to escape, looked down with an air of haughty contempt and
domineering pride on the Schoolmaster. The bony, scorched, shrivelled,
and livid countenance of the parrot-nosed old harridan expressed a
savage and insulting joy; her small but fierce eye glistened like a
burning coal; a sinister expression curled her lips, shaded with long
straight hairs, and revealed three or four large, yellow, and decayed
fangs.

Tortillard, clothed in a blouse with a leathern belt, standing on one
leg, leaned on the Chouette's arm to keep himself upright. The bad
expression and cunning look of this deformed imp, with a complexion as
sallow as his hair, betokened at this moment his disposition--half
fiend, half monkey. The shadow cast from the declivity of the ravine
increased the horrid _tout ensemble_ of the scene, which the increasing
darkness half hid.

"Promise me,--oh, promise me--at least, not to forsake me!" repeated
the Schoolmaster, frightened by the silence of the Chouette and
Tortillard, who were enjoying his dismay. "Are you not here?" added the
murderer, leaning forward to listen, and advancing his arms
mechanically.

"Yes, my man, we are here; don't be frightened. Forsake you! leave my
love! the man of my heart! No, I'd sooner be 'scragged'! Once for all, I
will tell you why I will not forsake you. Listen, and profit. I have
always liked to have some one in my grip--beast or Christian. Before I
had Pegriotte (oh! that the 'old one' would return her to my clutch! for
I have still my idea of scaling off her beauty with my bottle of
vitriol)--before Pegriotte's turn, I had a brat who froze to death under
my care. For that little job, I got six years in the 'Stone Jug.' Then I
used to have little birds, which I used to tame, and then pluck 'em
alive. Ha! ha! but that was troublesome work, for they did not last
long. When I left the 'Jug,' the Goualeuse came to hand; but the little
brat ran away before I had had half my fun out of her carcass. Well,
then I had a dog, who had his little troubles as well as she had; and I
cut off one of his hind feet and one of his four feet; and you never saw
such a rum beggar as I made of him; I almost burst my sides with
laughing at him!"

"I must serve a dog I know of, who bit me one day, in the same way,"
said the promising Master Tortillard.

"When I fell in again with you, my darling," continued the Chouette, "I
was trying what I could do that was miserable with a cat. Well, now, at
this moment, you, old boy, shall be my cat, my dog, my bird, my
Pegriotte; you shall be anything to worry (_bête de souffrance_). Do you
understand, my love? Instead of having a bird or a child to make
miserable, I shall have, as it were, a wolf or a tiger. I think that's
rather a bright idea; isn't it?"

"Hag! devil!" cried the Schoolmaster, rising in a desperate rage.

"What, my pet angry with his darling old deary? Well, if it must be so,
it must. Have your own way; you have a right to it. Good night, blind
sheep!"

"The field-gate is wide open, so walk alone, Mister No-eyes; and, if you
toddle straight, you'll reach the right road somehow," said Tortillard,
laughing heartily.

"Oh, that I could die! die! die!" said the Schoolmaster, writhing and
twisting his arms about in agony.

At this moment, Tortillard, stooping to the ground, exclaimed, in a low
voice:

"I hear footsteps in the path; let us hide; it is not the young miss,
for they come the same way as she did."

On the instant, a stout peasant girl in the prime of youth, followed by
a large shepherd's dog, carrying on her head an open basket, appeared,
and followed the same path which the priest and the Goualeuse had taken.
We will rejoin the two latter, leaving the three accomplices concealed
in the hollow of the path.



CHAPTER V.

THE RECTORY-HOUSE.


The last rays of the sun were gradually disappearing behind the vast
pile of the Château d'Ecouen and the woods which surrounded it. On all
sides, until the sight lost them in the distance, were vast tracts of
land lying in brown furrows hardened by the frost--an extensive desert,
of which the hamlet of Bouqueval appeared to be the oasis. The sky,
which was serenely glorious, was tinted by the sunset, and glowed with
long lines of empurpled light, the certain token of wind and cold. These
tints, which were at first of a deep red, became violet; then a bluish
black, as the twilight grew more and more dark on the atmosphere. The
crescent of the moon was as delicately and clearly defined as a silver
ring, and began to shine beautifully in the midst of the blue and dimmed
sky, where many stars already had appeared. The silence was profound;
the hour most solemn. The curate stopped for a moment on the summit of
the acclivity to enjoy the calm of this delicious evening. After some
minutes' reflection, he extended his trembling hand towards the depths
of the horizon, half veiled by the shadows of the evening, and said to
Fleur-de-Marie, who was walking pensively beside him:

"Look, my child, at the vastness and extent to which we have no visible
limit; we hear not the slightest sound. Say, does not this silence give
us an idea of infinity and of eternity? I say this to you, Marie,
because you are peculiarly sensitive of the beauties of creation. I
have often been struck at the admiration, alike poetical and religious,
with which they inspire you,--you, a poor prisoner so long deprived of
them. Are you not, as I am, struck with the solemn tranquillity of the
hour?"

The Goualeuse made no reply. The curé, regarding her with astonishment,
found she was weeping.

"What ails you, my child?"

"My father, I am unhappy!"

"Unhappy!--you?--still unhappy!"

"I know it is ingratitude to complain of my lot after all that has been
and is done for me; and yet--"

"And yet?"

"Father, I pray of you forgive my sorrows; their expression may offend
my benefactors."

"Listen, Marie. We have often asked you the cause of these sorrows with
which you are depressed, and which excite in your second mother the most
serious uneasiness. You have avoided all reply, and we have respected
your secret whilst we have been afflicted at not being able to solace
your sorrows."

"Alas; good father, I dare not tell you what is passing in my mind. I
have been moved, as you have been, at the sight of this calm and
saddening evening. My heart is sorely afflicted, and I have wept."

"But what ails you, Marie? You know how we love you! Come, tell me all.
You should; for I must tell you that the time is very close at hand when
Madame Georges and M. Rodolph will present you at the baptismal font,
and take upon themselves the engagement before God to protect you all
the days of your life."

"M. Rodolph--he who has saved me?" cried Fleur-de-Marie, clasping her
hands; "he will deign to give me this new proof of affection! Oh,
indeed, my father, I can no longer conceal from you anything, lest I
should, indeed, deserve to be called and thought an ingrate."

"An ingrate! How?"

"That you may understand me, I must begin and tell you of my first day
at the farm."

"Then let us talk as we walk on."

"You will be indulgent to me, my father? What I shall say may perhaps be
wrong."

"The Lord has shown his mercy unto you. Be of good heart."

"When," said Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's reflection, "I knew that,
on arriving here, I should not again leave the farm and Madame Georges,
I believed it was all a dream. At first I felt giddy with my happiness,
and thought every moment of M. Rodolph. Very often when I was alone, and
in spite of myself, I raised my eyes to heaven, as if to seek him there
and thank him. Afterwards--and I was wrong, father--I thought more of
him than God, attributing to him what God alone could do. I was
happy--as happy as a creature who had suddenly and entirely escaped from
a great danger. You and Madame Georges were so kind to me, that I
thought I deserved pity rather than blame."

The curé looked at the Goualeuse with an air of surprise. She continued:

"Gradually I became used to my sweet course of life. I no longer felt
fear when I awoke, of finding myself at the ogress's. I seemed to sleep
in full security, and all my delight was to assist Madame Georges in her
work, and to apply myself to the lesson you gave me, my father, as well
as to profit by your advice and exhortation. Except some moments of
shame, when I reflected on the past, I thought myself equal to all the
world, because all the world was so kind to me. When, one day--"

Here sobs cut short poor Fleur-de-Marie's narration.

"Come, come, my poor child, calm yourself. Courage, courage!"

The Goualeuse wiped her eyes, and resumed:

"You recollect, father, during the fêtes of the Toussaints, that Madame
Dubreuil, who superintends the Duke de Lucenay's farm at Arnouville,
came, with her daughter, to pass some time with us?"

"I do; and I was delighted to see you form an acquaintance with Clara
Dubreuil, who is a very excellent girl."

"She is an angel--an angel, father. When I knew that she was coming to
stay for some days at the farm, my delight was so great that I could
think of nothing else but the moment when she should arrive. At length
she came. I was in my room, which she was to share with me; and, whilst
I was putting it into nice order I was sent for. I went into the saloon,
my heart beating excessively, when Madame Georges, presenting me to the
pretty young lady, whose looks were so kind and good, said, 'Marie, here
is a friend for you.' 'I hope,' added Madame Dubreuil, 'that you and my
daughter will soon be like two sisters;' and hardly had her mother
uttered these words, than Mademoiselle Clara came and embraced me. Then,
father," continued Fleur-de-Marie, weeping, "I do not know what came
over me; but, when I felt the fresh and fair face of Clara pressed
against my cheek of shame, that cheek became scorching with
guilt--remorse. I remembered who and what I was;--I--I--to receive the
caresses of a good and virtuous girl!"

"Why, my child?"

"Ah, my father," cried Fleur-de-Marie, interrupting the curé with
painful emotion, "when M. Rodolph took me away from the Cité, I began
vaguely to be conscious of the depth of my degradation. But do you think
that education, advice, the examples I receive from Madame Georges and
yourself, have not, whilst they have enlightened my mind, made me, alas!
to comprehend but too clearly that I have been more culpable than
unfortunate? Before Clara's arrival, when these thoughts grew upon me,
I drove them away by seeking to please Madame Georges and you, father.
If I blushed for the past it was only in my own presence. But the sight
of this young lady of my own age, so charming, so virtuous, has conjured
up the recollection of the distance that exists between us; and, for the
first time, I have felt that there are wrongs which nothing can efface.
From that time the thought has haunted me perpetually, and, in spite of
myself, I recur to it. From that day I have not had one moment's
repose." The Goualeuse again wiped her eyes, that swam in tears.

After having looked at her for some moments with a gaze of the tenderest
pity, the curé replied:

"Reflect, my child, that if Madame Georges desired to see you the friend
of Mademoiselle Dubreuil, it was that she felt you were worthy of such a
confidence from your good conduct. Your reproaches, addressed to
yourself, seem almost to impugn your second mother."

"I feel that, father, and was wrong, no doubt; but I could not subdue my
shame and fear. When Clara was once settled at the farm, I was as sad as
I had before thought I should be happy, when I reflected on the pleasure
of having a companion of my own age. She, on the contrary, was all joy
and lightness. She had a bed in my apartment; and the first evening
before she went to bed she kissed me, saying that she loved me already,
and felt every kind sentiment towards me. She made me to call her Clara,
and she would call me Marie. Then she said her prayers, telling me that
she would join my name with hers in her prayers, if I would also unite
her name with mine. I did not dare to refuse; and, after talking for
some time, she went to sleep. I had not got into my bed, and,
approaching her bedside, I contemplated her angel face with tears in my
eyes; and then, reflecting that she was sleeping in the same chamber
with me--with one who had been at the ogress's, mixed up with robbers
and murderers, I trembled as if I had committed some crime, and a
thousand nameless fears beset me. I thought that God would one day
punish me. I went to sleep and had horrid dreams. I saw again those
frightful objects I had nearly forgotten--the Chourineur, the
Schoolmaster, the Chouette--that horrible, one-eyed woman who had
tortured my earliest infancy. Oh, what a night! _Mon Dieu!_--what a
night! What dreams!" said the Goualeuse, shuddering at their very
recollection.

"Poor Marie!" said the curé with emotion. "Why did you not earlier tell
me all this? I should have found comfort for you. But go on."

"I slept so late, that Mademoiselle Clara awoke me by kissing me. To
overcome what she called my coldness, and show her regard, she told me a
secret--that she was going to be married when she was eighteen to the
son of a farmer at Goussainville, whom she loved very dearly, and the
union had long been agreed upon by the two families. Then she added a
few words of her past life, so simple, calm, and happy! She had never
quitted her mother, and never intended to do so, for her husband was to
take part in the management of the farm with M. Dubreuil. 'Now, Marie,'
she said, 'you know me as well as if you were my sister. So tell me all
about your early days.'

"I thought when I heard the words that I should have died of them; I
blushed and stammered; I did not know what Madame Georges had said of
me, and I was fearful of telling a falsehood; I answered vaguely, that I
had been an orphan, educated by a very rigid person; and that I had not
been happy in my infancy; and that my happiness was dated from the
moment when I had come to live with Madame Georges; then Clara, as much
by interest as curiosity, asked me where I had been educated, in the
city or the country, my father's name, and, above all, if I remembered
anything of my mother. All these questions embarrassed as much as they
pained me, for I was obliged to reply with falsehood, and you have
taught me, father, how wicked it is to lie; but Clara did not think that
I was deceiving her; she attributed the hesitation of my answers to the
pain which my early sorrows renewed; she believed me and pitied me with
a sincerity that cut me to the soul. Oh, father, you never can know what
I suffered in this conversation, and how much it cost me only to reply
in language of falsehood and hypocrisy!"

"Unfortunate girl! The anger of heaven will weigh heavily on those who,
by casting you into the vile road of perdition, have compelled you to
undergo all your life the sad consequences of a first fault."

"Oh, yes, they were indeed cruel, father," replied Fleur-de-Marie,
bitterly, "for my shame is ineffaceable. As Clara talked to me of the
happiness that awaited her,--her marriage, her peaceful joys of home, I
could not help comparing my lot with hers; for, in spite of the kindness
showered upon me, my fate must always be miserable. You and Madame
Georges, in teaching me what virtue is, have taught me the depth of that
abasement into which I had fallen; nothing can take from me the brand of
having been the refuse of all that is vilest in the world. Alas! if the
knowledge of good and evil was to be so sad to me, why not have
abandoned me to my unhappy fate?"

"Oh, Marie, Marie!"

"Father, I speak ill, do I not? Alas! I dare not confess it; but I am at
times so ungrateful as to repine at the benefits heaped upon me, and to
say to myself, 'If I had not been snatched from infamy, why,
wretchedness, misery, blows, would soon have ended my life; and, at
least, I should have remained in ignorance of that purity which I must
for ever regret.'"

"Alas! Marie, that is indeed fatal! A nature ever so nobly endowed by
the Creator, though plunged but for one day in the foul mire from which
you have been extricated, will preserve for ever the ineffaceable
stigma."

"Yes, yes, my father," cried Fleur-de-Marie, full of grief, "I must
despair until I die!"

"You must despair of ever tearing out this frightful page from the book
of your existence," said the priest, in a sad and serious voice; "but
you must have faith in the infinite mercy of the Almighty. Here, on
earth, my poor child, there are for you tears, remorse, expiation; but,
one day, there,--up there," and he raised his hand to the sky, now
filling with stars, "there is pardon and everlasting happiness."

"Pity, pity, _mon Dieu_! I am so young, and my life may still endure so
long," said the Goualeuse, in a voice rent by agony, and falling at the
curé's knees almost involuntarily.

The priest was standing at the top of the hill, not far from where his
"modest mansion rose;" his black cassock, his venerable countenance,
shaded by long white locks, lighted by the last ray of twilight, stood
out from the horizon, which was of a deep transparency,--a perfect
clearness: pale gold in the west, sapphire over his head. The priest
again elevated towards heaven one of his tremulous hands, and gave the
other to Fleur-de-Marie, who bedewed it with her tears. The hood of her
gray cloak fell at this moment from her shoulders, displaying the
perfect outline of her lovely profile,--her charming features full of
suffering, and suffused with tears.

This simple and sublime scene offered a strange contrast,--a singular
coincidence with the horrid one which, almost at the same moment, was
passing in the ravine between the Schoolmaster and the Chouette.
Concealed in the darkness of the sombre cleft, assailed by base fears, a
fearful murderer, carrying on his person the punishment of his crimes,
was also on his knees, but in the presence of an accessory, a sneering,
revengeful Fury, who tormented him mercilessly, and urged him on to
fresh crimes,--that accomplice, the first cause of Fleur-de-Marie's
misery.

Of Fleur-de-Marie, whose days and nights were embittered by never-dying
remorse; whose anguish, hardly endurable, was not conceivable;
surrounded from her earliest days by degraded, cruel, infamous outcasts
of society; leaving the walls of a prison for the den of the
ogress,--even a more horrid prison; never leaving the precincts of her
gaol, or the squalid streets of the Cité; this unhappy young creature
had hitherto lived in utter ignorance of the beautiful and the good, as
strange to noble and religious sentiments as to the magnificent
splendour of nature. Then all that was admirable in the creature and in
the Creator was revealed in a moment to her astonished soul. At this
striking spectacle her mind expanded, her intelligence unfolded itself,
her noble instincts were awakened; and because her mind expanded,
because her intelligence was unfolded, because her noble instincts were
awakened, yet the very consciousness of her early degradation brings
with it the feeling of horror for her past life, alike torturing and
enduring,--she feels, as she had described, that, alas! there are stains
which nothing can remove.

"Ah, unhappiness for me!" said the Goualeuse, in despair; "my whole life
has long to run, it may be; were it as long, as pure as your own,
father, it must henceforth be blighted by the knowledge and
consciousness of the past; unhappiness for me for ever!"

"On the contrary, Marie, it is happiness for you,--yes, happiness for
you. Your remorse, so full of bitterness, but so purifying, testifies
the religious susceptibility of your mind. How many there are who, less
nobly sensitive than you, would, in your place, have soon forgotten the
fact, and only revelled in the delight of the present. Believe me, every
pang that you now endure will tell in your favour when on high. God has
left you for a moment in an unrighteous path, to reserve for you the
glory of repentance and the everlasting reward reserved for expiation.
Has he not said himself, 'Those who fight the good fight and come to me
with a smile on their lips, they are my chosen; but they who, wounded in
the struggle, come to me fainting and dying, they are the chosen amongst
my chosen!' Courage, then, my child! Support, help, counsel,--nothing
will fail you. I am very aged, but Madame Georges and M. Rodolph have
still many years before them; particularly M. Rodolph, who has taken so
deep an interest in you, who watches your progress with so much
anxiety."

[Illustration: "'_So I Have Brought Turk with Me_'"
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel]

The Goualeuse was about to reply, when she was interrupted by the
peasant girl whom we have already mentioned, who, having followed in the
steps of the curé and Marie, now came up to them. She was one of the
peasants of the farm.

"Beg your pardon, M. le Curé," she said to the priest, "but Madame
Georges told me to bring this basket of fruit to the rectory, and then I
could accompany Mlle. Marie back again, for it is getting late. So I
have brought Turk with me," added the dairy-maid, patting an enormous
dog of the Pyrenees, which would have mastered a bear in a struggle.
"Although we never have any bad people about us here in the country, it
is as well to be careful."

"You are quite right, Claudine. Here we are now at the rectory. Pray
thank Madame Georges for me."

Then addressing the Goualeuse in a low tone, the curé said to her, in a
grave voice:

"I must go to-morrow to the conference of the diocese, but I shall
return at five o'clock. If you like, my child, I will wait for you at
the rectory. I see your state of mind, and that you require a lengthened
conversation with me."

"I thank you, father," replied Fleur-de-Marie. "To-morrow I will come,
since you are so good as to allow me to do so."

"Here we are at the garden gate," said the priest. "Leave your basket
there, Claudine; my housekeeper will take it. Return quickly to the farm
with Marie, for it is almost night, and the cold is increasing.
To-morrow, Marie, at five o'clock."

"To-morrow, father."

The abbé went into his garden. The Goualeuse and Claudine, followed by
Turk, took the road to the farm.



CHAPTER VI.

THE RENCOUNTER.


The night set in clear and cold. Following the advice of the
Schoolmaster, the Chouette had gone to that part of the hollow way which
was the most remote from the path, and nearest to the cross-road where
Barbillon was waiting with the hackney-coach. Tortillard, who was posted
as an advanced guard, watched for the return of Fleur-de-Marie, whom he
was desirous of drawing into the trap by begging her to come to the
assistance of a poor old woman. The son of Bras Rouge had advanced a few
steps out of the ravine to try and discern Marie, when he heard the
Goualeuse some way off speaking to the peasant girl who accompanied her.
The plan had failed; and Tortillard quickly went down into the ravine to
run and inform the Chouette.

"There is somebody with the young girl," said he, in a low and
breathless tone.

"May the hangman squeeze her weasand, the little beggar," exclaimed the
Chouette in a rage.

"Who's with her?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"Oh, no doubt, the country wench who passed along the road just now,
followed by a large dog. I heard a woman's voice," said Tortillard.
"Hark!--do you hear? There's the noise of their sabots," and, in the
silence of the night, the wooden soles sounded clearly on the ground
hardened by the frost.

"There are two of 'em. I can manage the young 'un in the gray mantle,
but what can we do with t'other? _Fourline_ can't see, and Tortillard
is too weak to do for the companion--devil choke her! What can be done?"
asked the Chouette.

"I'm not strong, but, if you like, I'll cling to the legs of the
country-woman with the dog. I'll hold on by hands and teeth, and not let
her go, I can tell you. You can take away the little one in the
meantime, you know, Chouette."

"If they cry or resist, they will hear them at the farm," replied the
Chouette, "and come to their assistance before we can reach Barbillon's
coach. It is no easy thing to carry off a woman who resists."

"And they have a large dog with them," said Tortillard.

"Bah! bah! If it was only that, I could break the brute's skull with a
blow of my shoe-heel," said the Chouette.

"Here they are," replied Tortillard, who was listening still to the echo
of their footsteps. "They are coming down the hollow now."

"Why don't you speak, _fourline_?" said the Chouette to the
Schoolmaster. "What is best to be done, long-headed as you are, eh? Are
you grown dumb?"

"There's nothing to be done to-day," replied the miscreant.

"And the thousand 'bob' of the man in mourning," said the Chouette;
"they are gone, then? I'd sooner--Your knife--your knife, _fourline_! I
will stick the companion, that she may be no trouble to us; and, as to
the young miss, Tortillard and I can make off with her."

"But the man in mourning does not desire that we should kill any one."

"Well, then, we must put the cold meat down as an extra in his bill. He
must pay, for he will be an accomplice with us."

"Here they come--down the hill," said Tortillard, softly.

"Your knife, lad!" said the Chouette, in a similar tone.

"Ah, Chouette," cried Tortillard, in alarm, and extending his hands to
the hag, "that is too bad--to kill. No!--oh, no!"

"Your knife, I tell you!" repeated the Chouette, in an undertone,
without paying the least attention to Tortillard's supplication, and
putting her shoes off hastily. "I have taken off my shoes," she added,
"that I may steal on them quietly from behind. It is almost dark; but I
can easily make out the little one by her cloak, and I will do for the
other."

"No," said the felon; "to-day it is useless. There will be plenty of
time to-morrow."

"What! you're afraid, old patterer, are you?" said the Chouette, with
fierce contempt.

"Not at all," replied the Schoolmaster. "But you may fail in your blow
and spoil all."

The dog which accompanied the country-woman, scenting the persons hidden
in the hollow road, stopped short, and barked furiously, refusing to
come to Fleur-de-Marie, who called him frequently.

"Do you hear their dog? Here they are! Your knife!--or, if not--" cried
the Chouette, with a threatening air.

"Come and take it from me, then--by force," said the Schoolmaster.

"It's all over--it's too late," added the Chouette, after listening for
a moment attentively; "they have gone by. You shall pay for that,
gallows-bird," added she, furiously, shaking her fist at her accomplice.
"A thousand francs lost by your stupidity!"

"A thousand--two thousand--perhaps three thousand gained," replied the
Schoolmaster, in a tone of authority. "Listen, Chouette! Do you go back
to Barbillon, and let him drive you to the place where you were to meet
the man in mourning. Tell him that it was impossible to do anything
to-day, but that to-morrow she shall be carried off. The young girl goes
every evening to walk home with the priest, and it was only a chance
which to-day led her to meet with any one. To-morrow we shall have a
more secure opportunity. So to-morrow do you return and be with
Barbillon at the cross-road in his coach at the same hour."

"But thou--thou?"

"Tortillard shall lead me to the farm where the young girl lives. I will
cook up some tale--say we have lost our road, and ask leave to pass the
night at the farm in a corner of the stable. No one could refuse us
that. Tortillard will examine all the doors, windows, and ins and outs
of the house. There is always money to be looked for amongst these
farming people. You say the farm is situated in a lone spot; and, when
once we know all the ways and outlets, we need only return with some
safe friends, and the thing is done as easy--"

"Always 'downy!' What a head-piece!" said the Chouette, softening. "Go
on, _fourline_."

"To-morrow morning, instead of leaving the farm, I will complain of a
pain which prevents me from walking. If they will not believe me, I'll
show them the wound which I have always had since I smashed the 'loop of
my darbies,' and which is always painful to me. I'll say it is a burn I
had from a red-hot bar when I was a workman, and they'll believe me.
I'll remain at the farm part of the day, whilst Tortillard looks about
him. When the evening comes on, and the little wench goes out as usual
with the priest, I'll say I'm better, and fit to go away. Tortillard and
I will follow the young wench at a distance, and await your coming to us
here. As she will know us already, she will have no mistrust when she
sees us. We will speak to her, Tortillard and I; and, when once within
reach of my arms, I will answer for the rest. She's caught safe enough,
and the thousand francs are ours. That is not all. In two or three days
we can 'give the office' of the farm to Barbillon and some others, and
share with them if they get any 'swag,' as it will be me who put them on
the 'lay.'"

"Well done, No-Eyes! No one can come up to you," said the Chouette,
embracing the Schoolmaster. "Your plan is capital! Tell you what,
_fourline_, when you are done up and old, you must turn consulting
'prig'; you will earn as much money as a 'big-wig.' Come, kiss your old
woman, and be off as quick as you may, for these joskins go to sleep
with their poultry. I shall go to Barbillon; and to-morrow, at four
o'clock, we will be at the cross-road with the 'trap,' unless he is
nabbed for having assisted Gros-Boiteux and the Skeleton to 'do for' the
milk-woman's husband in the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie. But if he can't
come, another can, for the pretended hackney-coach belongs to the man in
mourning who has used it before. A quarter of an hour after we get to
the cross-road, I will be here and wait for you."

"All right! Good-by till to-morrow, Chouette."

"I had nearly forgot to give the wax to Tortillard, if there is any lock
to get the print of at the farm. Here, chickabiddy, do you know how to
use it?" said the one-eyed wretch to Tortillard, as she gave him a piece
of wax.

"Yes, yes, my father showed me how to use it. I took for him the print
of the lock of the little iron chest which my master, the quack doctor,
keeps in his small closet."

"Ah, that's all right; and, that the wax may not stick, do not forget to
moisten the wax after you have warmed it well in your hand."

"I know all about it," replied Tortillard.

"To-morrow, them, _fourline_," said the Chouette.

"To-morrow," replied the Schoolmaster.

The Chouette went towards the coach. The Schoolmaster and Tortillard
quitted the hollow way, and bent their steps towards the farm, the
lights which shone from the windows serving to guide them on their way.

Strange fatality, which again brought Anselm Duresnel under the same
roof with his wife, who had not seen him since his condemnation to hard
labour for life!



CHAPTER VII.

AN EVENING AT THE FARM.


Perhaps a more gratifying sight does not exist than the interior of a
large farm-kitchen prepared for the evening meal, especially during the
winter season. Its bright wood fire, the long table covered with the
savoury, smoking dishes, the huge tankards of foaming beer or cider,
with the happy countenances scattered round, speak of peaceful labour
and healthful industry. The farm-kitchen of Bouqueval was a fine
exemplification of this remark. Its immense open chimney, about six feet
high and eight feet wide, resembled the yawning mouth of some huge oven.
On the hearth blazed and sparkled enormous logs of beech or oak; and
from this prodigious brazier there issued forth such a body of light, as
well as heat, that the large lamp suspended from the centre beam sunk
into insignificance, and was rendered nearly useless. Every variety of
culinary utensils, sparkling in all the brightness of the most elaborate
cleanliness, and composed invariably of copper, brass, and tin, glowed
in the bright radiance of the winter fire, as they stood ranged with the
utmost nicety and effect on their appropriate shelves. An old-fashioned
cistern of elaborately polished copper showed its bright face, polished
as a mirror; and close beside stood a highly polished bread-trough and
cover, composed of walnut-tree wood, rubbed by the hand of housewifery
till you could see your face in it and from which issued a most tempting
smell of hot bread. A long and substantial table occupied the centre of
the kitchen; a tablecloth, which, though coarse in texture, vied with
the falling snow for whiteness, covered its entire length; while for
each expected guest was placed an earthenware plate, brown without, but
white within, and by its side a knife, fork, and spoon, lustrous as
silver itself. In the midst of the table, an immense tureen of vegetable
soup smoked like the crater of a volcano, and diffused its savoury
vapours over a dish of ham and greens, flanked by a most formidable
array of mutton, most relishly stewed with onions and potatoes. Below
was placed a large joint of roast veal, followed by two great plates of
winter salad, supported by a couple of baskets of apples; and a similar
number of cheeses completed the arrangements of the table. Three or four
stone pitchers filled with sparkling cider, and a like quantity of
loaves of brown bread, equal in size to the stones of a windmill, were
placed at the discretionary use of the supping party.

An old, shaggy, black shepherd dog, almost toothless, the superannuated
patriarch of all the canine tribe employed on the farm, was, by reason
of his great age and long services, indulged with permission to enjoy
the cheering warmth of the chimney-corner; but, using his privilege with
the utmost modesty and discretion, this venerable servitor, who answered
to the pastoral name of Lysander, lay quietly stretched out in a secure
side-nook, his nose resting on his paws, watching with the deepest
attention the various culinary preparations which preceded the supper.

The bill of fare thus presented to the reader, as the ordinary mode of
living at the farm of Bouqueval, may strike some of our readers as
unnecessarily sumptuous; but Madame Georges, faithfully following out
the wishes of Rodolph, endeavoured by all possible means to improve the
comforts of the labourers on the farm, who were always selected as being
the most worthy and industrious individuals of their district. They
were well paid, liberally treated, and so kindly used that to be
engaged on the Bouqueval farm was the highest ambition of all the best
labourers in that part of the country--an ambition which most
essentially promoted the welfare and advantage of the masters they then
served; for no applicant for employment at Bouqueval could obtain a
favourable hearing, unless he came provided with most satisfactory
testimonials from his last employer.

Thus, though on a very small scale, had Rodolph created a species of
model farm, which had for its aim not only the improvement of animals
and agricultural operations, but, above all, improving the nature of man
himself; and this he effected by making it worth their while to be
active, honest, and intelligent.

After having completed all the preparations for supper, and placed on
the table a jug of wine to accompany the dessert, the farm-cook sounded
the welcome tocsin, which told all that the cheering meal was prepared,
and, their evening toil concluded, they might freely enjoy the delights
of wholesome and temperate refreshment. Ere the sound had ceased to
vibrate on the ear, a merry, joyous throng, composed of men and maidens
to the number of twelve or fifteen, crowded around the table; the men
had open, manly countenances, the women looked healthy and
good-humoured, while the young girls belonging to the party wore the
brightest glow of youth and innocence. Every face was lighted up with
frank gaiety, content, and the satisfaction arising from the
consciousness of having well fulfilled one's duty. Thus happily prepared
in mind and body to do justice to the excellent fare set before them,
the happy party took their appointed places at table.

The upper end was occupied by an old, white-haired labourer, whose fine,
bold, yet sensible expression of face, bespoke him a descendant of the
ancient Gaulish mothers of the soil.

Father Châtelain (for so was this Nestor called) had worked on the farm
from his early childhood. When Rodolph purchased the farm, the old
servant had been strongly recommended to him, and he was forthwith
raised to the rank of overlooker, and, under the orders of Madame
Georges, general superintendent of all outdoor work; and unbounded,
indeed, was the influence possessed by Father Châtelain by virtue of his
age, his knowledge, and experience.

Every one having taken their seat, Father Châtelain, having fervently
invoked a blessing, then, in pursuance of an ancient and pious custom,
marked one of the loaves with the figure of a cross, and cut off a large
slice as the share of the Virgin or the poor, then, pouring out a glass
of wine with a similar consecration to charitable purposes, he
reverently placed both bread and wine on a plate placed in the centre of
the table purposely to receive them. At this moment the yard dogs barked
furiously; old Lysander replied by a low growl, and, curling back his
upper lip, displayed two or three still formidable fangs.

"Some person is passing near the wall of the courtyard," observed Father
Châtelain.

Scarcely had the words been uttered, than the bell of the great gate
sounded.

"Who can this possibly be at so late an hour?" said the old labourer;
"every one belonging to the place is in. Go and see who it is, Jean
René."

The individual thus addressed was a stout, able-bodied young labourer on
the farm, who was then busily employed blowing his scalding hot soup,
with a force of lungs that Æolus himself might have envied; but, used to
prompt obedience, in a moment the half-raised spoon was deposited in its
place, and, half stifling a sigh of regret, he departed on his errand.

"This is the first time our good Madame Georges and Mlle. Marie have
failed paying a visit to the warm chimney-corner, and looking on whilst
we took our supper, for this long time," said Father Châtelain. "I am
hungry as a hunter, but I shall not relish my supper half so well."

"Madame Georges is in the chamber of Mlle. Marie, who found herself
somewhat indisposed on her return from escorting M. le Curé to the
rectory," replied Claudine, the girl who had conducted La Goualeuse back
from the rectory, and thus unconsciously frustrated the evil designs of
the Chouette.

"I trust Mlle. Marie is only indisposed, not seriously ill, is she,
Claudine?" inquired the old man, with almost paternal anxiety.

"Oh, dear, no, Father Châtelain! God forbid! I hope and believe our dear
mademoiselle is only just a little struck with the cold of the night,
and her walk perhaps fatigued her. I trust she will be quite well by
to-morrow; indeed Madame Georges told me as much, and said that, if she
had had any fears, she should have sent to Paris for M. David, the negro
doctor, who took such care of mademoiselle when she was so ill. Well, I
cannot make out how any one can endure a black doctor! For my part I
should not have the slightest confidence in anything he said or did. No,
no! if one must have a doctor, let it be a Christian man with a white
skin; but a downright blackamoor! O saints above! why, the very sight of
him by my bedside would kill me!"

"But did not this Monsieur David cure Mlle. Marie from the long illness
with which she suffered when she first came here?" inquired the old man.

"Yes, Father Châtelain, he certainly did."

"Well?"

"Ah! but for all that, Father Châtelain, a doctor with a black face is
enough to terrify any one--I should scream myself into fits if he were
to come rolling up the great whites of his eyes at me."

"But is not this M. David the same person who cured Dame Anica of that
dreadful wound in her leg, which had confined her to her bed for upwards
of three years?"

"Yes, exactly so, Father Châtelain; he certainly did set old Dame Anica
up again."

"Well, then, my child?"

"Nay, but only think!--a black man! and when one is ill, too! when one
can so ill bear up against such horrid things. If he were only a little
dark, or even deep brown, but quite, quite a black--all black--oh,
Father Châtelain, I really cannot bring myself to think of it!"

"Tell me, my child, what colour is your favourite heifer Musette?"

"Oh, white--white as a swan, Father Châtelain; and such a milcher! I can
say that for the poor thing without the least falsehood, a better cow we
have not got on the farm."

"And your other favourite, Rosette?"

"Rosette? Oh, she is as black as a raven, not one white hair about her I
should say; and, indeed, to do her justice, she is a first-rate milcher
also. I hardly know which is the best, she or my pretty Musette."

"And what coloured milk does she give?"

"Why, white, of course, Father Châtelain; I really thought you knew
that."

"Is her milk as white and as good as the milk of your snowy pet,
Musette?"

"Every bit as good in colour and quality."

"Although Rosette is a black cow?"

"To be sure! why, Father Châtelain, what difference can it possibly make
to the milk whether the cow that gives it is black, white, red, or
brown?"

"How, then, my good girl, can it in any way signify whether a doctor has
a black or white skin, or what his complexion may be?"

"Well," answered Claudine, fairly hunted into a corner from which no
argument could rescue her,--"well, as regards what makes a black doctor
not so good as a white one, it is--it is, because a black skin is so
very ugly to look at, and a white one is so much more agreeable to one's
eyes; I'm sure I can't think of any other reason, Father Châtelain, if I
try for ever; but with cows the colour of the skin makes not the very
least difference, of that you may be assured; but, then, you know
there's a deal of difference between a cow and a man."

These not very clear physiognomical reflections of Claudine, touching
the effect of light or dark skins in the human and animal race, were
interrupted by the return of Jean René, blowing his fingers with
animation as he had before blown his soup.

"Oh, how cold! how cold it is this night!" exclaimed he, on entering;
"it is enough to freeze one to death; it is a pretty deal more snug and
comfortable in-doors than out this bitter night. Oh, how cold it is!"

"Why,--

      'The frost that cometh from North and East
       Biteth the most and ceaseth the least.'

Don't you know that, my lad?" said the old superintendent Châtelain.
"But who was it that rang so late?"

"A poor blind man and a boy who leads him about, Father Châtelain."

"And what does this poor blind man want?" inquired Châtelain.

"The poor man and his son were going by the cross-road to Louvres, and
have lost themselves in the snow; and as the cold is enough to turn a
man into an icicle, and the night is pitch dark, the poor blind father
has come to entreat permission for himself and lad to pass the night on
the farm; he says he shall be for ever thankful for leave to lie on a
little straw under a hovel, or in any out-building."

"Oh, as for that, I am quite sure that Madame Georges, who never refuses
charity to any unfortunate being, will willingly permit them to do so;
but we must first acquaint her with it; go, Claudine, and tell her the
whole story." Claudine disappeared.

"And where is this poor man waiting?" asked Father Châtelain.

"In the little barn just by."

"But why in the barn? why put him there?"

"Bless you, if I had left him in the yard, the dogs would have eaten him
up alive! Why, Father Châtelain, it was no use for me to call out
'Quiet, Médor! come here, Turk! down, Sultan!' I never saw dogs in such
a fury. And, besides, we don't use our dogs on the farm to fly at poor
folks, as they are trained to do at other places."

"Well, my lads, it seems that the 'share for the poor' has not been laid
aside in vain to-night. But try and sit a little closer; there, that'll
do; now put two more plates and knives and forks for this blind
traveller and his boy, for I feel quite certain what Madame Georges's
answer will be, and that she will desire them to be housed here for the
night."

"It is really a thing I can't make out," said Jean René, "about the dogs
being so very violent, especially Turk, who went with Claudine this
evening to the rectory. Why, when I stroked him, to try and pacify him,
I felt his coat standing up on end like so many bristles of a porcupine.
Now, what do you say to that, eh, Father Châtelain--you who know almost
everything?"

"Why, my lad, I, 'who know everything,' say just this, that the beasts
know far more than I do, and can see farther. I remember, in the autumn,
when the heavy rains had so swollen the little river, I was returning
with my team-horses one dark night--I was riding upon Cuckoo, the old
roan horse, and deuce take me if I could make out any spot it would be
safe to wade through, for the night was as dark as the mouth of a pit.
Well, I threw the bridle on old Cuckoo's back, and he soon found what,
I'll answer for it, none of us could have discovered. Now, who taught
the dumb brute to know the safe from the unsafe parts of the stream, let
me ask you?"

"Ay, Father Châtelain, that's what I was waiting to ask you. Who taught
the old roan to discover danger and escape from it so cleverly?"

"The same Almighty wisdom which instructs the swallow to build in our
chimneys, and guides the marten to make his nest among the reeds of our
banks, my lad. Well, Claudine," said the ancient oracle of the kitchen
to the blooming dairymaid, who just then entered, bearing on her arms
two pairs of snowy white sheets, from which an odoriferous smell of sage
and thyme was wafted along,--"well, I make no doubt but Madame Georges
has sent permission for these poor creatures, the blind man and his
child, to sleep here, has she not?"

"These sheets are to prepare beds for them, in the little room at the
end of the passage," said Claudine.

"Go and bid them come in, then, Jean René; and you, Claudine, my good
girl, put a couple of chairs near the fire--they will be glad of a good
warm before sitting down to table."

The furious barking of the dogs was now renewed, mingled with the voice
of Jean René, who was endeavoring to pacify them; the door of the
kitchen was abruptly opened, and the Schoolmaster and Tortillard entered
with as much precipitation as though they feared a pursuit from some
dangerous foe.

"For the love of heaven, keep off your dogs!" cried the Schoolmaster, in
the utmost terror; "they have been trying to bite us!"

"They have torn a great bit out of my blouse," whined Tortillard,
shivering with cold and pale with fear.

"Don't be frightened, good man," said Jean René, shutting the door
securely; "but I never before saw our dogs in such a perfect fury--it
must be the cold makes them so spiteful; perhaps, being half frozen,
they fancied biting you would serve to warm them--there is no knowing
what mere animals may mean by what they do."

"Why, are you going to begin, too?" exclaimed the old farmer, as
Lysander, who had hitherto lain perfectly happy in the radiance of the
glowing fire, started up, and, growling fiercely, was about to fly at
the strangers. "This old dog is quiet enough, but, having heard the
other dogs make such a furious noise, he thinks he must do the same.
Will you lie down and be quiet, you old brute? Do you hear, sir? lie
down!"

At these words from Father Châtelain, accompanied by a significant
motion of the foot, Lysander, with a low, deep growl of dissatisfaction,
slowly returned to his favourite corner by the hearth, while the
Schoolmaster and Tortillard remained trembling by the kitchen-door, as
though fearful of approaching farther. The features of the ruffian were
so hideous, from the frightful effects produced by the cold, that some
of the servants in the kitchen shuddered with alarm, while others
recoiled in disgust; this impression was not lost on Tortillard, who
felt reassured by the terrors of the villagers, and even felt proud of
the repulsiveness of his companion. This first confusion over, Father
Châtelain, thinking only of worthily discharging the duties of
hospitality, said to the Schoolmaster:

"Come, my good friend--come near the fire and warm yourself thoroughly,
and then you shall have some supper with us; for you happened to come
very fortunately, just as we were sitting down to table. Here, sit down,
just where I have placed your chair. But what am I thinking about?"
added the worthy old labourer. "I ought to have spoken to your son, not
you, seeing that it has pleased God to take away your eyesight--a heavy
loss, a heavy loss; but let us hope all for your good, my friend, though
you may not now think so. Here, my boy, lead your father to that snug
place in the chimney-corner."

"Yes, kind sir," drawled out Tortillard, with a nasal twang and canting,
hypocritical tone; "may God bless you for your charity to the poor
blind! Here, father, take my arm; lean on my shoulder, father; take
care, take care, gently;" and, with affected zeal and tenderness, the
urchin guided the steps of the brigand till they reached the indicated
spot. As the pair approached Lysander, he uttered a low, growling noise;
but as the Schoolmaster brushed past him, and the sagacious animal had
full scent of his garments, he broke out into one of those deep howls
with which, it is asserted by the superstitious, dogs frequently
announce an approaching death.

"What, in the devil's name, do all these cursed animals mean by their
confounded noise?" said the Schoolmaster to himself. "Can they smell the
blood on my clothes, I wonder? for I now recollect I wore the trousers I
have on at present the night the cattle-dealer was murdered."

"Did you notice that?" inquired Jean René of Father Châtelain. "Why, I
vow that, as often as old Lysander had caught scent of the wandering
stranger, he actually set up a regular death-howl."

And this remark was followed up by a most singular confirmation of the
fact; the cries of Lysander were so loud and mournful that the other
dogs caught the sound (for the farmyard was only separated from the
kitchen by a glazed window in the latter), and, according to the custom
of the canine race, they each strove who should outdo the other in
repeating and prolonging the funereal wail, which, according to vulgar
belief, always foretells death. Though but little given to superstitious
dread, the farm-people looked from one to another with a feeling of
wonder not unmixed with awe. Even the Schoolmaster himself, diabolically
hardened as he was, felt a cold shudder steal over him at the thought
that all these fatal sounds burst forth upon the approach of him--the
self-convicted murderer! while Tortillard, too audacious and hardened to
enter into such alarms, with all the infidelity in which he had been
trained, even from his mother's arms, looked on with delighted mockery
at the universal panic, and was, perhaps, the only person present devoid
of an uneasy feeling; but, once freed from his apprehensions of
suffering from the violence of the animals, he listened even with
pleasure to the horrible discord of their long-drawn-out wailings, and
felt almost tempted to pardon them the fright they had originally
occasioned him, in consideration of the perfect terror they had struck
into the inhabitants of the farm, and for the gratification he derived
from the convulsive horror of the Schoolmaster. But after the momentary
stupor had passed away Jean René again quitted the kitchen, and the loud
cracking of his whip soon put an end to the prophetic howlings of Médor,
Turk, and Sultan, and quickly dispersed them to their separate kennels,
and as the noise ceased, the gloomy cloud passed away from the kitchen,
and the peasants looked up with the same honest cheerfulness they had
worn upon the entrance of the two travellers. Ere long they had left off
wondering at the repulsive ugliness of the Schoolmaster, and only
thought with pity of his great affliction, in being blind; they
commiserated the lameness of the poor boy, admired the interesting
sharpness of his countenance, the deep, cute glance of his ever-moving
eye, and, above all, loaded him with praises for the extreme care and
watchfulness with which he attended to his afflicted parent. The
appetite of the labourers, which had been momentarily forgotten, now
returned with redoubled violence, and for a time nothing could be heard
but the clattering of plates and rattling of knives and forks. Still,
however busily employed with their suppers, the servants assembled round
the table, both male and female, could not but remark, with infinite
pleasure, the tender assiduity of the lad towards the blind creature who
sat beside him. Nothing could exceed the devoted affection and filial
care with which Tortillard prepared his meat for him, cutting both that
and his bread with most accurate nicety, pouring out his drink, and
never attempting even to taste a morsel himself, till his father
expressed himself as having completed his supper. But, for all this
dutiful attention, the young ruffian took ample and bitter revenge.
Instigated as much by an innate spirit of cruelty as the desire of
imitation natural to his age, Tortillard found an equal enjoyment with
the Chouette in having something to torment (_a bête de souffrance_);
and it was a matter of inexpressible exultation to his wretched mind
that he, a poor, distorted, crippled, abject creature, should have it in
his power to tyrannise over so powerful and ferocious a creature as the
Schoolmaster,--it was like torturing a muzzled tiger. He even refined
his gratification, by compelling his victim to endure all the agonies he
inflicted, without wincing or exhibiting the slightest external sign of
his suffering. Thus he accompanied each outward mark of devoted
tenderness towards his supposed parent, by aiming a severe kick against
the Schoolmaster's legs, on one of which there was (in common with many
who had long worked in the galleys) a deep and severe wound, the effect
of the heavy iron chain worn during the term of punishment around the
right leg; and, by way of compelling the miserable sufferer to exercise
a greater degree of stoical courage, the urchin always seized the moment
when the object of his malice was either drinking or speaking.

"Here, dear father! here is a nice peeled nut," said Tortillard, placing
on the plate of his supposed parent a nut carefully prepared.

"Good boy," said old Châtelain, smiling kindly at him. Then, addressing
the bandit, he added: "However great may be your affliction, my friend,
so good a son is almost sufficient to make up even for the loss of
sight; but Providence is so gracious, he never takes away one blessing
without sending another."

"You are quite right, kind sir! My lot is a very hard one, and, but for
the noble conduct of my excellent child, I--"

A sharp cry of irrepressible anguish here broke from the quivering lips
of the tortured man; the son of Bras Rouge had this time aimed his blow
so effectually, that the point of his heavy-nailed shoe had reached the
very centre of the wound, and produced unendurable agony.

"Father! dear father! what is the matter?" exclaimed Tortillard, in a
whimpering voice; then, suddenly rising, he threw both his arms round
the Schoolmaster's neck, whose first impulse of rage and pain was to
stifle the limping varlet in his Herculean grasp; and so powerfully did
he compress the boy's chest against his own, that his impeded
respiration vented itself in a low moaning sound. A few minutes, and
Tortillard's last prank would have been played; but, reflecting that the
lad was for the present indispensable to the furtherance of the schemes
he had on hand, the Schoolmaster, by a violent effort, controlled his
desire to annihilate his tormentor, and contented himself with pushing
him off his shoulders back into his own chair. The sympathising group
around the table were far from seeing through all this, and merely
considered these close embraces as an interchange of paternal and filial
tenderness, while the half suffocation and deadly pallor of Tortillard
they attributed to emotion caused by the sudden illness of his beloved
father.

"What ailed you just now, my good man?" inquired Father Châtelain; "only
see, you have quite frightened your poor boy. Why, he looks pale as
death, and can scarcely breathe. Come, my little man; you must not take
on so--your father is all right again."

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen all," replied the Schoolmaster,
controlling himself with much difficulty, for the pain he was still
enduring was most excruciating. "I am better now. I'll tell you, with
your kind leaves, all about it. You see I am by trade a working
locksmith, and, one day that I was employed in beating out a huge bar of
red hot iron, it fell over on my two legs, and burnt them so dreadfully
that it has never healed; unfortunately, just now, I happened to strike
the leg that is worst against the table, and the sudden agony it
occasioned me drew forth the sudden cry which so much disturbed all this
good company, and for which I humbly beg pardon."

"Poor dear father!" whined out Tortillard, casting a look of fiendish
malice at the shivering Schoolmaster, and wholly recovered from his late
attack of excessive emotion. "Poor father! you have indeed got a bad leg
nobody can cure. Ah, kind gentlemen, I hope you will never have such a
shocking wound, and be obliged to hear all the doctors say it never will
get well. No! never--never. Oh, my dear, dear father! how I wish I could
but suffer the pain instead of you!"

At this tender, moving speech, the females present expressed the utmost
admiration for the dutiful speaker, and began feeling in their vast
pockets for some more substantial mark of their regard.

"It is unlucky, my honest friend," said old Châtelain, addressing the
Schoolmaster, "you had not happened to come to this farm about three
weeks ago, instead of to-night."

"And why so, if you please?"

"Because we had staying for a few days in the house a celebrated Paris
doctor, who has an infallible remedy for all diseases of the legs. A
worthy old woman, belonging to our village, had been confined to her
bed upwards of three years with some affection of the legs. Well, this
doctor, being here, as I said, heard of the case, applied an unguent to
the wounds, and now, bless you, she is as surefooted, ay, and as swift,
too, as any of our young girls; and the first holiday she makes she
intends walking to the house of her benefactor, in the Allée des Veuves,
at Paris, to return her grateful thanks. To be sure it is a good step
from hence, but then, as Mother Anica says--Why, what has come over you
again, my friend? Is your leg still so painful?"

The mention of the Allée des Veuves had recalled such frightful
recollections to the Schoolmaster, that, involuntarily, a cold shudder
shook his frame, while a fearful spasm, by contracting his ghastly
countenance, made it appear still more hideous.

"Yes," replied he, trying to conceal his emotion, "a sudden darting pain
seized me, and--Pray excuse my interrupting your kind and sensible
discourse, and be pleased to proceed."

"It really is a great pity," resumed the old labourer, "that this
excellent doctor should not be with us at present; but I tell you what,
he is as good as he is skilful, and I am quite sure if you let your
little lad conduct you to his house when you return to Paris, that he
will cure you. His address is not difficult to recollect, it is 17 Allée
des Veuves. Even should you forget the number, it will not matter, for
there are but very few doctors in the neighbourhood, and no other negro
surgeon,--for, only imagine, this clever, kind, and charitable man is a
black, but his heart is white and good. His name is David,--Doctor
David,--you will be able to remember that name, I dare say."

The features of the Schoolmaster were so seamed and scarred that it was
difficult to perceive when his colour varied. He did, however, on the
present occasion, turn ghastly pale as he first heard the exact number
mentioned of Rodolph's house, and afterwards the description of the
black doctor,--of David, the negro surgeon, who, by Rodolph's orders,
had inflicted on him the fearful punishment, the terrible results of
which were each hour more painfully developed. Father Châtelain,
however, was too much interested in his subject to notice the deadly
paleness of the Schoolmaster, and proceeded with his discourse:

"When you leave us, my poor fellow, we will be sure to write his address
on a slip of paper and give it to your son, for I know that, besides
putting you in a certain way to be cured of your painful wound, it would
be gratifying to M. David to be able to relieve your sufferings. Oh, he
is so good,--never so happy as when he has rendered any person a
service. I wish he had not always that mournful and dejected look. I
fear he has some heavy care near his heart; and he is so good, so full
of pity for all who suffer. Well, well, Providence will bless him in
another world; but come, friend, let us drink to the health and
happiness of your future benefactor,--here take this mug."

"No, thank you!" returned the Schoolmaster, with a gloomy air; "none for
me. I--I am not thirsty, and I never drink unless I am."

"Nay, friend, but this is good old wine I have poured out for you; not
cider," said the labourer. "Many tradespeople do not drink as good.
Bless your heart, this farm is not conducted as other farms are,--what
do you think of our style of living, by the by? have you relished your
supper?"

"All very good," responded the Schoolmaster mechanically, more and more
absorbed in the painfulness of his ideas.

"Well, then, as we live one day, so we do another. We work well, we live
well, we have a good conscience, and an equally good bed to rest upon
after the labours of the day. Our lives roll on in peace and
contentment. There are seven labourers constantly employed on the farm,
who are paid almost double wages to what others get; but then I can
venture to assert, that if we are paid double, we do as much work among
us as fourteen ordinary labourers would do. The mere husbandry servants
have one hundred and fifty crowns a year, the dairy-women and other
females engaged about the place sixty crowns, and a tenth share of the
produce of the farm is divided among us all. You may suppose we do not
idle away much time, or fail to make hay while the sun shines, for
Nature is a bountiful mother, and ever returns a hundredfold to those
who assiduously seek her favour; the more we give her, the more she
returns."

"Your master cannot get very rich if he treats you and pays you thus
liberally," said the Schoolmaster.

"Oh, our master is different to all others, and has a mode of repaying
himself peculiarly his own."

"From what you say," answered the blind man, hoping by engaging in
conversation to escape from the gloominess of his own thoughts, "your
master must be a very extraordinary person."

"Indeed he is, my good man, a most uncommon master to meet with. Now, as
chance has brought you among us, and a strange though a lucky chance for
you it has proved, lying out of the highroad as this village does, it is
so very seldom any stranger ever finds it out. Well, I was going to say,
here you are, and no fault to find with your quarters, is there? Now, in
all human probability, when you turn your back upon the place you will
never return to it, but you shall not depart without hearing from me a
description of our master and all he has done for the farm, upon
condition that you promise to repeat it again wherever you go, and to
whomsoever you may meet with. You will see, I mean, I beg pardon, you
will then be able to understand."

"I listen to you," answered the Schoolmaster; "proceed."

"And I can promise you you will not be throwing away your time by
listening," replied the venerable Châtelain. "Now, one day our master
thought all at once: 'Here am I, rich enough to eat two dinners a day if
I liked, but I don't. Now, suppose I were to provide a meal for those
who have none at all, and enable such as can hardly procure half a
dinner to enjoy as much good food as they desired, would not that be
better than over-indulging myself? So it shall be,' says he, and away he
goes to work, and, first thing, he buys this farm, which was not much of
a concern then, and scarcely kept a couple of ploughs at work; and,
being born and bred on the place, I ought to know something about it.
Next, master made considerable additions to the farm. I'll tell you all
about that by and by. At the head of the farm he placed a most worthy
and respectable female, who had known a great deal of trouble in her
past life--master always chose out people for their goodness and their
misfortunes--and, when he brought the person I am telling you of here,
he said to her in my hearing, 'I wish this place to be like the Temple
of our great Maker, open to the deserving and the afflicted, but closed
against the wicked and hardened reprobate.' So idle beggars are always
turned from the gate; but those who are able and willing to work have
always the opportunity set before them: the charity of labour, our
master says, is no humiliation to him who receives it, but a favour and
service conferred on the person whose labour is thus done; and the rich
man who does not act upon this principle but ill employs his wealth. So
said our master. But he did more than talk--he acted. There was formerly
a road from here to Ecouen, which cut off a good mile of distance, but,
Lord love you! it was one great rutty bog, impossible to get up or down
it; it was the death of every horse, and certain destruction to every
vehicle that attempted to pass through it. A little labour, and a
trifling amount of money from each farmer in the adjoining country
would soon have repaired the road; but they never could be brought to
any unanimity on the subject, and, in proportion as one farmer would be
anxious to contribute towards putting the road in order, the others
would invariably decline sending either men or money to assist. So our
master, perceiving all this, said, 'The road shall be repaired; but as
those who can afford to contribute will not, and as it is more for
convenience and accommodation to the rich than necessity for the poor,
it shall first become useful to those who would work if they could get
it to do, who have heart, and hands, and courage, but no employ. Well,
this road shall be reserved as a constant occupation for persons of this
description. Horsemen and carriages belonging to the rich and affluent,
who care not how roads are repaired, so that they can travel at their
ease, may go round by the farther side.' So, for example, whenever a
strong, sturdy fellow presented himself at the farm, pleading hunger and
want of work, I'd say to him, 'Here, my lad; here is a basin of warm
nourishing soup--take it and welcome; then, if you wish for work, here
is a pickaxe and spade; one of our people will show you the Ecouen road;
make every day twelve feet of it good, by spreading and breaking the
flints; and every evening, after your work is examined, you shall
receive at the rate of forty sous for the quantity named; twenty sous
for half as much; ten sous for a quarter; for less than that, nothing at
all.' Then, towards evening, upon my return from labour, I used to go on
the road, measure their work, and examine whether it was well done."

"And only to think," interposed Jean René, in a fit of virtuous
indignation, "only think, now, of there coming two heartless vagabonds,
who drank their soup and walked off with the pickaxe and shovel. It is
enough to sicken one of doing good or trying to benefit one's fellow
creatures."

"Quite right, Master René," exclaimed the other labourers; "so it is."

"Come, come, lads," resumed Father Châtelain, "don't be too warm. Just
see here. We might as well say it is useless to plant trees, or sow
grain, because there are caterpillars, weevils, and other injurious
insects that gnaw the leaves or devour the seeds put in the ground. No,
no! we destroy the vermin. But God Almighty, who is no niggard, causes
fresh buds to burst forth and new ears of corn to sprout; the damage is
abundantly repaired, and no trace remains of the mischievous insects
which have passed over our work. Am I not right, my friend?" said the
old labourer, addressing the Schoolmaster.

"No doubt--no doubt," replied the latter, who had appeared for some time
past lost in a train of serious meditation.

"Then, as for women and children, there is plenty of occupation for them
also, according to their age and strength," added Father Châtelain.

"Yet, spite of all this," observed Claudine, joining in the
conversation, "the road gets on but very slowly."

"Which only goes to prove, my good girl, that in this part of the
country there is happily no scarcity of employment for the honest and
industrious labourer."

"But now, as in the case of a poor, helpless, afflicted creature such as
I am," said the Schoolmaster, hastily, "would not the worthy owner of
the farm grant me a humble corner in it for charity's sake--a shelter
and a morsel of bread for the little while I have to remain a burden to
any one in this troublesome world? Oh, my worthy sir, could I but obtain
such a boon I would pass the remainder of my days in praying for a
blessing on my benefactor."

And these words were really pronounced in entire sincerity of meaning;
not that compunction for his many crimes touched the brigand's stony
heart, but he contrasted the happy peacefulness of the lives of these
labourers to his own wretched, stormy existence; and still further did
he envy them when he reflected upon all that the Chouette might have in
store for him; he shuddered as he reflected upon the future she would
provide for him, and more than ever regretted, by having recalled his
old accomplice, having for ever lost the means of dwelling with good and
honest persons, such as those with whom the Chourineur had placed him.
Father Châtelain surveyed the Schoolmaster with an air of surprise.

"My good man," said he, "I did not know you were so utterly destitute."

"Alas! yes, it is even so. I lost my sight by an accident while working
at my trade. I am going to Louvres to endeavour to find a distant
relation there, who, I hope, may be willing to assist me. But, you are
aware, people are not always so open-hearted as they should be; they do
not like distressed objects, such as myself, coming to claim kindred,
and are frequently harsh and unkind," answered the Schoolmaster, sighing
deeply.

"But the most selfish heart would grieve at your distress," replied the
old labourer. "The most hard-hearted relative would pity a man like
you--a good and honest workman overtaken by a sudden calamity, and left
without hope or help. Then the moving spectacle of this young and tender
child, your only friend and guide, would wring pity from the very
stones. But how is it that the master for whom you worked previously to
your accident has done nothing for you?"

"He is now dead," said the Schoolmaster, after a short hesitation; "and
he was my only friend on earth."

"But then there is the hospital for the blind."

"I am not the right age to qualify me for admission."

"Poor man! yours is, indeed, a hard case."

"Do you think it likely that, in the event of my relation at Louvres
refusing to assist me, your master, whom I already respect without
knowing, would take pity on me?"

"Unfortunately, you see, the farm is not a hospital. Our general rule is
to grant all infirm or afflicted travellers a temporary shelter of a
night or a day in the house. Then some assistance is furnished, and they
are put on their road with a prayer to kind Providence to take them
under its charge."

"Then you think there is no hope of interesting your master in my
unhappy fate?" asked the brigand, with a sigh of regret.

"I tell you what is the general custom here, my good man; but so
compassionate a person as our master might go any lengths to serve you."

"Do you really think so?" said the Schoolmaster. "Oh, if he would but
permit me to remain here, I could live in any retired corner, and be
happy and grateful for such a mere trifle of subsistence!"

"As I said before, our master is capable of the most generous actions.
But, were he to consent to your remaining at the farm, there would be no
occasion for you to hide yourself; you would fare in every respect as
you have seen us treated to-day. Some occupation would be found for your
son suitable to his age and strength. He would not want for good
instruction or wise counsels; our venerable minister would teach him
with the other children of the village, and, in the words of Scripture,
he would grow in goodness and in stature beneath the pious care of our
excellent curé. But the best way for you to manage this will be to lay
every particular of your case and petition before our 'Lady of Ready
Help,' when she comes into the kitchen, as she is sure to do before you
start on your journey to-morrow morning."

"What name did you call your lady by?"

"Nay, I meant our mistress, who always goes by that appellation amongst
us. If she interests herself for you, your suit will be granted; for, in
matters of charity, our master never opposes her smallest wish."

"Oh, then," exclaimed the Schoolmaster, in a joyous tone, already
exulting in his hoped-for deliverance from the power of the Chouette, "I
will thankfully follow your advice, and speak to her whenever I have the
blessed opportunity!"

This hope found no echo in the mind of Tortillard, who felt not the
slightest disposition to avail himself of the offers of the old
labourer, and grow up in goodness under the auspices of the venerable
curé. The inclinations of Bras Rouge's son were anything but rural,
neither did his turn of mind incline to the pastoral. Faithful to the
code of morality professed by the Chouette, and promulgated by her, he
would have been severely distressed to see the Schoolmaster emancipate
himself from their united tyranny; and he now thought it high time to
recall the brigand from the illusory visions of flowery meads and all
the _et coeteras_ of a country life, in which his fancy seemed
revelling, to the realities of his present position.

"Yes, oh, yes," repeated the Schoolmaster; "I will assuredly address my
prayers to your 'Lady of Ready Help.' She will pity me and kindly--"

Tortillard here interrupted him by a vigorous and artfully managed kick,
so well directed, that, as before, it took the direst effect on the most
sensitive spot. The intense agony for a time quite bereft the brigand of
speech or breath; but remembering the fatal consequences of giving way
to the feelings which boiled within him, he struggled for self-command,
and, after a pause of a few minutes, added, in a faint and suffering
voice, "Yes, I venture to hope your good mistress would pity and
befriend me."

"Dear father," said Tortillard, in a hypocritical tone, "you forget my
poor dear aunt, Madame la Chouette, who is so fond of you. Poor Aunty
Chouette, she would never part with you so easily, I know. Directly she
heard of your staying here, she would come along with M. Barbillon and
fetch you away--that she would, I know."

"Madame la Chouette and M. Barbillon. Why this honest man seems to have
relations among all the 'birds of the air and fishes of the sea,'"
uttered Jean René in a voice of mirthful irony, giving his neighbour
rather a vigorous poke with his elbow. "Funny, isn't it, Claudine?"

"Oh, you great unfeeling calf! How can you make a joke on these poor
creatures?" replied the tender-hearted dairy-maid, returning Jean René's
thrust with sufficient interest to compromise the safety of his ribs.

"Is Madame la Chouette a relation of yours?" inquired the old labourer
of the Schoolmaster.

"Yes, a distant one," answered the other, with a dull, dejected manner.

"And is she the person you were going to Louvres to try and find?" asked
Father Châtelain.

"She is," replied the blind man; "but I think my son overrates her zeal
on my account. However, under any circumstances, I shall speak to your
excellent lady to-morrow, and entreat her aid to further my request with
the kind, charitable owner of this farm, but," added he, purposely to
divert the conversation into another channel, and so put an end to the
imprudent remarks of Tortillard, "talking of farms, you promised to
explain to me the difference that exists in the management of this farm
and farms in general."

"I did so," replied Father Châtelain, "and I will keep my word. Now,
after having planned all I told you about the charity of labour, our
master said to himself, 'There are many institutions where plans are
devised, and rewards assigned, for improvements in the breed of horses,
cattle, sheep, and other animals for the best constructed ploughs, and
other agricultural implements. And I cannot help thinking that all this
time we are not going to the fountain-head, and beginning, as we ought
to begin, by improving the condition of the labouring classes
themselves, before we give all this heed to the beast which perisheth.
Good beasts are capital things, but good men are better, and more
difficult to meet with. Give your horses and cattle plenty of good food,
clear running water; place them either out-of-doors in a fine, healthy
atmosphere, or give them a clean, well-managed stable, with good and
regular attendance, and they will thrive to your heart's content, and be
capable of reaching any degree of excellence. But with men, look you, it
is quite another thing. You cannot elevate a man's mind as you can
fatten an ox. The animal fattens on his pasture because its taste
gratifies his palate; he eats because he likes what he feeds on, and his
body profits and thrives in proportion to the pleasure with which he has
devoured his food. Well, then, my opinion is, that to make good advice
really profitable to men, they should be enabled clearly to perceive
their own personal advantage in following it.'"

"Just as the ox is profited by eating the fine grass that grows around
him, Father Châtelain?" said several voices.

"Precisely the same."

"But, Father Châtelain," exclaimed another voice. "I have heard talk of
a sort of farm where young thieves, who might in other respects have
conducted themselves very well, are taken in, taught all sorts of
farming knowledge, and fed and treated like princes."

"You have heard quite right, my good fellow, there is such an
institution, and, as far as it goes, is founded on pure and just
motives, and is calculated to do much good. We should never despair for
the wicked, but we should also hope all things for the good. Suppose now
a strong, healthy, and industrious young man, of excellent character,
ready and willing to work, but desirous of receiving good instruction in
his way of life, were to present himself at the place you are speaking
of--this farm of reclaimed thieves--well, the first question would be,
'Well, my chap, are you a rogue and a vagabond?' 'No!' 'Oh, then we
can't receive you here--we've no room for honest lads.'"

"What you say, father, is right, every word of it," rejoined Jean René.
"Rascals are provided for, while honest men want; and beasts are
considered, and their condition continually improved, while men are
passed over and left in ignorance and neglect."

"It was purposely to remedy what you complain of, my brave lad, that our
master took this farm (as I was mentioning to our blind visitor). 'I
know very well,' said he, 'that honest men will be rewarded on high, but
then, you see, it is far and long to look forward to, and there are many
(and much to be pitied are they) who can neither look to such a
distance, nor wait with patience the indefinite period which bids them
live on hope alone. Then how are these poor, depressed, and toil-worn
creatures to find leisure thus to seek religious comfort? Rising at the
first dawn of day, they toil and labour with weary limbs, till night
releases them and sends them to their wretched hovels. Sunday is spent
by them at the public-house, drinking to drive away the recollections
both of their past and future wretchedness. Neither can these poor
beings turn their very hardships to a good account by extracting a
useful moral from them. After a hard day's work does their bread seem
less coarse and black, their pallet less hard, their infants less sickly
and meagre, their wives less worn down by giving nourishment to the
feeble babes of their breast? No, no, far from it. Alas, the thin,
half-starved mother is but ill calculated to nourish another, when she
is obliged to yield her slender share of the family meal to still the
clamours of her famishing children. Yet all this might be endured, aye,
even cheerfully, for use has familiarised them with hardships and
privations; their bread is food, though coarse and homely, their straw
bed rests their weary limbs, and their children, though stunted and
sickly, live on. All these, I say, could be borne, did no comparison
arise between their own poverty and the condition of others; but, when
they visit the town or city on market-days, they see an abundance of
good white loaves crowding the windows of the bakers' shops; warm, soft
mattresses and blankets are displayed for sale to such as have the means
of purchasing; children fresh and blooming as the flowers of May are
playing joyously about, and even from the superabundance of their meals
casting a portion to the dogs and other pet animals. Ah! human courage
gives way at this reverse in the picture of human condition; and when
the tired, care-worn men return to their mud hovels, their black bread
and straw pallet, and are surrounded by a number of squalid,
half-starved, wailing infants, to whom they would gladly have brought
the share of cakes and buns thrown by the pampered children of great
towns in the streets, or cast to the animals, then bitter discontent and
repining take possession of their mind, and, utterly forgetting that on
high is One who careth for all, they say, "Why is this difference
allowed? and, if there must be both rich and poor in the world, why were
not we born to riches? why should not every man have his turn in worldly
prosperity? We are not justly used or fairly treated in being always
poor and hard worked." Of course, all this is both sinful and
unreasonable; neither does it in any manner serve to lighten their load;
and yet they must go on, bending, staggering under the burden too heavy
for them to bear, till they sink, utterly exhausted and worn out. They
must toil, toil on, without hope, without relaxing their daily efforts,
or without once daring to entertain the idea that, by a long continuance
in honest, virtuous, industrious conduct, the day might come when, like
the great Creator of all, they might rest from their labours, and behold
peaceful ease succeeding the hard-griping hand of poverty. Think of a
whole life passed thus, in one continued struggle for the bare means of
life, without a glimmer of hope to cheer the thorny path. What must such
a life be like? Why, it would resemble one long rainy day, without a
single ray of brightness from the blessed sun to help us through it.
Then labour is resumed with an unwilling and dissatisfied spirit. "What
does it signify to us," cry the worn-out labourers, "whether the harvest
yields ill or well? Whether the ears of corn be heavy or light makes no
difference to us. Why should we overwork ourselves, or trouble our heads
with matters that only concern our master? It is sufficient for us to
act with strict honesty. We will not commit any crime, because there are
laws ready to punish such as do; but neither will we try to perform acts
of goodness, because for those the laws provide no recompense." Such a
mode of arguing, my boys, is as unwise as it is wrong and sinful, but,
depend upon it, it is true to nature. From this indifference comes
idleness, and from idleness to crime the distance is very short. Now,
unfortunately, among the class I have been describing, the far greater
proportion consists of those whose conduct may be considered as neither
good nor bad, that is to say, without any particular leaning either way,
and, consequently, a mere trifle might firmly enlist them in the service
of virtue or vice. These are the very individuals,' continued our
master, 'we ought to try and improve, just as we should have done had
they been born to the honour of figuring as animals with hoofs, horns,
or woolly coats. Let us continue to point out to them how completely it
is to their interest to be active, industrious, steady, and well
qualified to discharge their several duties; let us effectually convince
them that, by becoming better men, they will also be much happier; let
them see how closely their good behaviour and prosperity are
interwoven, and, that good advice may sink the deeper into their hearts,
give them, as it were, such a taste of earthly comfort as shall, in a
slight degree, communicate to them the hope and notion of expecting the
unspeakable reward prepared by the Great Giver of all, whose dwelling is
on high.'

"Having well arranged his plans, our master caused it to be made known
in the environs that he wished to engage twelve farm servants, six men
and six females; but that his choice would be entirely regulated by the
most satisfactory certificates of good conduct obtained from the civil
and religious authorities in their native place. They were to be paid
like princes, fed upon the best food to their hearts' content; and
further, a tenth part of the produce of the harvest was to be shared
among the labourers. The engagement at the farm was to last but two
years, at the end of which time they were to give place to other
labourers, chosen upon the same terms; but, at the expiration of five
years, the original labourers were taken on again, in the event of there
being any vacancies; so that, since the establishment of this farm, it
is usual for the labourers and working classes in the neighbourhood to
say, 'Let us be active, honest, and industrious, so as to obtain a high
character for such good qualities, and, perhaps, one day we may be
fortunate to get engaged at Bouqueval Farm. There, for a couple of
years, we shall lead a life of perfect happiness. We shall learn our
business thoroughly; we shall save a little money, so that, when our
time is up, every one will be glad to engage us, because they know that
we must have had first-rate characters to have been admitted on the
establishment at all.'"

"I am already bespoke by M. Dubreuil for his farm at Arnouville," said
Jean René.

"And I am engaged to a first-rate service at Gonesse," chimed in another
labourer.

"You see, my good friend, by this plan everybody is a gainer, the
neighbouring farmers particularly. There are but twelve places for
servants on the farm, but there are, perhaps, fifty candidates who have
all earned their right to solicit an engagement by certificates and
testimonials of excellent conduct. Well, though thirty-eight out of the
fifty must be disappointed, yet the good which is in them will still
remain; and there are so many good and deserving characters in the
environs we can safely reckon upon; for, though they have failed in this
application, they still live in hopes of succeeding another time. Why,
for every prize animal to which the medal is assigned, whether for
swiftness, strength, or beauty, there must be a hundred or more trained
to stand forward and dispute the choice; and those animals rejected do
not lose any of those qualifications because they were not accepted; far
from it; their value is acknowledged, and they quickly find persons
desirous of possessing them. Now, friend," said Father Châtelain, having
fairly talked himself out of breath, "do you not confess that I was
right when I said ours was no common farm, any more than our employer
was no ordinary master?"

"Indeed," said the Schoolmaster, "your account is most interesting, and
fully bears out all you asserted. But, the more I hear of the exalted
views and noble generosity of your master, the more earnestly do I pray
he may be induced to look with pity on my wretched condition. To such a
man, so filled with a desire to improve the condition of God's
creatures, a charitable action more or less would make but little
difference. Oh, tell me beforehand his name, and that of your kind Lady
of the Ready Help, that I may already bless and thank them; for full
certain am I, minds so bent upon good deeds will never turn a deaf ear
to my petition."

"Now I dare say you expect to be told the high-sounding titles of some
great, grand personages. But, bless you! no such thing; no more parade
about their names than those of the saints themselves. 'Our Lady of
Help' is called Madame Georges, and our good master plain M. Rodolph."

"Merciful powers! My wife! my judge! my executioner!" faintly exclaimed
the robber, struck almost speechless at this unexpected revelation.
"Rodolph!--Madame Georges!"

It was wholly impossible for the Schoolmaster to entertain a doubt
respecting the identity of the persons to whom those names belonged.
Previously to adjudging him his fearful punishment, Rodolph had spoken
of the lively interest he took in all that concerned Madame Georges. The
recent visit of the negro David to this farm was another conclusive
proof of there being no mistake in the matter. It seemed as though the
very hand of Providence had brought about this singular rencontre,
overthrowing as it so completely did his recently cherished hopes of
emancipation from his present misery, through the intervention of the
generosity of the proprietor of this farm. To fly was his first impulse.
The very name of Rodolph inspired him with the most intense terror.
Possibly he was even now in the house. Scarcely recovered from his first
alarm, the brigand rose from the table, and, grasping the hand of
Tortillard, exclaimed, in a wild and terrified manner:

"Let us be gone!--quick!--lead me hence. Let us go, I say."

The whole of the servants looked on with astonishment.

"Go!" said Father Châtelain, with much surprise. "Why? Wherefore should
you go? What are you thinking about, my friend? Come, what fresh whim is
this? Are you quite in your right senses?"

Tortillard cleverly availed himself of this last suggestion, and,
uttering a deep sigh, touched his forehead significantly with his
forefinger, so as to convey to the minds of the wondering labourers the
impression that his pretended parent was not quite right in his head.
The signal elicited a corresponding gesture of pity and due
comprehension.

"Come, I say, come!" persisted the Schoolmaster, endeavouring to draw
the boy along with him; but, fully determined not to quit such
comfortable quarters to wander about in the fields all night during the
frost and snow, Tortillard began in a whimpering voice to say:

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! poor father has got one of his old fits come on
again. There, there, father, sit down and keep yourself quiet. Pray do,
and don't think of wandering out in the cold--it would kill you, maybe.
No, not if you are ever so angry with me, will I be so wicked as to lead
you out in such weather." Then, addressing himself to the labourers, he
said, "Will none of you good gentlemen help me to keep my poor dear
father from risking his life by going out to-night?"

"Yes, yes, my boy," answered Father Châtelain; "make yourself perfectly
easy. We will not allow your father to quit the place. He shall stay
here to-night, in spite of himself."

"Surely you will not keep me here against my will?" inquired the
wretched Schoolmaster, in hurried accents; "and perhaps, too, I should
offend your master by my presence--that Monsieur Rodolph. You told me
the farm was not an hospital; once more, therefore, I ask you to let me
go forth in peace on my way."

"Offend our master!--that you would not, I am quite sure. But make
yourself easy on that score. I am sorry to say that he does not live
here, neither do we see him half as frequently as we could wish. But, if
even he had been here, your presence would have made no sort of
difference to him."

"No, no," persisted the blind man with continued alarm; "I have changed
my mind about applying to him. My son is right. No doubt my relation at
Louvres will take care of me. I will go there at once."

"All I have got to say," replied Father Châtelain, kindly conceiving
that he was speaking to a man whose brain was unhappily affected, "is
just this--that to attempt to proceed on your journey with this poor
child to-night is wholly out of the question. Come, let me put matters
to rights for you, and say no more about it."

Although now being reassured of Rodolph's not being at Bouqueval, the
terrors of the Schoolmaster were by no means dissipated; and, spite of
his frightfully disfigured countenance, he was in momentary dread of
being recognized by his wife, who might at any moment enter the kitchen,
when he was perfectly persuaded she would instantly denounce and give
him into custody; his firm impression having been, from the hour of
receiving his horrible punishment from the hands of Rodolph, that it was
done to satisfy the hatred and vengeance of Madame Georges. But, unable
to quit the farm, the ruffian found himself wholly at the mercy of
Tortillard. Resigning himself, therefore, to what was unavoidable, yet
anxious to escape from the eyes of his wife, he said to the venerable
labourer:

"Since you kindly assure me my being here will in no way displease
either your master or mistress, I will gladly accept your hospitality;
but, as I am much fatigued, and must set out again at break of day, I
would humbly ask permission to go at once to my bed."

"Oh, yes, to-morrow morning by all means, and as soon as you like; we
are very early people here. And, for fear even that you should again
wander from the right road, some one shall conduct you part of the way."

"If you have no objection," said Jean René, addressing Father Châtelain,
"I will see the poor man a good step on the road; because Madame Georges
said yesterday I was to take the chaise and go to the lawyer's at
Villiers le Bel to fetch a large sum of money she requires of him."

"Go with the poor blind traveller by all means," replied Father
Châtelain; "but you must walk, mind. Madame has changed her mind about
sending to Villiers del Bel, and, wisely reflecting that it was not
worth while to have so large a sum of money lying useless at the farm,
has determined to let it remain with the lawyer till Monday next, which
will be the day she requires it."

"Of course, Father Châtelain; mistress knows best. But please to tell me
why she should consider it unsafe to have money at the farm. What is she
afraid of?"

"Of nothing, my lad. Thank God, there is no occasion for fear. But, for
all that, I would much rather have five hundred sacks of corn on the
premises than ten bags of crowns. Come," said old Châtelain, addressing
himself to the brigand and Tortillard, "come, follow me, friend; and you
too, my lad." Then, taking up a small lamp, he conducted his two guests
to a chamber on the ground floor, first traversing a large passage into
which several doors opened. Placing the light on a table, the old
labourer said to the Schoolmaster, "Here is your lodging, and may God
grant you a good and peaceful night's repose, my good friend. As for
you, my little man, you are sure to sleep sound and well; it belongs to
your happy age to do so."

The Schoolmaster, pensive and meditative, sat down by the side of the
bed to which Tortillard conducted him. At the instant when Father
Châtelain was quitting the room, Tortillard made him a sign indicative
of his desire to speak with him alone, and hastily rejoined him in the
passage.

"What is it, my boy, you have to say to me?" inquired the old man,
kindly.

"Ah, my kind sir, I only wanted to say that my father is frequently
seized during the night with most violent convulsion-fits, which require
a much stronger person than I am to hold him; should I be obliged to
call for help, is there any person near who could hear me?"

"Poor child!" said the labourer, sympathisingly; "make yourself easy.
There,--do you see that door beside the staircase?"

"Oh, yes, good, kind gentleman; I see it."

"Well, one of the farm labourers sleeps in that room. You will only just
have to run to him. He never locks his door; and he will come to your
father in an instant."

"Thank you, sir; God bless you! I will remember all your kindness when I
say my prayers. But suppose, sir, the man and myself were not strong
enough together to manage my poor father when these violent convulsions
come on, could you, who look so good, and speak so kind--could you be
kind enough to come and tell us what to do?"

"Me, my boy? Oh, I sleep, as well as all the other men servants, out of
the house, in a large outbuilding in the courtyard. But make yourself
quite comfortable. Jean René could manage a mad bull, he is so powerful.
Besides, if you really wished any further help he would go and call up
our old cook; she sleeps on the first floor, even with our mistress and
young mademoiselle, and I can promise you that our old woman is a most
excellent sick-nurse should your father require any one to attend to him
when the fit is over."

"Thank you, kind gentleman, a thousand times. Good-night, sir. I will go
now and pray of God to bless you for your kindness and pity to the poor
blind."

"Good night, my lad! Let us hope both you and your father will enjoy a
sound night's rest, and have no occasion to require any person's help.
You had better return to your room now; your poor father may be wanting
you."

"I will, sir. Good night, and thank you!"

"God preserve you both, my child!" And the old man returned to the
kitchen.

Scarcely had he turned his back than the limping rascal made one of
those supremely insulting and derisive gestures familiar to all the
blackguards of Paris, consisting in slapping the nape of the neck
repeatedly with the left hand, darting the right hand quite open
continually out in a straight line. With the most consummate audacity,
this dangerous child had just gleaned, under the mask of guileless
tenderness and apprehension for his father, information most important
for the furtherance of the schemes of the Chouette and Schoolmaster. He
had ascertained during the last few minutes that the part of the
building where he slept was only occupied by Madame Georges,
Fleur-de-Marie, an old female servant, and one of the farm-labourers.
Upon his return to the room he was to share with the blind man,
Tortillard carefully avoided approaching him. The former, however, heard
his step, and growled out:

"Where have you been, you vagabond?"

"What! you want to know, do you, old blind 'un?"

"Oh, I'll make you pay for all you have made me suffer this evening, you
wretched urchin!" exclaimed the Schoolmaster, rising furiously, and
groping about in every direction after Tortillard, feeling by the walls
as a guide. "I'll strangle you when I catch you, you young fiend--you
infernal viper!"

"Poor, dear father! How prettily he plays at blind-man's buff with his
own little boy," said Tortillard, grinning, and enjoying the ease with
which he escaped from the impotent attempts of the Schoolmaster to seize
him, who, though impelled to the exertion by his overboiling rage, was
soon compelled to cease, and, as had been the case before, to give up
all hopes of inflicting the revenge he yearned to bestow on the impish
son of Bras Rouge.

Thus compelled to submit to the impudent persecution of his juvenile
tormentor, and await the propitious hour when all his injuries could
safely be avenged, the brigand determined to reserve his powerless wrath
for a fitting opportunity of paying off old scores, and, worn out in
body by his futile violence, threw himself, swearing and cursing, on the
bed.

"Dear father!--sweet father!--have you got the toothache that you swear
so? Ah, if Monsieur le Curé heard you, what would he say to you? He
would give you such penance! Oh, my!"

"That's right!--go on!" replied the ruffian, in a hollow and suppressed
voice, after long enduring this entertaining vivacity on the part of the
young gentleman. "Laugh at me!--mock me!--make sport of my calamity,
cowardly scoundrel that you are! That is a fine, noble action, is it
not? Just worthy of such a mean, ignoble, contemptible soul as dwells
within that wretched, crooked body!"

"Oh, how fine we talk! How nice we preach about being generous, and all
that, don't we?" cried Tortillard, bursting into peals of laughter. "I
beg your pardon, dear father, but I can't possibly help thinking it so
funny to hear you, whose fingers were regular fish-hooks, picking and
stealing whatever came in their way; and, as for generosity, I beg you
don't mention it, because, till you got your eyes poked out I don't
suppose you ever thought of such a word!"

"But, at least, I never did you any harm. Why, then, torment me thus?"

"Because, in the first place, you said what I did not like to the
Chouette; then you had a fancy for stopping and playing the fool among
the clodhoppers here. Perhaps you mean to commence a course of asses'
milk?"

"You impudent young beggar! If I had only had the opportunity of
remaining at this farm--which I now wish sunk in the bottomless pit, or
blasted with eternal lightning--you should not have played your tricks
of devilish cruelty with me any longer!"

"You to remain here! that would be a farce! Who, then, would Madame la
Chouette have for her _bête de souffrance_? Me, perhaps, thank
ye!--don't you wish you may get it?"

"Miserable abortion!"

"Abortion! ah, yes, another reason why I say, as well as Aunt Chouette,
there is nothing so funny as to see you in one of your unaccountable
passions--you, who could kill me with one blow of your fist; it's more
funny than if you were a poor, weak creature. How very funny you were at
supper to-night! _Dieu de Dieu!_ what a lark I had all to myself! Why,
it was better than a play at the Gaîté. At every kick I gave you on the
sly, your passion made all the blood fly in your face, and your white
eyes became red all round; they only wanted a bit of blue in the middle
to have been real tri-coloured. They would have made two fine cockades
for the town-sergeant, wouldn't they?"

"Come, come, you like to laugh--you are merry: bah! it's natural at your
age--it's natural--I'm not angry with you," said the Schoolmaster, in an
air of affected carelessness, hoping to propitiate Tortillard; "but,
instead of standing there, saying saucy things, it would be much better
for you to remember what the Chouette told you; you say you are very
fond of her. You should examine all over the place, and get the print of
the locks. Didn't you hear them say they expected to have a large sum of
money here on Monday? We will be amongst them then, and have our share.
I should have been foolish to have stayed here; I should have had enough
of these asses of country people at the end of a week, shouldn't I,
boy?" asked the ruffian, to flatter Tortillard.

"If you had stayed here I should have been very much annoyed, 'pon my
word and honour," replied Bras Rouge's son, in a mocking tone.

"Yes, yes, there's a good business to be done in this house; and, if
there should be nothing to steal, yet I will return here with the
Chouette, if only to have my revenge," said the miscreant, in a tone
full of fury and malice, "for now I am sure it is my wife who excited
that infernal Rodolph against me; he who, in blinding me, has put me at
the mercy of all the world, of the Chouette, and a young blackguard like
yourself. Well, if I cannot avenge myself on him, I will have vengeance
against my wife,--yes, she shall pay me for all, even if I set fire to
this accursed house and bury myself in its smouldering ruins. Yes, I
will--I will have--"

"You will, you want to get hold of your wife, eh, old gentleman? She is
within ten paces of you! that's vexing, ain't it? If I liked, I could
lead you to the door of her room, that's what I could, for I know the
room. I know it--I know it--I know it," added Tortillard, singing
according to his custom.

"You know her room?" said the Schoolmaster, in an agony of fervent joy;
"you know it?"

"I see you coming," said Tortillard; "come, play the pretty, and get on
your hind legs like a dog when they throw him a dainty bone. Now, old
Cupid!"

"You know my wife's chamber?" said the miscreant, turning to the side
whence the sound of Tortillard's voice proceeded.

"Yes, I know it; and, what's still better, only one of the farm servants
sleeps on the side of the house where we are. I know his door--the key
is in it--click, one turn, and he's all safe and fast. Come, get up, old
blind Cupid!"

"Who told you all this?" asked the blind scoundrel, rising
involuntarily.

"Capital, Cupid! By the side of your wife's room sleeps an old cook--one
more turn of the key, and click! we are masters of the house--masters of
your wife, and the young girl with the gray mantle that you must catch
hold of and carry off. Now, then, your paw, old Cupid; do the pretty to
your master directly."

"You lie! you lie! how could you know all this?"

"Why, I'm lame in my leg, but not in my head. Before we left the kitchen
I said to the old guzzling labourer that sometimes in the night you had
convulsions, and I asked him where I could get assistance if you were
attacked. He said if you were attacked I might call up the man servant
and the cook; and he showed me where they slept; one down, the other up
stairs in the first floor, close to your wife--your wife--your wife!"

And Tortillard repeated his monotonous song. After a lengthened silence
the Schoolmaster said to him, in a calm voice, but with an air of
desperate determination:

"Listen, boy. I have stayed long enough. Lately--yes, yes, I confess
it--I had a hope which now makes my lot appear still more frightful; the
prison, the _bagne_, the guillotine, are nothing--nothing to what I have
endured since this morning; and I shall have the same to endure always.
Lead me to my wife's room; I have my knife here; I will kill her. I
shall be killed afterwards; but what of that? My hatred swells till it
chokes me; I shall have revenge, and that will console me. What I now
suffer is too much--too much! for me, too, before whom everybody
trembled. Now, lad, if you knew what I endure, even you would pity me.
Even now my brain appears ready to burst; my pulse beats as if my veins
would burst; my head whirls--"

"A cold in your 'knowledge-box,' old chap--that's it; sneeze--that'll
cure you," said Tortillard, with a loud grin; "what say you to a pinch
of snuff, old brick?"

And striking loudly on the back of his left hand, which was clenched, as
if he were tapping on the lid of a snuff-box, he sang:

      "J'ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière;
       J'ai du bon tabac, tu n'en auras pas."

"_Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ they will drive me mad!" cried the brigand,
becoming really almost demented by a sort of nervous excitement arising
from bloodthirsty revenge and implacable hatred, which in vain sought to
satiate itself. The exuberant strength of this monster could only be
equalled by the impossibility of satisfying his deadly desires. Let us
imagine a hungry, furious, maddened wolf, teased during a whole day by a
child through the bars of his den, and scenting within two paces of him
a victim who would at once satisfy his hunger and his rage. At the last
taunt of Tortillard the brigand almost lost his senses; unable to reach
his victim, he desired in his frenzy to shed his own blood, for his
blood was stifling him. One moment he resolved to kill himself, and, had
he had a loaded pistol in his hand, he would not have hesitated; he
fumbled in his pocket, and drew out a clasp-knife, opened it, and raised
it to strike; but, quick as were his movements, reflection, fear, and
vital instinct were still more rapid,--the murderer lacked courage,--his
arm fell on his knees. Tortillard had watched all his actions with an
attentive eye, and, when he saw the finale of this pseudo-tragedy, he
continued, mockingly,--

"How, boys, a duel? Ah, pluck the chickens!"

The Schoolmaster, fearing that he should lose his senses if he gave way
to an ineffectual burst of fury, turned a deaf ear to this fresh insult
of Tortillard, who so impertinently commented on the cowardice of an
assassin who recoiled from suicide. Despairing of escape from what he
termed, by a sort of avenging fatality, the cruelty of his cursed child,
the ruffian sought to try what could be done by assailing the avarice of
the son of Bras Rouge.

"Ah," said he to him, in a tone almost supplicatory, "lead me to the
door of my wife's room, and take anything you like that's in her room
and run away with it! leave me to myself. You may cry out 'murder' if
you like; they will apprehend me--kill me on the spot--I care not, I
shall die avenged, if I have not the courage to end my existence myself.
Oh, lead me there--lead me there; depend on it she has gold, jewels,
anything, and you may take all, all for yourself, for your own, do you
mind?--your own; only lead me to the door where she is."

"Yes, I mind well enough; you want me to lead you to her door, then to
her bed, and then to tell you when to strike, then to guide your
hand--eh! that's it, ain't it? You want to make me a handle to your
knife, old monster!" replied Tortillard, with an expression of contempt,
anger, and horror, which, for the first time in his life gave an
appearance of seriousness to his weasel face, usually all impertinence
and insolence; "I'll be killed first, I tell you, sooner than I'll lead
you to where your wife is!"

"You refuse?"

The son of Bras Rouge made no reply. He approached with bare feet and
without being heard by the Schoolmaster, who, seated on the bed, still
held his large knife in his hand, and then, in a moment, with marvellous
quickness and dexterity, Tortillard snatched from him his weapon, and
with one jump skipped to the further end of the chamber.

"My knife! my knife!" cried the brigand, extending his arms.

"No; for then you might to-morrow morning ask to speak with your wife
and try to kill her, since, as you say, you have had enough of life, and
are such a coward that you don't dare kill yourself."

"How he defends my wife against me!" said the bandit, whose intellect
became obscure. "This little wretch is a devil! Where am I? Why does he
try to save her?"

"Because I like it," said Tortillard, whose face resumed its usual
appearance of sly impudence.

"Ah, is that it?" murmured the Schoolmaster, whose mind was wandering;
"well, then, I'll fire the house! we'll all burn--all! I prefer that
furnace to the other. The candle! the candle!"

"Ah! ah! ah!" exclaimed Tortillard, bursting out again into loud
laughter. "If your own candle--your 'peepers'--had not been snuffed out,
and for ever, you would have known that ours had been extinguished an
hour ago." And Tortillard sang:

      "Ma chandelle est morte,
        Je n'ai plus de feu."

The Schoolmaster gave a deep groan, stretched out his arms, and fell
heavily on the floor, his face on the ground, and, struck by a rush of
blood, remained motionless.

"Not to be caught, old boy," said Tortillard; "that's only a trick to
make me come to you that you may serve me out! When you have been long
enough on the floor you'll get up."

Bras Rouge's boy resolved not to go to sleep for fear of being surprised
by the Schoolmaster, so seated himself in a chair, with his eyes fixed
on the ruffian, persuaded that it was a trap laid for him, and not
believing the Schoolmaster in any danger. That he might employ himself
agreeably Tortillard drew silently and carefully from his pocket a
little red silk purse, and counted slowly, and with looks of joy and
avarice, the seventeen pieces of gold which it contained. Tortillard had
acquired his ill-gotten riches thus: It may be remembered that Madame
d'Harville was nearly surprised by her husband at the rendezvous which
she had granted to the commandant. Rodolph, when he had given the purse
to the young lady had told her to go up to the fifth story to the
Morels, under the pretence of bringing them assistance. Madame
d'Harville ran quickly up the staircase holding the purse in her hands.
When Tortillard, who was coming from the quack's, caught a glimpse of
the purse, and, pretending to stumble as he passed the marquise, pushed
against her, and, in the shock, slily stole the purse. Madame
d'Harville, bewildered, and hearing her husband's footsteps, hurried on
to the fifth story without thinking or complaining of the impudent
robbery of the little cripple. After having counted and recounted his
gold Tortillard cast his eyes towards the Schoolmaster who was extended
still on the ground. Disquieted for a moment, he listened, and hearing
the robber breathe freely he thought that he was still meditating some
trick against him.

Chance saved the Schoolmaster from a congestion of the brain which else
must have proved mortal. His fall had caused a salutary and abundant
bleeding at the nose. He then fell into kind of a feverish torpor--half
sleep, half delirium, and then had this wild, this fearful dream!



CHAPTER VIII.

THE DREAM.


This was the Schoolmaster's dream:

He was again in Rodolph's house in the Allée des Veuves. The saloon in
which the miscreant had received his appalling punishment had not
undergone any alteration. Rodolph himself was sitting at the table on
which were the Schoolmaster's papers and the little _Saint-Esprit_ of
_lapis_ which he had given to the Chouette. Rodolph's countenance was
grave and sad. On his right the negro David was standing motionless and
silent; on his left was the Chourineur, who looked on with a bewildered
mien. In his dream the Schoolmaster was no longer blind, but saw through
a medium of clear blood, which filled the cavities of his eyeballs. All
and everything seemed to him tinted with red. As birds of prey hover on
motionless wing above the head of the victim which they fascinate before
they devour, so a monstrous screech-owl (_chouette_), having for its
head the hideous visage of the one-eyed hag, soared over the
Schoolmaster, keeping fixed on him her round, glaring, and green eye.
This fixed stare was upon his breast like a heavy weight. The
Schoolmaster discerned a vast lake of blood separating him from the
table at which Rodolph was seated. Then this inflexible judge, as well
as the Chourineur and the negro, grew and grew, expanding into colossal
proportions, until they touched the ceiling; and then it also became
higher in proportion. The lake of blood was calm, and as unruffled as a
red mirror; the Schoolmaster saw his hideous countenance reflected
therein. Then that was suddenly effaced by the tumult of the swelling
waves. From their troubled surface there arose a vapour resembling the
foul exhalation of a marsh, a livid-coloured mist of that violet hue
peculiar to the lips of the dead. In proportion as this miasma
rises--rises, the faces of Rodolph, the Chourineur, and the negro
continue to expand and expand in an extraordinary manner, and always
remain above this fearful cloud. In the midst of the awful vapour, the
Schoolmaster sees the pale ghosts, and those murderous scenes in which
he had been the actor. In this fantastic mirage he first sees a little
bald-headed old man, clad in a long brown coat, and wearing an eye-shade
of green silk. He is employing himself in a dilapidated chamber in
counting and arranging pieces of gold into piles by the light of a lamp.
Through the window, lighted by the dim moonlight reflected on the tops
of some high trees waving in the wind, the Schoolmaster recognises his
own figure. Pressing his distorted features against the glass, following
every motion of the old man with glaring eyes, then breaking a pane, he
opens the window itself, leaps with a bound upon his victim, and stabs
him between the shoulders with his long and keen knife. The movement is
so rapid, the blow so quick and sure, that the dead body of the old man
remains seated in the chair.

The murderer tries to withdraw his weapon from the dead body,--he
cannot! He redoubles his efforts,--in vain! He then seeks to quit the
deadly steel,--impossible!

The hand of the assassin clings to the handle of the poignard, as the
blade of the poignard clings to the frame of the wounded man. The
murderer then hears the sound of clinking spurs and clashing swords in
the adjoining room. He must escape at all risks, and attempts to carry
with him the body of the feeble old man, from which he cannot withdraw
either his weapon or his hand.

He cannot do even this. The light and feeble carcass weighs him down
like a mass of lead. Despite his herculean shoulders, his desperate
efforts, the Schoolmaster cannot even stir this overwhelming weight.

The sound of echoing steps and jingling sabres comes nearer and nearer.
The key turns in the lock,--the door opens. The vision disappears.

And then the screech-owl flaps her wing, and shrieks out:

"It is the old miser of the Rue de la Roule. Your maiden murder! murder!
murder!"

A moment's darkness,--then the miasma which covers the lake of blood
resumes its transparency, and another spectre is revealed.

The day begins to dawn,--the fog is thick and heavy. A man, clothed like
a cattle-dealer, lies stretched, dead on the bank of the highroad. The
trampled earth, the torn turf, proved that the victim had made a
desperate resistance. The man has five bleeding wounds in his breast. He
is lifeless; yet still he seems to whistle on his dogs, calling to them,
"Help! help!"

But his whistling, his cries, proceed from five large and gaping
wounds,--

      "Each one a death in nature,"--

which move like so many complaining lips. The five calls, the five
whistlings, all made and heard at once, come from the dead man by the
mouths of his gushing wounds; and fearful are they to hear!

At this instant the Chouette waves her wings, and mocks the deathly
groans of the victim with five bursts of laughter,--a laughter as
unearthly and as horrible as the madman's mirth; and then again she
shrieks:

"The cattle-dealer of Poissy. Murder! murder! murder!"

Protracted and underground echoes first repeat aloud the malevolent
laughter of the screech-owl. Then they seem to die away in the very
bowels of the earth.

At this sound two large dogs, as black as midnight, with eyes glaring
like burning coals, begin to run rapidly around--around--around the
Schoolmaster, baying furiously. They almost touch him, and yet their
bark appears as distant as if carried on the wind of the morning.

Gradually these spectres fade away as the previous one did, and are lost
in the pale vapour which is continually ascending.

A new exhalation now arises from the lake of blood, and spreads itself
on its surface. It is a sort of greenish, transparent mist; it resembles
the vertical section of a canal filled with water. At first he sees the
bed of the canal covered in by a thick vase formed of numberless
reptiles usually imperceptible to the unassisted eye, but which,
enlarged, as if viewed through a microscope, assume monstrous forms,
vast proportions relatively to their actual size. It is no longer mud,
but a compact, living, crawling mass,--an inextricable conglomeration
which wriggles and curls; so close, so dense, that a sullen and low
undulation hardly stirs the level of this vase, or rather bed of foulest
animalculæ. Above trickles gently--gently, a turbid stream, thick and
stagnating, which, in its dilatory flow, disturbs the filth incessantly
vomited by the sewers of a great city,--fragments of all sorts,
carcasses of animals, etc., etc. Suddenly the Schoolmaster hears the
plash of a body, which falls heavily on the water; in its recoil the
water sprinkles his very face. In the midst of the air-bubbles which
rise thick and fast to the surface of the canal he sees the body of a
woman, which sinks rapidly as she struggles--struggles.

Then he sees himself and the Chouette running hastily along the banks of
St. Martin's Canal, carrying with them a box covered with black cloth;
and yet he is still present during all the variations of agony suffered
by the victim whom he and the Chouette have thrown into the canal. After
the first immersion the victim rises to the surface and moves her arms
in violent agitation like some one who, not knowing how to swim, tries
in vain to save herself. Then she utters a piercing cry,--a cry of one
in the last extremity,--despairing--which ends in the sullen, stifled
sound of involuntary choking; and the woman the second time sinks
beneath the troubled waters.

The screech-owl, which hovers continually motionless, imitates the
convulsive rattle of the drowning wretch, as she mocked the dying groans
of the cattle-dealer. In the midst of bursts of deathlike laughter the
screech-owl utters, "Glou! glou! glou!"

The subterranean echoes repeated the sound.

A second time submerged the woman is fast suffocating, and makes one
more desperate effort for breath; but, instead of air, it is water which
she inspires. Then her head falls back, her convulsed features are
swollen and become livid, her neck becomes blue and tumefied, her arms
stiffen, and, in a last spasmodic effort, the drowning woman in her
agony moves her feet, which are resting on the vase. Then she is
surrounded by a mass of black soil, which ascends with her to the
surface of the water. Scarcely has the choked wretch breathed her last
sigh than she is covered with myriads of the microscopic reptiles,--the
greedy and horrible vermin of the mud. The carcass floats for a moment,
balances for a moment, and then sinks slowly, horizontally, the feet
lower than the head, and between the double waters begins to follow the
current of the land. Sometimes the dead corpse turns, and its pale face
is before the Schoolmaster. Then the spectre fixes on him glaringly its
two blue, glassy, and opaque eyes; the livid mouth opens. The
Schoolmaster is far away from the drowning woman, and yet her lips
murmur in his ears, "Glou! glou! glou!" accompanying these appalling
syllables with that singular noise which a bottle thrust into the water
makes when filling itself.

The screech-owl repeats, "Glou! glou! glou!" flapping her wings, and
shrieking:

"The woman of the Canal St. Martin! Murder! murder! murder!"

The vision of the drowned woman disappears. The lake of blood, through
which the Schoolmaster still constantly beholds Rodolph, becomes of a
bronzed, black colour, then red again, and then changes instantaneously
into a liquid, furnace-like, molten metal. Then that lake of fire
rises--rises--rises towards the sky like an immense whirlpool. There is
now a fiery horizon like iron at a white heat. This immense, boundless
horizon dazzles and scorches the very eyes of the Schoolmaster, who,
fascinated, fastened to the spot, cannot turn away his gaze. Then, at
the bottom of this burning lava, whose reflection seems to consume him,
he sees pass and repass, one by one, the black and giant spectres of his
victims.

"The magic-lanthorn of remorse! remorse! remorse!" shrieks the
night-bird, flapping her hideous wings, and laughing mockingly.

Notwithstanding the intolerable anguish which his impatient gaze
creates, the Schoolmaster has his eyes fixed on the grisly phantoms
which move in the blazing sheet. Then an indefinable horror steals over
him. Passing through every step of indescribable torture, by dint of
contemplating this blazing sight, he feels his eyeballs--which have
replaced the blood with which his orbits were filled at the commencement
of his dream--he feels his eyeballs grow hot, burning, and melt in this
furnace--to smoke and bubble--and at last to become calcined in their
cavities like two crucibles filled with red fire. By a fearful power,
after having seen as well as felt the successive transformations of his
eyeballs into ashes, he falls into the darkness of his actual blindness.

But now, suddenly, his intolerable agonies are assuaged as though by
enchantment. An odorous air of delicious freshness passes over his
burning eyeballs. This air is a lovely admixture of the scents of
springtime, which exhale from flowers bathed in evening dew. The
Schoolmaster hears all about him a gentle murmur, like that of the
breeze which just stirs the leaves--like that of a brook of running
waters, which rushes and murmurs on its bed of stone and moss "in the
leafy month of June." Thousands of birds warble the most enchanting
melodies. They are stilled, and the voices of children, of angelic tone,
sing strange, unknown words--words that are "winged" (if we may use the
expression), and which the Schoolmaster hears mount to heaven with
gentle motion. A feeling of moral health, of tranquillity, of undefined
languor, creeps over him by degrees. It is an expansion of the heart, an
elevation of the mind, an effort of the soul, of which no physical
feeling, how delicious soever it may be, can impart the least idea. He
feels himself softly soaring in a heavenly sphere; he seems to rise to
an immeasurable height.

       ·   ·   ·   ·   ·   ·   ·   ·   ·   ·   ·   ·   ·   ·   ·

After having for some moments revelled in this unspeakable felicity he
again finds himself in the dark abyss of his habitual thoughts. His
dream continues; but he is again but the muzzled miscreant who
blasphemes and curses in the paroxysm of his impotent rage. A voice is
heard--sonorous--solemn. It is Rodolph's. The Schoolmaster starts "like
a guilty thing upon a fearful summons." He has the vague consciousness
of a dream; but the alarm with which Rodolph inspires him is so great
that he tries, but vainly, to escape from this fresh vision. The voice
speaks--he listens. The tone of Rodolph is not severe; it is "rather in
sorrow than in anger."

"Unhappy man," he says to the Schoolmaster, "the hour of your repentance
has not yet sounded. God only knows when it will strike. The punishment
of your crimes is still incomplete; you have suffered, but not expiated.
Destiny follows out its work of full justice. Your accomplices have
become your tormentors. A woman, a child, tame, subdue, conquer you.
When I sentenced you to a terrible punishment for your crimes I said--do
you remember my words?--'You have wickedly abused the great bodily
strength bestowed upon you; I will paralyse that strength. The strongest
have trembled before you; I will make you henceforward shrink in the
presence of the weakest of beings.' You have left the obscure retreat in
which you might have dwelt for repentance and expiation. You were afraid
of silence and solitude. You sought to drown remembrance by new crimes.
Just now, in a fearful and bloodthirsty access of passion, you have
wished to kill your wife. She is here under the same roof as yourself.
She sleeps without defence. You have a knife. Her apartment is close at
hand. There was nothing to prevent you from reaching her. Nothing could
have protected her from your rage--nothing but your impotence. The dream
you have had, and in which you are still bound, may teach you much, may
save you. The mysterious phantoms of this dream bear with them a most
pregnant meaning. The lake of blood, in which your victims have
appeared, is the blood you have shed. The molten lava which replaced it
is the gnawing, eating remorse, which must consume you before one day,
that the Almighty, having mercy on your protracted tortures, shall call
you to himself, and let you taste the ineffable sweetness of his
gracious forgiveness. But this will not be. No, no! these warnings will
be useless. Far from repenting, you regret every day, with horrid
blasphemies, the time when you could commit such atrocities. Alas! from
this continual struggle between your bloodthirsty desires and the
impossibility of satisfying them,--between your habits of fierce
oppression and the compulsion of submitting to beings as weak as they
are depraved,--there will result to you a fate so fearful, so appalling.
Ah, unhappy wretch!"

Rodolph's voice faltered, and for a moment he was silent, as if emotion
and horror had hindered him from proceeding. The Schoolmaster's hair
bristled on his brow. What could be--would be--that fate, which even his
executioner pitied?

"The fate that awaits you is so horrible," resumed Rodolph, "that, if
the Almighty, in his inexorable and all-powerful vengeance, would make
you in your person expiate all the crimes of all mankind, he could not
devise a more fearful punishment! Ah, woe for you! woe for you!"

At this moment the Schoolmaster uttered a piercing shriek, and awoke
with a bound at this horrid, frightful dream.



CHAPTER IX.

THE LETTER.


The hour of nine had struck on the Bouqueval clock, when Madame Georges
softly entered the chamber of Fleur-de-Marie. The light slumber of the
young girl was quickly broken, and she awoke to find her kind friend
standing by her bedside. A brilliant winter's sun darted its rays
through the blinds and chintz window-curtains, the pink linings of which
cast a bright glow on the pale countenance of La Goualeuse, giving it
the look of health it so greatly needed.

"Well, my child," said Madame Georges, sitting down and gently kissing
her forehead, "how are you this morning?"

"Much better, madame, I thank you."

"I hope you were not awoke very early this morning?"

"No, indeed, madame."

"I am glad of it; the blind man and his son, who were permitted to sleep
here last night, insisted upon quitting the farm immediately it was
light, and I was fearful that the noise made in opening the gates might
have woke you."

"Poor things! why did they go so very early?"

"I know not. After you became more calm and comfortable last night, I
went down into the kitchen for the purpose of seeing them, but they had
pleaded extreme weariness, and begged permission to retire. Father
Châtelain tells me the blind man does not seem very right in his head;
and the whole body of servants were unanimous in praising the tenderness
and care with which the boy attended upon his blind parent. But now, my
dear Marie, listen to me; you must not expose yourself to the risk of
taking fresh cold after the attack of fever you suffered from last
night, and, therefore, I recommend your keeping quite quiet all day, and
not leaving the parlour at all."

"Nay, madame, I have promised M. le Curé to be at the rectory at five
o'clock; pray allow me to go, as I am expected."

"Indeed I cannot, it would be very imprudent; I can perceive you have
passed a very bad night, your eyes are quite heavy."

"I have not been able to rest through the most frightful dreams which
pursued me whenever I tried to sleep. I fancied myself in the power of a
wicked woman who used to torment me most cruelly when I was a child; and
I kept starting up in dread and alarm. I am ashamed of such silly
weakness as to allow dreams to frighten me, but, indeed, I suffered so
much during the night that when I awoke my pillow was wetted with my
tears."

"I am truly sorry for this weakness, as you justly style it, my dear
child," said Madame Georges, with affectionate concern, seeing the eyes
of Fleur-de-Marie again filling fast, "because I perceive the pain it
occasions you."

The poor girl, overpowered by her feelings, threw her arms around the
neck of her adopted mother and buried her sobs in her bosom.

"Marie, Marie! my child, you terrify me; why, why is this?"

"Pardon me, dear madame, I beseech you! Indeed, I know not myself what
has come over me, but for the last two days my heart has seemed full
almost to bursting. I cannot restrain my tears, though I know not
wherefore I weep. A fearful dread of some great evil about to befall me
weighs down my spirits and resists every attempt to shake it off."

"Come! come! I shall scold you in earnest if you thus give way to
imaginary terrors."

At this moment Claudine, whose previous tap at the door had been
unheard, entered the room.

"What is it, Claudine?"

"Madame, Pierre has just arrived from Arnouville, in Madame Dubreuil's
chaise; he brings a letter for you which he says is of great
importance."

Madame Georges took the paper from Claudine's hand, opened it and read
as follows:

    "MY DEAR MADAME GEORGES:

      "You could do me a considerable favour, and assist me under very
    perplexing circumstances, by hastening to the farm here without
    delay. Pierre has orders to wait till you are ready, and will
    drive you back after dinner. I really am in such confusion that I
    hardly know what I am about. M. Dubreuil has gone to the
    wool-fair at Pontoise; I have, therefore, no one to turn to for
    advice and assistance but you and Marie. Clara sends her best
    love to her very dear adopted sister, and anxiously expects her
    arrival. Try to be with us by eleven o'clock, to luncheon.

                          "Ever yours most sincerely,
                                                "F. DUBREUIL."

"What can possibly be the matter?" asked Madame Georges of
Fleur-de-Marie; "fortunately the tone of Madame Dubreuil's letter is not
calculated to cause alarm."

"Do you wish me to accompany you, madame?" asked the Goualeuse.

"Why, that would scarcely be prudent, so cold as it is. But, upon second
thoughts," continued Madame Georges, "I think you may venture if you
wrap yourself up very warm; it will serve to raise your spirits, and
possibly the short ride may do you good."

The Goualeuse did not immediately reply, but, after a few minutes'
consideration, she ventured to say:

"But, madame, M. le Curé expects me this evening, at five o'clock, at
the rectory."

"But I promise you to be back in good time for you to keep your
engagement; now will you go?"

"Oh, thank you, madame! Indeed, I shall be so delighted to see Mlle.
Clara."

"What! again?" uttered Madame Georges, in a tone of gentle reproach.
"Mlle. Clara? She does not speak so distantly to you when she addresses
you."

"Oh, no, madame!" replied the poor girl, casting down her eyes, while a
bright flush rose even to her temples; "but there is so great a
difference between us that--"

"Dear Marie! you are cruel and unkind thus needlessly to torment
yourself. Have you so soon forgotten how I chided you but just now for
the very same fault? There, drive away all such foolish thoughts! dress
yourself as quickly as you can, and pray wrap up very carefully. If we
are quick, we may reach Arnouville before eleven o'clock."

Then, leaving Fleur-de-Marie to perform the duties of her simple toilet,
Madame Georges retired to her own chamber, first dismissing Claudine
with an intimation to Pierre that herself and niece would be ready to
start almost immediately.

Half an hour afterwards, Madame Georges and Marie were on their way to
Arnouville, in one of those large, roomy cabriolets, in use among the
rich farmers in the environs of Paris; and briskly did their comfortable
vehicle, drawn by a stout Norman horse, roll over the grassy road which
led from Bouqueval to Arnouville. The extensive buildings and numerous
appendages to the farm, tenanted by M. Dubreuil in the latter village,
bore testimony to the wealth and importance of the property bestowed as
a marriage-portion on Mlle. Césarine de Noirmont upon her union with the
Duke de Lucenay.

The loud crack of Pierre's whip apprised Madame Dubreuil of the arrival
of her friend, Madame Georges, with Fleur-de-Marie, who were most
affectionately greeted by Clara and her mother. Madame Dubreuil was a
good-looking woman of middle age, with a countenance expressive of
extreme gentleness and kindness; while her daughter Clara was a handsome
brunette, with rich hazel eyes, and a happy, innocent expression for
ever resting on her full, rosy lips, which seemed never to open but to
utter words of sweetness and amiability. As Clara eagerly threw her arms
around her friend's neck as she descended the vehicle, the Goualeuse saw
with extreme surprise that the kind-hearted girl had laid aside her more
fashionable attire, and was habited as a simple country maiden.

"Why, Clara!" said Madame Georges, affectionately returning her embrace,
"what is the meaning of this strange costume?"

"It is done in imitation and admiration of her sister Marie," answered
Madame Dubreuil; "I assure you she let me have no peace till I had
procured her a woollen bodice, and a fustian skirt exactly resembling
your Marie's. But, now we are talking of whims and caprices, just come
this way with me," added Madame Dubreuil, drawing a deep sigh, "while I
explain to you my present difficulty, as well as the cause of my so
abruptly summoning you hither; but you are so kind, I feel assured you
will not only forgive it, but also render me all the assistance I
require."

Following Madame Georges and her mother to their sitting-room, Clara
lovingly conducted the Goualeuse also thither, placing her in the
warmest corner of the fireside, and tenderly chafing her hands to
prevent the cold from affecting her; then fondly caressing her, and
styling her again and again her very dear sister Marie, she playfully
reproached her for allowing so long an interval to pass away without
paying her a visit. After the recent conversation which passed between
the poor Goualeuse and the curé (no doubt fresh in the reader's
memory), it will easily be believed that these tender marks of affection
inspired the unfortunate girl with feelings of deep humility, combined
with a timid joy.

"Now, then, dear Madame Dubreuil," said Madame Georges, when they were
comfortably seated, "do pray tell me what has happened, and in what
manner I can be serviceable to you."

"Oh, in several ways! I will tell you exactly how. In the first place, I
believe you are not aware that this farm is the private property of the
Duchesse de Lucenay, and that we are accountable to her alone, having
nothing whatever to do with the duke or his steward."

"No, indeed, I never heard that before."

"Neither should I have troubled you with so unimportant a matter now,
but that it forms a necessary part of the explanation I am about to give
you of my present pressing need of your kind services. You must know,
then, that we consider ourselves as the tenants of Madame de Lucenay,
and always pay our rent either to herself or to Madame Simon, her head
_femme de chambre_; and, really, spite of some little impetuosity of
temper, Madame la Duchesse is so amiable that it is delightful to have
business with her. Dubreuil and I would go through fire and water to
serve her: but, la! that is only natural, considering we have known her
from her very cradle, and were accustomed to see her playing about as a
child during the visits she used annually to pay to the estate during
the lifetime of her late father, the Prince de Noirmont. Latterly she
has asked for her rent in advance. Forty thousand francs is not 'picked
up by the roadside,' as the old proverb says; but happily we had laid
that sum by as Clara's dowry, and the very next morning after the
request reached us we carried madame her money in bright, shining,
golden louis. These great ladies spend so much, you see, in luxuries
such as you and I have no idea of. Yet it is only within the last
twelvemonth Madame de Lucenay has wished to be paid beforehand, she used
always to seem as though she had plenty of money; but things are very
different now."

"Still, my dear Madame Dubreuil, I do not yet perceive in what way I can
possibly assist you."

"Don't be in a hurry! I am just coming to that part of my story; but I
was obliged to tell you all this that you might be able to understand
the entire confidence Madame la Duchesse places in us. To be sure, she
showed her great regard for us by becoming, when only thirteen years of
age, Clara's godmother, her noble father standing as the other sponsor;
and, ever since, Madame de Lucenay has loaded her godchild with presents
and kind attentions. But I must not keep you--I see you are impatient;
so I will at once proceed with the business part of my tale. You must
know, then, that last night I received by express the following letter
from Madame de Lucenay:

    "MY DEAR MADAME DUBREUIL:

      "'You must prepare the small pavilion in the orchard for
    occupation by to-morrow evening. Send there all the requisite
    furniture, such as carpets, curtains, etc., etc. Let nothing be
    wanted to render it, in every respect, as _comfortable_ as
    possible.'

"Do you mark the word 'comfortable,' Madame Georges?" inquired Madame
Dubreuil, pausing in the midst of her reading; "it is even underlined."
Then looking up at her friend with a thoughtful, puzzled expression of
countenance, and receiving no answer, she continued the perusal of her
letter:

      "'It is so long since the pavilion has been used that it will
    require large and constant fires both night and day to remove the
    dampness from the walls. I wish you to behave in every respect to
    the person who will occupy the apartments as you would do to
    myself. And you will receive by the hands of the new visitant a
    letter from me explanatory of all I expect from your well-known
    zeal and attachment. I depend entirely on you and feel every
    assurance that I may safely reckon on your fidelity and desire to
    serve me. Adieu, my dear Madame Dubreuil; remember me most kindly
    to my pretty goddaughter; and believe me ever,

                        "'Yours, sincerely and truly,
                                        "'NOIRMONT DE LUCENAY.

      "'P.S. The person whom I so strongly recommend to your best care
    and attention will arrive the day after to-morrow, about dusk.
    Pray do your very utmost to render the pavilion as _comfortable_
    as you possibly can.'

"Comfortable again, you see, and underlined as before," said Madame
Dubreuil, returning the letter of Madame de Lucenay to her pocket.

"Well," replied Madame Georges, "all this is simple enough!"

"How do you mean, simple enough? you cannot have heard me read the
letter. Madame la Duchesse wishes particularly 'that the pavilion should
be rendered as comfortable as possible.' Now that is the very reason of
my asking you to come to me to-day; Clara and I have been knocking our
heads together in vain to discover what 'comfortable' can possibly mean,
but without being able to find it out. Yet it seems odd, too, that Clara
should not know its meaning, for she was several years at school at
Villiers le Bel, and gained a quantity of prizes for history and
geography; however, she knows as little as I do about that outlandish
word. I dare say it is only known at court, or in the fashionable world.
However, be that as it may, Madame la Duchesse has thrown me into a
pretty fuss by making use of it; she says, and you see twice repeats the
words, and even underlines it, 'that she requests I will furnish the
pavilion as comfortably as possible.' Now what are we to do when we have
not the slightest notion of the meaning of that word?"

"Well, heaven be praised, then, that I can relieve your perplexity by
solving this grand mystery!" said Madame Georges, smiling. "Upon the
present occasion the word comfortable merely means an assemblage of
neat, well-chosen, well-arranged, and convenient furniture, so placed,
in apartments well warmed and protected from cold or damp, that the
occupant shall find every thing that is necessary combined with articles
that to some might seem superfluities."

"Thank you. I perfectly understand what comfortable means as regards
furnishing apartments; but your explanation only increases my
difficulties."

"How so?"

"Madame la Duchesse speaks of carpets, furniture, and many _et
coeteras_; now we have no carpets here, and our furniture is of the
most homely description. Neither can I make out by the letter whether
the person I am to expect is a male or female; and yet every thing must
be prepared by to-morrow evening. What shall I do? What can I do? I can
get nothing here. Really, Madame Georges, it is enough to drive one wild
to be placed in such an awkward situation."

"But, mother," said Clara, "suppose you take the furniture out of my
room, and whilst you are refurnishing it I will go and pass a few days
with dear Marie at Bouqueval."

"My dear child, what nonsense you talk! as if the humble fittings-up of
your chamber could equal what Madame la Duchesse means by the word
'comfortable,'" returned Madame Dubreuil, with a disconsolate shrug of
the shoulders. "Lord! Lord! why will fine ladies puzzle poor folks like
me by going out of their way to find such expressions as comfortable?"

"Then I presume the pavilion in question is ordinarily uninhabited?"
said Madame Georges.

"Oh, yes! There, you see that small white building at the end of the
orchard--that is it. The late Prince de Noirmont, father of Madame la
Duchesse, caused it to be built for his daughter when, in her youthful
days, she was accustomed to visit the farm, and she then occupied it.
There are three pretty chambers in it, and a beautiful little Swiss
dairy at the end of the garden, where, in her childish days, Madame la
Duchesse used to divert herself with feigning to manage. Since her
marriage, she has only been twice at the farm, but each time she passed
several hours in the pavilion. The first time was about six years ago,
and then she came on horseback with--" Then, as though the presence of
Clara and Fleur-de-Marie prevented her from saying more, Madame Dubreuil
interrupted herself by saying, "But I am talking instead of doing; and
that is not the way to get out of my present difficulty. Come, dear,
good Madame Georges, and help a poor bewildered creature like myself!"

"In the first place," answered Madame Georges, "tell me how is this
pavilion furnished at the present moment."

"Oh, scarcely at all! In the principal apartment there is a straw
matting on the centre of the floor; a sofa, and a few arm-chairs
composed of rushes, a table, and some chairs, comprise all the
inventory, which, I think you will allow, falls far short of the word
comfortable."

"Well, I tell you what I should do in your place. Let me see; it is
eleven o'clock. I should send a person on whom you can depend to Paris."

"Our overseer![2] There cannot be a more active, intelligent person."

  [2] A species of overseer employed in most of the large farming
  establishments in the environs of Paris.

"Exactly! just the right sort of messenger. Well, in two hours at the
utmost, he may be in Paris. Let him go to some upholsterer in the
Chaussée d'Antin--never mind which--and give him the list I will draw
out, after I have seen what is wanting for the pavilion; and let him be
directed to say that, let the expense be what it may--"

"I don't care about expense, if I can but satisfy the duchess."

"The upholsterer, then, must be told that, at any cost, he must see that
every article named in the list be sent here either this evening or
before daybreak to-morrow, with three or four of his most clever and
active workmen to arrange them as quickly as possible."

"They might come by the Gonesse diligence, which leaves Paris at eight
o'clock every evening."

"And as they would only have to place the furniture, lay down carpets,
and put up curtains, all that could easily be done by to-morrow
evening."

"Oh, my dear Madame Georges, what a load you have taken off my mind! I
should never have thought of this simple yet proper manner of
proceeding. You are the saving of me! Now, may I ask you to be so kind
as to draw me out the list of articles necessary to render the
pavilion--what is that hard word? I never can recollect it."

"Comfortable! Yes, I will at once set about it, and with pleasure."

"Dear me! here is another difficulty. Don't you see we are not told
whether to expect a lady or a gentleman? Madame de Lucenay, in her
letter, only says 'a person.' It is very perplexing, isn't it?"

"Then make your preparations as if for a lady, my dear Madame Dubreuil;
and, should it turn out a gentleman, why he will only have better reason
to be pleased with his accommodations."

"Quite right; right again, as you always are."

A servant here announced that breakfast was ready.

"Let breakfast wait a little," said Madame Georges. "And, while I draw
out the necessary list, send some person you can depend upon to take the
exact height and width of the three rooms, that the curtains and carpets
may more easily be prepared."

"Thank you. I will set our overseer to work out this commission."

"Madame," continued the servant, speaking to her mistress, "the new
dairy-woman from Stains is here with her few goods in a small cart drawn
by a donkey. The beast has not a heavy load to complain of, for the poor
body's luggage seems but very trifling."

"Poor woman!" said Madame Dubreuil, kindly.

"What woman is it?" inquired Madame Georges.

"A poor creature from Stains, who once had four cows of her own, and
used to go every morning to Paris to sell her milk. Her husband was a
blacksmith, and one day accompanied her to Paris to purchase some iron
he required for his work, agreeing to rejoin her at the corner of the
street where she was accustomed to sell her milk. Unhappily, as it
afterwards turned out, the poor woman had selected a very bad part of
Paris; for, when her husband returned, he found her in the midst of a
set of wicked, drunken fellows, who had, for mere mischief's sake, upset
all her milk into the gutter. The poor blacksmith tried to reason with
them upon the score of their unfair conduct, but that only made matters
worse; they all fell on the husband, who sought in vain to defend
himself from their violence. The end of the story is, that, in the
scuffle which ensued, the man received a stab with a knife, which
stretched him a corpse before the eyes of his distracted wife."

"Dreadful, indeed!" ejaculated Madame Georges. "But, at least, the
murderer was apprehended?"

"Alas, no! He managed to make his escape during the confusion which
ensued, though the unfortunate widow asserts she should recognise him at
any minute she might meet him, having repeatedly seen him in company
with his associates, inhabitants of that neighbourhood. However, up to
the present hour all attempts to discover him have been useless. But, to
end my tale, I must tell you that, in consequence of the death of her
husband, the poor widow was compelled, in order to pay various debts he
had contracted, to sell not only her cows but some little land he
possessed. The bailiff of the château at Stains recommended the poor
creature to me as a most excellent and honest woman, as deserving as she
was unfortunate, having three children to provide for, the eldest not
yet twelve years of age. I happened, just then, to be in want of a
first-rate dairy-woman, therefore offered her the place, which she
gladly accepted, and she has now come to take up her abode on the farm."

"This act of real kindness on your part, my dear Madame Dubreuil, does
not surprise me, knowing you as well as I do."

"Here, Clara," said Madame Dubreuil, as though seeking to escape from
the praises of her friend, "will you go and show this good woman the way
to the lodge she is to occupy, while I hasten to explain to our overseer
the necessity for his immediate departure for Paris?"

"Willingly, dear mother! Marie can come with me, can she not?"

"Of course," answered Madame Dubreuil, "if she pleases." Then added,
smilingly, "I wonder whether you two girls could do one without the
other!"

"And now," said Madame Georges, seating herself before a table, "I will
at once begin my part of the business, that no time may be lost; for we
must positively return to Bouqueval at four o'clock."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Madame Dubreuil; "how early! Why, what makes you in
such a hurry?"

"Marie is obliged to be at the rectory by five o'clock."

"Oh, if her return relates to that good Abbé Laporte, I am sure it is a
sacred duty with which I would not interfere for the world. Well, then,
I will go and give the necessary orders for everything being punctual
to that hour. Those two girls have so much to say to each other that we
must give them as much time as we can."

"Then we shall leave you at three o'clock, my dear Madame Dubreuil?"

"Yes; I promise not to detain you since you so positively wish it. But
pray let me thank you again and again for coming. What a good thing it
was I thought of sending to ask your kind assistance," rejoined Madame
Dubreuil. "Now then, Clara and Marie, off with you!"

As Madame Georges settled herself to her writing, Madame Dubreuil
quitted the room by a door on one side, while the young friends, in
company with the servant who had announced the arrival of the milkwoman
from Stains, went out by the opposite side.

"Where is the poor woman?" inquired Clara.

"There she is, mademoiselle, in the courtyard, near the barns, with her
children and her little donkey-cart."

"You shall see her, dear Marie," said Clara, taking the arm of la
Goualeuse. "Poor woman! she looks so pale and sad in her deep widow's
mourning. The last time she came here to arrange with my mother about
the place she made my heart ache. She wept bitterly as she spoke of her
husband; then suddenly burst into a fit of rage as she mentioned his
murderer. Really, she quite frightened me, she looked so desperate and
full of fury. But, after all, her resentment was natural. Poor thing! I
am sure I pity her; some people are very unfortunate, are they not,
Marie?"

"Alas, yes, they are, indeed!" replied the Goualeuse, sighing deeply.
"There are some persons who appear born only to trouble and sorrow, as
you justly observe, Miss Clara."

"This is really very unkind of you, Marie," said Clara, colouring with
impatience and displeasure. "This is the second time to-day you have
called me 'Miss Clara.' What can I have possibly done to offend you?
For I am sure you must be angry with me, or you would not do what you
know vexes me so very much."

"How is it possible that you could ever offend me?"

"Then why do you say 'miss?' You know very well that both Madame Georges
and my mother have scolded you for doing it. And I give you due warning,
if ever you repeat this great offence, I will have you well scolded
again. Now then, will you be good or not? Speak!"

"Dear Clara, pray pardon me! Indeed, I was not thinking when I spoke."

"Not thinking!" repeated Clara, sorrowfully. "What, after eight long
days' absence you cannot give me your attention even for five minutes?
Not thinking! That would be bad enough; but that is not it, Marie. And I
tell you what, it is my belief you are too proud to own so humble a
friend as myself."

Fleur-de-Marie made no answer, but her whole countenance assumed the
pallor of death.

A woman, dressed as a widow, and in deep mourning, had just caught sight
of her, and uttered a cry of rage and horror which seemed to freeze the
poor girl's blood. This woman was the person who supplied the Goualeuse
with her daily milk, during the time the latter dwelt with the ogress at
the _tapis-franc_.

The scene which ensued took place in one of the yards belonging to the
farm, in the presence of all the labourers, both male and female, who
chanced just then to be returning to the house to take their mid-day
meal. Beneath a shed stood a small cart, drawn by a donkey, and
containing the few household possessions of the widow; a boy of about
twelve years of age, aided by two younger children, was beginning to
unload the vehicle. The milk-woman herself was a woman of about forty
years of age, her countenance coarse, masculine, and expressive of
great resolution. She was, as we before stated, attired in the deepest
mourning, and her eyelids looked red and inflamed with recent weeping.
Her first impulse at the sight of the Goualeuse had been terror; but
quickly did that feeling change into grief and rage, while the most
violent anger contracted her features. Rapidly darting towards the
unhappy girl, she seized her by the arm, and, presenting her to the gaze
of the farm servants, she exclaimed:

"Here is a creature who is acquainted with the assassin of my poor
husband! I have seen her more than twenty times speaking to the ruffian
when I was selling my milk at the corner of the Rue de la
Vieille-Draperie; she used to come to buy a ha'porth every morning. She
knows well enough who it was struck the blow that made me a widow, and
my poor children fatherless. 'Birds of a feather flock together,' and
such loose characters as she is are sure to be linked in with thieves
and murderers. Oh, you shall not escape me, you abandoned wretch!" cried
the milk-woman, who had now lashed herself into a perfect fury, and who,
seeing poor Fleur-de-Marie confused and terror-stricken at this sudden
attack, endeavouring to escape from it by flight, grasped her fiercely
by the other arm also. Clara, almost speechless with surprise and alarm
at this outrageous conduct, had been quite incapable of interfering; but
this increased violence on the part of the widow seemed to restore her
to herself, and angrily addressing the woman she said:

"What is the meaning of this improper behaviour? Are you out of your
senses? Has grief turned your brain? Good woman, I pity you! But let us
pass on; you are mistaken."

"Mistaken!" repeated the woman, with a bitter smile. "Me mistaken! No,
no, there is no mistake! Just look at her pale, guilty looks! Hark how
her very teeth rattle in her head! Ah, she knows well enough there is
no mistake! Ah, you may hold your wicked tongue if you like, but
justice will find a way to make you speak. You shall go with me before
the mayor; do you hear? Oh, it is not worth while resisting! I have good
strong wrists; I can hold you. And sooner than you should escape I would
carry you every step of the way."

"You good-for-nothing, insolent woman! How dare you presume to speak in
this way to my dear friend and sister?"

"Your sister, Mlle. Clara! Believe me, it is you who are deceived--it is
you who have lost your senses," bawled the enraged milk-woman, in a
loud, coarse voice. "Your sister! A likely story a girl out of the
streets, who was the companion of the very lowest wretches in the worst
part of the Cité, should be a sister of yours!"

At these words the assembled labourers, who naturally enough took that
part in the affair which concerned a person of their own class, and who
really sympathised with the bereaved milk-woman, gave utterance to deep,
threatening words, in which the name of Fleur-de-Marie was angrily
mingled. The three children, hearing their mother speaking in a loud
tone, and fearing they knew not what, ran to her, and, clinging to her
dress, burst out into a loud fit of weeping. The sight of these poor
little fatherless things, dressed also in deep mourning, increased the
pity of the spectators for the unfortunate widow, while it redoubled
their indignation against Fleur-de-Marie; while Clara, completely
frightened by these demonstrations of approaching violence, exclaimed,
in an agitated tone, to a group of farm labourers:

"Take this woman off the premises directly! Do you not perceive grief
has driven her out of her senses? Marie! dear Marie! never mind what she
says. She is mad, poor creature, and knows not what she does!"

The poor Goualeuse, pale, exhausted, and almost fainting, made no effort
to escape from the powerful grasp of the incensed milk-woman; she hung
her head, as though unable or unwilling to meet the gaze of friend or
foe. Clara, attributing her condition to the terror excited by so
alarming a scene, renewed her commands to the labourers, "Did you not
hear me desire that this mad woman might be instantly taken away from
the farm? However, unless she immediately ceases her rude and insolent
language, I can promise her, by way of punishment, she shall neither
have the situation my mother promised her nor ever be suffered to put
her foot on the premises again."

Not a person stirred to obey Clara's orders; on the contrary, one of the
boldest among the party exclaimed:

"Well, but, Miss Clara, if your friend there is only a common girl out
of the streets, and, as such, acquainted with the murderer of this poor
woman's husband, surely she ought to go before the mayor to give an
account of herself and her bad companions!"

"I tell you," repeated Clara, with indignant warmth, and addressing the
milk-woman, "you shall never enter this farm again unless you this very
instant, and before all these people, humbly beg pardon of Mlle. Marie
for all the wicked things you have been saying about her!"

"You turn me off the premises then, mademoiselle, do you?" retorted the
widow with bitterness. "Well, so be it. Come, my poor children, let us
put the things back in the cart, and go and seek our bread elsewhere.
God will take care of us. But, at least, when we go, we will take this
abandoned young woman with us. She shall be made to tell the mayor, if
she won't us, who it was that took away your dear father's life; for she
knows well enough--she who was the daily companion of the worst set of
ruffians who infest Paris. And you, miss," added she, looking spitefully
and insolently at Clara, "you should not, because you choose to make
friends with low girls out of the streets, and because you happen to be
rich, be quite so hard-hearted and unfeeling to poor creatures like
me!"

"No more she ought," exclaimed one of the labourers; "the poor woman is
right!"

"Of course she is,--she is only standing up for her own!"

"Poor thing, she has no one now to do so for her! Why, they have
murdered her husband among them! I should think that might content them,
without trampling the poor woman under foot."

"One comfort is, nobody can stop her from doing all in her power to
bring the murderers of her husband to justice."

"It is a shame to send her away in this manner, like a dog!"

"Can she help it, poor creature, if Miss Clara thinks proper to take up
with common girls and thieves, and make them her companions?"

"Infamous to turn an honest woman, a poor widow with helpless children,
into the streets for such a base girl as that!"

These different speeches, uttered nearly simultaneously by the
surrounding crowd, were rapidly assuming a most hostile and threatening
tone, when Clara joyfully exclaimed:

"Thank God, here comes my mother!"

It was, indeed, Madame Dubreuil, who was crossing the courtyard on her
return from the pavilion.

"Now, then, my children," said Madame Dubreuil, gaily approaching the
assembled group, "will you come in to breakfast? I declare it is quite
late! I dare say you are both hungry? Come, Marie!--Clara!"

"Mother," cried Clara, pointing to the widow, "you are fortunately just
in time to save my dear sister Marie from the insults and violence of
that woman. Oh, pray order her away instantly! If you only knew what she
had the audacity to say to Marie!"

"Impossible, Clara!"

"Nay, but, dear mother, only look at my poor dear sister! See how she
trembles! She can scarcely support herself. Oh, it is a shame and
disgrace such conduct should ever have been offered to a guest of ours!
My dear, dear friend--Marie, dear!--look up, and say you are not angry
with us. Pray tell me you will try and forget it!"

"What is the meaning of all this?" inquired Madame Dubreuil, looking
around her with a disturbed and uneasy look, after having observed the
despairing agony of the Goualeuse.

"Ah, now we shall have justice done the poor widow woman!" murmured the
labourers. "Madame will see her righted, no doubt about it!"

"Now, then," exclaimed the milk-woman, exultingly, "here is Madame
Dubreuil. Now, my fine miss," continued she, addressing Fleur-de-Marie,
"you will have your turn of being turned out-of-doors!"

"Is it true, then," cried Madame Dubreuil, addressing the widow, who
still kept firm hold of Fleur-de-Marie's arm, "that you have dared to
insult my daughter's friend, as she asserts? Is this the way you show
your gratitude for all I have done to serve you? Will you leave that
young lady alone?"

"Yes, madame," replied the woman, relinquishing her grasp of
Fleur-de-Marie, "at your bidding I will; for I respect you too much to
disobey you. And, besides, I owe you much gratitude for all your
kindness to a poor, friendless creature like myself. But, before you
blame me, and drive me off the premises with my poor children, just
question that wretched creature that has caused all this confusion what
she knows of me. I know a pretty deal more of her than is to her
credit!"

"For Heaven's sake, Marie," exclaimed Madame Dubreuil, almost petrified
with astonishment, "What does this woman allude to? Do you hear what she
says?"

"Are you, or are you not known by the name of the Goualeuse?" said the
milk-woman to Marie.

"Yes," said the wretched girl, in a low, trembling voice, and without
venturing to lift up her eyes towards Madame Dubreuil,--"yes, I am
called so."

"There you see!" vociferated the enraged labourers. "She owns it! she
owns it!"

"What does she own?" inquired Madame Dubreuil, half frightened at the
assent given by Fleur-de-Marie.

"Leave her to me, madame," resumed the widow, "and you shall hear her
confess that she was living in a house of the most infamous description
in the Rue-aux-Fêves in the Cité, and that she every morning purchased a
half-pennyworth of milk of me. She cannot deny either having repeatedly
spoken in my presence to the murderer of my poor husband. Oh, she knows
him well enough, I am quite certain; a pale young man, who smoked a good
deal, and always wore a cap and a blouse, and wore his hair very long;
she could tell his name if she chose. Is this true, or is it a lie?"
vociferously demanded the milk-woman.

"I may have spoken to the man who killed your husband," answered
Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint voice; "for, unhappily, there are more than
one in the Cité capable of such a crime. But, indeed, I know not of whom
you are speaking!"

"What does she say?" asked Madame Dubreuil, horror-struck at her words.
"She admits having possibly conversed with murderers?"

"Oh, such lost wretches as she is," replied the widow, "have no better
companions!"

At first, utterly stupefied by so singular a discovery, confirmed,
indeed, by Fleur-de-Marie's own admission, Madame Dubreuil seemed almost
incapable of comprehending the scene before her; but quickly the whole
truth presented itself to her mental vision, and shrinking from the
unfortunate girl with horror and disgust, she hastily seized her
daughter by the dress, as she was about to sustain the sinking form of
the poor Goualeuse, and, drawing her towards her with sudden violence,
she exclaimed:

"Clara! For Heaven's sake approach not that vile, that abandoned young
woman! Oh, dreadful, indeed, ever to have admitted her here! But how
came Madame Georges to have her under her roof? And how could she so far
insult me as to bring her here, and allow my daughter to--This is,
indeed, disgraceful! I hardly know whether to trust the evidence of my
own senses. But Madame Georges must have been as much imposed on as
myself, or she never would have permitted such an indignity! No, no! She
is incapable of such dishonourable conduct. It would, indeed, be a
disgrace for one female so to have deceived another."

Poor Clara, terrified and almost heart-broken at this distressing scene,
could scarcely believe herself awake. It seemed as though she were under
the influence of a fearful dream. Her innocent and pure mind
comprehended not the frightful charges brought against her friend; but
she understood enough to fill her with the most poignant grief at the
unfortunate position of La Goualeuse, who stood mute, passive and
downcast, like a criminal in the presence of the judge.

"Come, come, my child," repeated Madame Dubreuil, "let us quit this
disgraceful scene." Then, turning towards Fleur-de-Marie, she said:

"As for you, worthless girl, the Almighty will punish you as you deserve
for your deceit! That my child, good and virtuous as she is, should ever
have been allowed to call you sister or friend. Her sister! You--the
very vilest of the vile! the outcast of the most depraved and lost
wretches! What hardihood, what effrontery you must have possessed, to
dare to show your face among good and honest people, when your proper
place would have been along with your bad companions in a prison!"

"Ay, ay!" cried all the labourers at once; "let her be sent off to
prison at once. She knows the murderer! Let her be made to declare who
and what he is."

"She is most likely his accomplice!"

"You see," exclaimed the widow, doubling her fist in the face of the
Goualeuse, "that my words have come true. Justice will overtake you
before you can commit other crimes."

"As for you, my good woman," said Madame Dubreuil to the milk-woman,
"far from sending you away I shall reward you for the service you have
done me in unmasking this infamous girl's real character."

"There, I told you," murmured the voices of the labourers, "our mistress
always does justice to every one!"

"Come, Clara," resumed Madame Dubreuil, "let us retire and seek Madame
Georges, that she may clear up her share of this disgraceful business,
or she and I never meet again; for either she has herself been most
dreadfully deceived, or her conduct towards us is of the very worst
description."

"But, mother, only look at poor Marie!"

"Oh, never mind her! Let her die of shame, if she likes,--there will be
one wicked, hardened girl less in the world. Treat her with the contempt
she deserves. I will not suffer you to remain another instant where she
is. It is impossible for a young person like you to notice her in any
way without disgracing herself."

"My dear mother," answered Clara, resisting her mother's attempts to
draw her away, "I do not understand what you mean. Marie must be wrong
in some way, since you say so! But look, only look at her--she is
fainting! Pity her! Oh, mother, let her be ever so guilty, pray take
pity on her present distress!"

"Oh, Mlle. Clara, you are good--very, very good--to pardon me and care
for me," uttered poor Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint voice, casting a look
of unutterable gratitude on her young protectress. "Believe me, it was
sorely against my will ever to deceive you; and daily, hourly, have I
reproached myself for so doing."

"Mother," exclaimed Clara, in the most piteous tones, "are you then so
merciless? Can you not pity her?"

"Pity!" returned Madame Dubreuil, scornfully. "No, I waste no pity on
such as she is. Come, I say! Were it not that I consider it the office
of Madame Georges to clear the place of so vile a creature, I would have
her spurned from the doors, as though she carried the plague about with
her." So saying, the angry mother seized her daughter's hand, and, spite
of all her struggles, led her away, Clara continually turning back her
head, and saying:

"Marie, my sister, I know not what they accuse you of, but I am quite
convinced of your innocence. Be assured of my constant love, whatever
they may say or do."

"Silence! silence! I command!" cried Madame Dubreuil, placing her hand
over her daughter's mouth. "Speak not another word, I insist!
Fortunately, we have plenty of witnesses to testify that, after the
odious discovery we have just made, you were not suffered to remain a
single instant with this lost and unfortunate young woman. You can all
answer for that, can you not, my good people?" continued she, speaking
to the assembled labourers.

"Yes, yes, madame," replied one of them, "we all know well enough that
Mlle. Clara was not allowed to stop with this bad girl a single instant
after you found out her wickedness. No doubt she is a thief or she would
not be so intimate with murderers."

Madame Dubreuil led Clara to the house, while the Goualeuse remained in
the midst of the hostile circle which had now formed around her. Spite
of the reproaches of Madame Dubreuil, her presence, and that of Clara,
had, in some degree, served to allay the fears of Fleur-de-Marie as to
the probable termination of the scene. But, after the departure of both
mother and daughter, when she found herself so entirely at the mercy of
the enraged crowd, her strength seemed to forsake her, and she was
obliged to keep herself from falling by leaning on the parapet of the
deep watering-place where the farm cattle were accustomed to drink.

Nothing could be conceived more touching than the attitude of the
unfortunate girl, nor could a more threatening appearance have been
displayed than was exhibited in the words and looks of the countrymen
and women who surrounded her. Seated, or rather supporting herself on
the narrow margin of the wall which enclosed the drinking-place, her
head hanging down, and concealed by both hands, her neck and bosom hid
by the ends of the little red cotton handkerchief which was twisted
around her cap, the poor Goualeuse, mute and motionless, presented a
most touching picture of grief and resignation.

At some little distance from Fleur-de-Marie stood the widow of the
murdered man. Triumphant in her vindictive rage, and still further
excited by the indignation expressed by Madame Dubreuil, she pointed out
the wretched object of her wrath to the labourers and her children, with
gestures of contempt and detestation. The farm servants, who had now
formed into a close circle, sought not to conceal their disgust and
thirst for vengeance; their rude countenances expressed at once rage,
desire for revenge, and a sort of insulting raillery. The women were
even still more bitter, and bent upon mischief. Neither did the striking
beauty of the Goualeuse tend to allay their wrath. But neither men nor
women could pardon Fleur-de-Marie the heinous offence of having, up to
that hour, been treated by their superiors as an equal; and some of the
men now present, having been unsuccessful candidates for the vacant
situations at Bouqueval, and attributing their failure to Madame
Georges, when, in reality, their disappointment arose entirely from
their recommendations not being sufficiently satisfactory, determined to
avail themselves of the opportunity now before them to wreak their
vexation and ill-will on the head of one she was known to protect and
love. The impulses of ignorant minds always lead to extremes either of
good or bad. But they speedily put on a most dangerous form, when the
fury of an enraged multitude is directed against those who may already
have awakened their personal anger or aversion.

Although the greater number of the labourers now collected together
might not have been so strictly virtuous and free from moral blame as to
be justified in throwing the first stone at the trembling, fainting
girl, who was the object of all their concentrated wrath, yet, on the
present occasion, they unanimously spoke and acted as though her very
presence was capable of contaminating them; and their delicacy and
modesty alike revolted at the bare recollection of the depraved class to
which she had belonged, and they shuddered to be so near one who
confessed to having frequently conversed with assassins. Nothing, then,
was wanting to urge on a blind and prejudiced crowd, still further
instigated by the example of Madame Dubreuil.

"Take her before the mayor!" cried one.

"Ay, ay! and, if she won't walk, we'll drag her."

"And for her to have the impudence to dress herself like one of us
honest girls!" said an awkward, ill-looking farm-wench.

"I'm sure," rejoined another female, with her mock-modest air, "one
might have thought she would go to heaven, spite of priest or
confession!"

"Why, she had the assurance even to attend mass!"

"No! Did she? Why did she not join in the communion afterwards then, I
should like to know?"

"And then she must play the young lady, and hold up her head as high as
our betters!"

"As though we were not good company enough for her!"

"However, every dog has his day!"

"Oh, I'll make you find your tongue, and tell who it was took my
husband's life!" vociferated the enraged widow, breaking out into a
fresh storm, now she felt her party so strong. "You all belong to one
gang; and I'm not sure but I saw you among them at the very time and
place when the bloody deed was done! Come, come; don't stand there
shedding your crocodile tears; you are found out, and may as well leave
off shamming any more. Show your face, I say! You are a beauty, ain't
you?" And the infuriated woman, suiting the action to the word,
violently snatched the two hands of poor Fleur-de-Marie from the pale
and grief-worn countenance they concealed, and down which tears were
fast streaming.

The Goualeuse, sinking under a sense of shame, and terrified at finding
herself thus at the mercy of her persecutors, joined her hands, and,
turning towards the milk-woman her supplicating and timid looks, she
said, in a gentle voice:

"Indeed, indeed, madam, I have been at the farm of Bouqueval these last
two months. How could I, then, have been witness to the dreadful
misfortune you speak of? And--"

The faint tones of Fleur-de-Marie's voice were drowned in the loud
uproarious cries of the surrounding multitude.

"Let us take her before the mayor! She can speak; and she shall, too, to
some purpose. March, march, my fine madam! On with you!"

So saying, the menacing crowd pressed upon the poor girl, who,
mechanically crossing her hands on her bosom, looked eagerly around, as
though in search of help.

"Oh," cried the milk-woman, "you need not stare about in that wild way.
Mlle. Clara is not here now to take your part. You don't slip through
my fingers, I promise you!"

"Alas! madam," uttered Fleur-de-Marie, trembling violently, "I seek not
to escape from you. Be assured, I am both ready and willing to answer
all the questions put to me, if I can be of any service to you by so
doing. But what harm have I done to these people, who surround and
threaten me in this manner?"

"What have you done?" repeated a number of voices, "why, you have dared
to stick yourself up with our betters, when we, who were worth thousands
more than such as you, were made to keep our distance,--that's what you
have done!"

"And what right had you to cause this poor woman to be turned away with
her fatherless children?" cried another.

"Indeed, it was no fault of mine. It was Mlle. Clara, who wished--"

"That is not true!" interrupted the speaker. "You never even opened your
mouth in her favour. No, not you? You were too well pleased to see her
bread taken from her."

"No, no! no more she did," chimed in a burst of voices, male and female.

"She is a regular bad one!"

"A poor widow-woman, with three helpless children!"

"If I did not plead for her with Mlle. Clara, it was because I had not
power to utter a word."

"You could find strength enough to talk to a set of thieves and
murderers!"

And, as is frequently the case in public commotions, the country people,
more ignorant than vicious, actually talked themselves into a fury,
until their own words and violence excited them to fresh acts of rage
and vengeance against their unhappy victim.

The menacing throng, gesticulating, and loudly threatening, advanced
closer and closer towards Fleur-de-Marie, while the widow appeared to
have lost all command over herself. Separated from the deep pond only by
the parapet on which she was leaning, the Goualeuse shuddered at the
idea of their throwing her into the water; and, extending towards them
her supplicating hands, she exclaimed:

"Good, kind people! what do you want with me? For pity's sake do not
harm me!"

And as the milk-woman, with fierce and angry gestures, kept coming
nearer and nearer, holding her clenched fist almost in the face of
Fleur-de-Marie, the poor girl, drawing herself back in terror, said, in
beseeching tones:

"Pray, pray, do not press so closely on me, or you will cause me to fall
into the water."

These words suggested a cruel idea to the rough spectators. Intending
merely one of those practical jokes which, however diverting to the
projectors, are fraught with serious harm and suffering to the
unfortunate object of them, one of the most violent of the number called
out, "Let's give her a plunge in! Duck her! duck her!"

"Yes, yes!" chimed several voices, accompanied with brutal laughter, and
noisy clapping of hands, with other tokens of unanimous approval. "Throw
her in!--in with her!"

"A good dip will do her good! Water won't kill her!"

"That will teach her not to show her face among honest people again!"

"To be sure. Toss her in!--fling her over!"

"Fortunately, the ice was broken this morning!"

"And when she has had her bath she may go and tell her street companions
how the folks at Arnouville farm serve such vile girls as she is!"

As these unfeeling speeches reached her ear, as she heard their
barbarous jokes, and observed the exasperated looks of the brutally
excited individuals who approached her to carry their threat into
execution, Fleur-de-Marie gave herself over for lost. But to her first
horror of a violent death succeeded a sort of gloomy satisfaction. The
future wore so threatening and hopeless an aspect for her that she
thanked heaven for shortening her trial. Not another complaining word
escaped her; but gently falling on her knees, and piously folding her
hands upon her breast, she closed her eyes, and meekly resigned herself
to her fate.

The labourers, surprised at the attitude and mute resignation of the
Goualeuse, hesitated a moment in the accomplishment of their savage
design; but, rallied on their folly and irresolution by the female part
of the assemblage, they recommenced their uproarious cries, as though to
inspire themselves with the necessary courage to complete their wicked
purpose.

Just as two of the most furious of the party were about to seize on
Fleur-de-Marie a loud, thrilling voice was heard, exclaiming:

"Stop! I command you!"

And at the very instant Madame Georges, who had forced a passage through
the crowd, reached the still kneeling Goualeuse, took her in her arms,
and, raising her, cried:

"Rise up, my child! Stand up, my beloved daughter! the knee should be
bent to God alone!"

The expression and attitude of Madame Georges were so full of courageous
firmness that the actors in this cruel scene shrunk back speechless and
confounded. Indignation coloured her usually pale features, and casting
on the labourers a stern look she said to them, in a loud and
threatening voice:

"Wretches! Are you not ashamed of such brutal conduct to a helpless girl
like this?"

"She is--"

"My daughter!" exclaimed Madame Georges, with severity, and abruptly
interrupting the man who was about to speak, "and, as such, both
cherished and protected by our worthy curé, M. l'Abbé Laporte, whom
every one venerates and loves; and those whom he loves and esteems ought
to be respected by every one!"

These simple words effectually imposed silence on the crowd. The curé of
Bouqueval was looked upon throughout his district almost as a saint, and
many there present were well aware of the interest he took in the
Goualeuse. Still a confused murmur went on, and Madame Georges, fully
comprehending its import, added:

"Suppose this poor girl were the very worst of creatures--the most
abandoned of her sex--your conduct is not the less disgraceful! What
offence has she committed? And what right have you to punish her?--you,
who call yourselves men, to exert your strength and power against one
poor, feeble, unresisting female! Surely it was a cowardly action all to
unite against a defenceless girl! Come, Marie! come, child of my heart!
let us return home; there, at least, you are known, and justly
appreciated."

Madame Georges took the arm of Fleur-de-Marie, while the labourers,
ashamed of their conduct, the impropriety of which they now perceived,
respectfully dispersed. The widow alone remained; and, advancing boldly
to Madame Georges, she said, in a resolute tone:

"I don't care for a word you say; and, as for this girl, she does not
quit this place until after she has deposed before the mayor as to all
she knows of my poor husband's murder."

"My good woman!" said Madame Georges, restraining herself by a violent
effort, "my daughter has no deposition to make here, but, at any future
period that justice may require her testimony let her be summoned, and
she shall attend with myself; until then no person has a right to
question her."

"But, madame, I say--"

Madame Georges prevented the milk-woman from proceeding by replying, in
a severe tone:

"The severe affliction you have experienced can scarcely excuse your
conduct, and you will one day regret the violence you have so improperly
excited. Mlle. Marie lives with me at the Bouqueval farm; inform the
judge who received your deposition of that circumstance, and say that we
await his further orders."

The widow, unable to argue against words so temperately and wisely
spoken, seated herself on the parapet of the drinking-place, and,
embracing her children, began to weep bitterly. Almost immediately after
this scene Pierre brought the chaise, into which Madame Georges and
Fleur-de-Marie mounted, to return to Bouqueval.

As they passed before the farmhouse of Arnouville, the Goualeuse
perceived Clara, who had hid herself behind a partly closed shutter,
weeping bitterly. She was evidently watching for a last glimpse of her
friend, to whom she waved her handkerchief in token of farewell.

"Ah, madame! what shame to me, and vexation to you, has arisen this
morning from our visit to Arnouville!" said Fleur-de-Marie to her
adopted parent, when they found themselves in the sitting-room at
Bouqueval; "you have probably quarrelled for ever with Madame Dubreuil,
and all on my account! Oh, I foresaw something terrible was about to
happen! God has justly punished me for deceiving that good lady and her
daughter! I am the unfortunate cause of perpetual disunion between
yourself and your friend."

"My dear child, my friend is a warm-hearted, excellent woman, but rather
weak; still I know her too well not to feel certain that by to-morrow
she will regret her foolish violence of to-day."

"Alas! madame, think not that I wish to take her part in preference to
yours. No, God forbid! but pardon me if I say that I fear your great
kindness towards me has induced you to shut your eyes to--Put yourself
in the place of Madame Dubreuil--to be told that the companion of your
darling daughter was--what I was--Ah, could any one blame such natural
indignation?"

Unfortunately Madame Georges could not find any satisfactory reply to
this question of Fleur-de-Marie's, who continued with much excitement:

"Soon will the degrading scene of yesterday be in everybody's mouth! I
fear not for myself, but who can tell how far it may affect the
reputation of Mlle. Clara? Who can answer for it that I may not have
tarnished her fair fame for ever? for did she not, in the face of the
assembled crowd, persist in calling me her friend--her sister? I ought
to have obeyed my first impulse, and resisted the affection which
attracted me towards Mlle. Dubreuil, and, at the risk of incurring her
dislike, have refused the friendship she offered me. But I forgot the
distance which separated me from her, and now, as you perceive, I am
suffering the just penalty; I am punished--oh, how cruelly punished! for
I have perhaps done an irreparable injury to one so virtuous and so
good."

"My child," said Madame Georges, after a brief silence, "you are wrong
to accuse yourself so cruelly. 'Tis true your past life has been
guilty--very highly so; but are we to reckon as nothing your having, by
the sincerity of your repentance, obtained the protection and favour of
our excellent curé? and was it not under his auspices and mine you were
introduced to Madame Dubreuil? and did not your own amiable qualities
inspire her with the attachment she so voluntarily professed for you?
was it not she herself who requested you to call Clara your sister? and,
finally, as I told her just now, for I neither wished nor ought to
conceal the whole truth from her, how could I, certain as I felt of your
sincere repentance--how could I, by divulging the past, render your
attempts to reinstate yourself more painful and difficult, perhaps
impossible, by throwing you, in despair of being again received by the
good and virtuous, back upon the scorn and derision of those who,
equally guilty, equally unfortunate as you have been, would not perhaps
like you have preserved the secret instinct of honour and virtue? The
disclosure made by the woman to-day is alike to be lamented and feared;
but could I, in anticipation of an almost impossible casualty, sacrifice
your present comfort and future repose?"

"Ah, madame, a convincing proof of the false and miserable position I
must ever hold may be found in the fact of your being obliged to conceal
the past; and that the mother of Clara despises me for that past; views
me in the same contemptuous light all will henceforward behold me, for
the scene at the farm of Arnouville will be quickly spread
abroad,--every one will hear of it! Oh, I shall die with shame! never
again can I meet the looks of any human being!"

"Not even mine, my child?" said Madame Georges, bursting into tears, and
opening her arms to Fleur-de-Marie, "you will never find in my heart any
other feeling than the devoted tenderness of a mother. Courage, then,
dear Marie! console yourself with the knowledge of your hearty and
sincere repentance; you are here surrounded with true and affectionate
friends, let this home be your world. We will anticipate the exposure
you dread so much; our worthy abbé shall assemble the people about the
farm, who all regard you with love and respect, and he shall tell them
the sad history of your past life; and, trust me, my child, told as the
tale would be by him, whose word is law here, such a disclosure will but
serve to increase the interest all take in your welfare."

"I would fain think so, dear madame, and I submit myself. Yesterday,
when we were conversing together, M. le Curé predicted to me that I
should be called upon painfully to expiate my past offences; I ought
not, therefore, to be astonished at their commencement. He told me also
that my earthly trials would be accepted as some atonement for the great
wrong I have done; I would fain hope so. Supported through these painful
ordeals by you and my venerable pastor, I will not--I ought not to
complain."

"You will go to his presence ere long, and never will his counsels have
been more valuable to you. It is already half-past four; prepare
yourself for your visit to the rectory, my child. I shall employ myself
in writing to M. Rodolph an account of what occurred at the farm at
Arnouville, and send my letter off by express; I will then join you at
our venerable abbé's, for it is most important we should talk over
matters together."

Shortly after the Goualeuse quitted the farm in order to repair to the
rectory by the hollow road, where the old woman, the Schoolmaster, and
Tortillard had agreed to meet.

       *       *       *       *       *

As may have been perceived in her conversations with Madame Georges and
the curé of Bouqueval, Fleur-de-Marie had so nobly profited by the
example of her benefactors, so assimilated herself with their
principles, that, remembering her past degradation, she daily became
more hopeless of recovering the place she had lost in society. As her
mind expanded so did her fine and noble instincts arrive at mature
growth, and bring forth worthy fruits in the midst of the atmosphere of
honour and purity in which she lived. Had she possessed a less exalted
mind, a less exquisite sensibility, or an imagination of weaker quality,
Fleur-de-Marie might easily have been comforted and consoled; but,
unfortunately, not a single day passed in which she did not recall, and
almost live over again, with an agony of horror and disgust, the
disgraceful miseries of her past life. Let the reader figure to himself
a young creature of sixteen, candid and pure, and rejoicing in that very
candour and purity, thrown, by frightful circumstances, into the
infamous den of the ogress, and irrecoverably subjected to the dominion
of such a fiend,--such was the reaction of the past on the present on
Fleur-de-Marie's mind. Let us still further display the resentful
retrospect, or, rather, the moral agony with which the Goualeuse
suffered so excruciatingly, by saying that she regretted, more
frequently than she had courage to own to the curé, the not having
perished in the midst of the slough of wickedness by which she was
encompassed.

However little a person may reflect, or however limited his knowledge of
life may be, he will not refuse to assent to our remarks touching the
commiseration which such a case as Fleur-de-Marie's fully called for.
She was deserving of both interest and pity, not only because she had
never known what it was to have her affections fairly roused, but
because all her senses were torpid, and as yet unawakened by noble
impulses--untaught, unaided, unadvised. Is it not wonderful that this
unfortunate girl, thrown at the tender age of sixteen years in the midst
of the herd of savage and demoralised beings who infest the Cité, should
have viewed her degrading position with horror and disgust, and have
escaped from the sink of iniquity morally pure and free from sin?



CHAPTER X.

THE HOLLOW WAY.


The sun was descending, and the fields were silent and deserted.
Fleur-de-Marie had reached the entrance to the hollow way, which it was
necessary to cross in her walk to the rectory, when she saw a little
lame lad, dressed in a gray blouse and blue cap, come out of the ravine.
He appeared in tears, and directly he saw the Goualeuse he ran towards
her.

"Oh, good lady, have pity on me, I pray!" he exclaimed, clasping his
hands with a supplicating look.

"What do you want? What is the matter with you, my poor boy?" said the
Goualeuse, with an air of interest.

"Alas, good lady! my poor grandmother, who is very, very old, has fallen
down in trying to climb up the ravine, and hurt herself very much. I am
afraid she has broken her leg, and I am too weak to lift her up myself.
_Mon Dieu!_ what shall I do if you will not come and help me? Perhaps my
poor grandmother will die!"

The Goualeuse, touched with the grief of the little cripple, replied:

"I am not very strong myself, my child; but perhaps I can help you to
assist your poor grandmother. Let us go to her as quickly as we can! I
live at the farm close by here; and, if the poor old woman cannot walk
there with us, I will send somebody to help her!"

"Oh, good lady, _le bon Dieu_ will bless you for your kindness! It is
close by here--not two steps down this hollow way, as I told you. It was
in going down the slope that she fell."

"You do not belong to this part of the country?" said the Goualeuse,
inquiringly following Tortillard, whom our readers have, no doubt,
recognised.

"No, good lady, we came from Ecouen."

"And where are you going?"

"To a good clergyman's, who lives on the hill out there," said Bras
Rouge's son, to increase Fleur-de-Marie's confidence.

"To the Abbé Laport's, perhaps?"

"Yes, good lady; to the Abbé Laport's. My poor grandmother knows him
very, very well."

"And I was going there also. How strange that we should meet," said
Fleur-de-Marie, advancing still farther into the hollow way.

"Grandmamma, I'm coming, I'm coming! Take courage, and I will bring you
help!" cried Tortillard, to forewarn the Schoolmaster and the Chouette
to prepare themselves to lay hands on their victim.

"Your grandmother, then, did not fall down far off from here?" inquired
the Goualeuse.

"No, good lady; behind that large tree there, where the road turns,
about twenty paces from here."

Suddenly Tortillard stopped.

The noise of a horse galloping was heard in the silence of the place.

"All is lost again!" said Tortillard to himself.

The road made a very sudden bend a few yards from the spot where Bras
Rouge's son was with the Goualeuse. A horseman appeared at the angle,
and when he came nigh to the young girl he stopped. And then was heard
the trot of another horse; and some moments after there followed a groom
in a brown coat with silver buttons, white leather breeches, and
top-boots. A leathern belt secured around his waist his master's
macintosh. His master was dressed simply in a stout brown frock-coat,
and a pair of light gray trousers, which fitted closely. He was mounted
on a thoroughbred and splendid bay horse, which he sat admirably, and
which, in spite of the fast gallop, had not a bead of sweat on his skin,
which was as bright and brilliant as a star. The groom's gray horse,
which stood motionless a few paces behind his master, was also well-bred
and perfect of his kind. In the handsome dark face of the gentleman
Tortillard recognised the Vicomte de Saint-Rémy, who was supposed to be
the lover of the Duchesse de Lucenay.

"My pretty lass," said the viscount to the Goualeuse, whose lovely
countenance struck him, "would you be so obliging as to tell me the way
to the village of Arnouville?"

Fleur-de-Marie's eyes sunk before the bold and admiring look of the
young man, as she replied:

"On leaving the sunken road, sir, you must take the first turning to the
right, and that path will lead you to an avenue of cherry-trees, which
is the straight road to Arnouville."

"A thousand thanks, my pretty lass! You tell me better than an old
woman, whom I found a few yards further on stretched under a tree, for I
could only get groans and moans out of her."

"My poor grandmother!" said Tortillard, in a whining tone.

"One word more," said M. de Saint-Rémy, addressing La Goualeuse. "Can
you tell me if I shall easily find M. Dubreuil's farm at Arnouville?"

Goualeuse could not prevent a shudder at these words, which recalled to
her the painful scene of the morning. She replied:

"The farm-buildings border the avenue which you must enter to reach
Arnouville, sir."

"Once more, many thanks, my pretty dear," said M. de Saint-Rémy; and he
galloped off with his groom.

The handsome features of the viscount were in full animation whilst he
was talking to Fleur-de-Marie, but when he was again alone they became
darkened and contracted by painful uneasiness. Fleur-de-Marie,
remembering the unknown person for whom they were so hastily preparing a
pavilion at the farm of Arnouville by Madame de Lucenay's orders, felt
convinced it was for this young and good-looking cavalier.

The sound of the horses' feet as they galloped on was heard for some
time on the hard and frozen ground, and by degrees grew fainter, then
were no longer heard, and all was once more hushed in silence.
Tortillard breathed again. Desirous of encouraging and warning his
accomplices, one of whom, the Schoolmaster, was concealed from the
horsemen, Bras Rouge's son called out:

"Granny! granny! here I am! with the good lady who is coming to help
you!"

"Quick, quick, my boy! The gentleman on horseback has made us lose some
time," said the Goualeuse, walking at a quicker pace, that she might
reach the turning into the hollow way.

She had scarcely entered it when the Chouette, who was hidden there,
exclaimed:

"Now then, _fourline_!"

Then springing upon the Goualeuse, the one-eyed hag seized her by the
neck with one hand, whilst with the other she pressed her mouth; and
Tortillard, throwing himself at the young girl's feet, clung round her
legs, that she might not be able to stir.

This took place so rapidly that the Chouette had no time to examine the
Goualeuse's features; but during the few instants it required for the
Schoolmaster to quit the hole in which he was ensconced, to grope his
way along with his cloak, the beldame recognised her old victim.

"La Pegriotte!" she exclaimed, in great surprise. Then adding with
savage delight, "What, is it you? Ah, the baker (the devil) sends you!
It is your fate, then, to fall into my clutches! I have my vitriol in
the _fiacre_ now, and your white skin shall have a touch, miss; for it
makes me sick to see your fine lady countenance. Come, my man, mind she
don't bite; and hold her tight whilst we bundle her up."

The Schoolmaster seized the Goualeuse in his two powerful hands, and
before she could utter a cry the Chouette threw the cloak over her head,
and wrapped her up in it, tightly and securely. In a moment,
Fleur-de-Marie, tied and enveloped, was without any power to move or
call for assistance.

"Now take up your parcel, _fourline_," said the Chouette. "He, he, he!
This is not such a load as the 'black peter' of the woman who was
drowned in the Canal of St. Martin---is it, my man?" And as the brigand
shuddered at these words, which reminded him of his fearful vision, the
one-eyed hag resumed, "Well, well, what ails you, _fourline_? Why, you
seem frozen! Ever since the morning your teeth chatter as if you had the
ague; and you look in the air as if you were looking for something
there!"

"Vile impostor! He is looking to see the flies," said Tortillard.

"Come, quick! Haste forward, my man! Up with Pegriotte! That's it!" said
the Chouette, as she saw the ruffian lift Fleur-de-Marie in his arms as
he would carry a sleeping infant. "Quick to the coach! quick,--quick!"

"But who will lead me?" inquired the Schoolmaster, in a hoarse voice,
and securing his light and flexible burden in his herculean arms.

"Old wise head!--he thinks of every thing!" said the Chouette.

Then, lifting aside her shawl, she unfastened a red pocket-handkerchief
which covered her skinny neck, and, twisting it into its length, said
to the Schoolmaster:

"Open your ivories, and take the end of this 'wipe' between them. Hold
tight! Tortillard will take the other end in his hand, and you have
nothing to do but to follow him. The good blind man requires a good dog!
Here, brat!"

The cripple cut a caper, and made a sort of low and odd barking. Then,
taking the other end of the handkerchief in his hand, he led the
Schoolmaster in this way, whilst the Chouette hastened forward to
apprise Barbillon. We have not attempted to paint Fleur-de-Marie's
terror when she found herself in the power of the Chouette and the
Schoolmaster. She felt all her strength leave her, and could not offer
the slightest resistance.

Some minutes afterwards the Goualeuse was lifted into the _fiacre_ which
Barbillon drove, and although it was night they closed the window-blinds
carefully; and the three accomplices went, with their almost expiring
victim, towards the plain of St. Denis, where Thomas Seyton awaited
them.



CHAPTER XI.

CLÉMENCE D'HARVILLE.


The reader will kindly excuse our having left one of our heroines in a
most critical situation, the _dénouement_ of which we shall state
hereafter.

It will be remembered that Rodolph had preserved Madame d'Harville from
an imminent danger, occasioned by the jealousy of Sarah, who had
acquainted M. d'Harville with the assignation Clémence had so
imprudently granted to M. Charles Robert. Deeply affected with the scene
he had witnessed, the prince returned directly home after quitting the
Rue du Temple, putting off till the next day the visit he purposed
paying to Mlle. Rigolette and the distressed family of the unfortunate
artisan, of whom we have spoken, believing them out of the reach of
present want, thanks to the money he had given Madame d'Harville to
convey to them, in order that her pretended charitable visit to the
house might assume a more convincing appearance in the eyes of her
husband.

Unfortunately, Rodolph was ignorant of Tortillard's having possessed
himself of the purse, although the reader has already been told how the
artful young thief contrived to effect the barefaced cheat.

About four o'clock the prince received the following letter, which was
brought by an old woman, who went away the instant she had delivered it
without awaiting any answer.

   "MY LORD:

     "I owe you more than life; and I would fain express my heartfelt
   gratitude for the invaluable service you have rendered me to-day.
   To-morrow shame would, perhaps, close my lips. If your royal
   highness will honour me with a call this evening, you will finish
   the day as you began it--by a generous action.

                                          "D'ORBIGNY D'HARVILLE.

     "P.S. Do not, my lord, take the trouble to write an answer. I
   shall be at home all the evening."

However rejoiced Rodolph felt at having been the happy instrument of
good to Madame d'Harville, he yet could not help regretting the sort of
a forced intimacy which this circumstance all at once established
between himself and the marquise. Deeply struck with the graceful
vivacity and extreme beauty of Clémence, yet wholly incapable of
infringing upon the friendship which existed between himself and the
marquis, Rodolph, directly he became aware of the passion which was
springing up in his heart for the wife of his friend, almost denied
himself (after having previously devoted a whole month to the most
assiduous attentions) the pleasure of beholding her. And now, too, he
recollected with much emotion the conversation he had overheard at the
embassy between Tom and Sarah, when the latter, by way of accounting for
her hatred and jealousy, had affirmed, and not without truth, that
Madame d'Harville still felt, even unknown to herself, a serious
affection for Rodolph.

Sarah was too acute, too penetrating, too well versed in the knowledge
of the human heart, not to be well aware that Clémence, believing
herself scorned by a man who had made so deep an impression on her
heart, and yielding, from the effects of her irritated feelings, to the
importunities of a perfidious friend, might be induced to interest
herself in the imaginary woes of M. Charles Robert, without,
consequently, forgetting Rodolph. Other women, faithful to the memory of
a man they had once distinguished, would have remained indifferent to
the melancholy looks of the commandant. Clémence d'Harville was
therefore doubly blamable, although she had only yielded to the
seduction of unhappiness, and, fortunately for her, had been preserved
alike by a keen sense of duty and the remembrance of the prince (which
still lurked in her heart, and kept faithful watch over it) from the
commission of an irreparable fault.

A thousand contradictory emotions disturbed the mind of Rodolph, as he
thought of his interview with Madame d'Harville. Firmly resolved to
resist the predilection which attracted him to her society, sometimes he
congratulated himself on being able to cast off his love for her by the
recollection of her having entangled herself with such a being as
Charles Robert; and the next instant he bitterly deplored seeing the
flattering veil with which he had invested his idol fall to the ground.

       *       *       *       *       *

Clémence d'Harville, on her part, awaited the approaching interview with
much anxiety; but the two prevailing sentiments which pervaded her
breast were painful confusion, when she remembered the interference of
Rodolph, and a fixed aversion when she thought of M. Charles Robert, and
many reasons were concerned in this feeling of dislike almost
approaching hatred itself. A woman will risk her honour or her life for
a man, but she will never pardon him for having placed her in a
mortifying or a ridiculous situation.

Madame d'Harville felt her cheeks flush, and her pulse beat rapidly as
she indignantly recalled the insulting looks and impertinent remarks of
Madame Pipelet. Nor was this all. After receiving from Rodolph an
intimation of the danger she was incurring, Clémence had proceeded
rapidly towards the fifth floor, as directed, but the position of the
staircase was such that, as she hurried on, she perceived M. Charles
Robert in his dazzling _robe de chambre_, at the very instant when,
recognising the light step of the woman he expected, he, with a
self-satisfied, confident, and triumphant look, set the door of his
apartment half open. The air of insolent familiarity, expressed by the
_negligée_ toilet he had assumed, quickly enabled the marquise to
perceive how entirely she had been mistaken in his character. Led away
by the kindness and goodness of her heart, and the generosity of her
disposition, to take a step which might for ever destroy her reputation,
she had accorded this meeting, not from love, but solely from
commiseration, in order to console him for the ridiculous part the bad
taste of the Duke de Lucenay had made him play before her at the
embassy. Words can ill describe the disgust and vexation with which
Madame d'Harville beheld the slipshod _déshabillé_ of the commandant,
implying as it did his opinion how completely her ill-judged
condescension had broken down the barriers of etiquette, and led him to
consider no further respect towards her necessary.

The timepiece in the small salon which Madame d'Harville ordinarily
occupied struck nine o'clock. Dressmakers and tavern-keepers have so
much abused the style of Louis XV. and the Renaissance, that the
marquise, a woman of infinite taste, had excluded from her apartments
this description of ornament, now become so vulgarised, and confined it
to that part of the hôtel devoted to the reception of visitors and grand
entertainments. Nothing could be more elegant or more _distingué_ than
the fitting-up of the salon in which the marquise awaited Rodolph. The
colour of the walls as well as the curtains (which, without either
valances or draperies, were of Indian texture) was bright straw colour,
on which were embroidered, in a darker shade, in unwrought silk,
arabesques of the most beautiful designs and whimsical devices. Double
curtains of point d'Alençon entirely concealed the windows. The
rosewood doors were set off with gold mouldings, most beautifully
carved, surrounding in each panel an oval medallion of Sèvres china,
nearly a foot in diameter, representing a numberless variety of birds
and flowers of surpassing brilliancy and beauty. The frames of the
looking-glasses and the cornices of the curtains were also of rosewood,
ornamented with similar raised work of silver gilt. The white marble
mantelpiece, with its supporting caryatides of antique beauty and
exquisite grace, was from the chisel of the proud and imperious
Marochetti, that great artist having consented to sculpture this
delicious _chef-d'oeuvre_ in imitation of Benvenuto Cellini, who
disdained not to model ewers and armour. Two candelabras, and two
candlesticks of vermeil, forming groups of small figures beautifully
executed, stood on either side of the timepiece, which was formed of a
square block of lapis lazuli raised on a pedestal of Oriental jasper,
and surmounted with a large and magnificently enamelled golden cup,
richly studded with rubies and pearls, once the property of the
Florentine Republic. Several excellent pictures of the Venetian school,
of middle size, completed this assemblage of elegance and refined taste.

Thanks to a most charming invention but recently introduced, this
splendid yet simple apartment was lighted only by the soft rays of a
lamp, the unground surface of whose crystal globe was half hid among a
mass of real flowers, contained in an immensely large and deep blue and
gold Japan cup, suspended from the ceiling like a lustre by three chains
of vermeil, around which were entwined the green stalks of several
climbing plants; while some of the flexible branches, thickly laden with
flowers, overhanging the edge of the cup and hanging gracefully down,
formed a waving fringe of fresh verdure, beautifully contrasting with
the blue and gold enamel of the purple porcelain.

We have been thus precise in these details, trifling as they may seem,
in order to give some idea of the exquisite taste possessed by Madame
d'Harville (the almost invariable companion of an elevated mind), and
also because misfortunes always strike us as more poignantly cruel when
they insinuate themselves into abodes like this, the favoured possessors
of which seem gifted by Providence with everything to make life happy
and enviable.

Buried in the downy softness of a large armchair, totally covered by the
same straw-coloured Indian silk as formed the rest of the hangings,
Clémence d'Harville sat, awaiting the arrival of Rodolph. Her hair was
arranged in the most simple manner. She wore a high dress of black
velvet, which well displayed the beauty and admirable workmanship of her
large collar and cuffs of English lace, which prevented the extreme
black of the velvet from contrasting too harshly with the dazzling
whiteness of her throat and hands.

In proportion as the hour approached for her interview with Rodolph, the
emotion of the marquise increased; but by degrees her embarrassment
ceased, and firmer resolves took possession of her mind. After a long
and mature reflection she came to the determination of confiding to
Rodolph a great, a cruel secret, hoping by her frankness to win back
that esteem she now so highly prized. Awakened by gratitude, her
pristine admiration of Rodolph returned with fresh force; one of those
secret whispers, which rarely deceives the heart that loves, told her
that chance alone had not brought the prince so opportunely to her
succour, and that his studied avoidance of her society during the last
few months had originated in anything but indifference. A vague
suspicion also arose in her mind as to the reality and sincerity of the
affection Sarah professed for her.

While deeply meditating on all these things, a _valet de chambre_,
having first gently tapped at the door, entered, saying:

"Will it please you, my lady, to see Madame Ashton and my young lady?"

Madame d'Harville made an affirmative gesture of assent, and a little
girl slowly entered the room.

The child was about four years old, and her countenance would have been
a very charming one but for its sickly pallor and extreme meagreness.
Madame Ashton, the governess, held her by the hand, but, directly Claire
(that was the name of the little girl) saw her mother, she opened her
arms, and, spite of her feebleness, ran towards her. Her light brown
hair was plaited, and tied at each side of her forehead with bows of
cherry-coloured riband. Her health was so delicate that she wore a
wrapping-dress of dark brown silk instead of one of those pretty little
white muslin frocks trimmed with ribands of a similar colour as those in
the hair, and well cut over the bosom to show the plump, pinky arms, and
smooth, fair shoulders, so lovely in healthy children. So sunken were
the cheeks of poor Claire that her large dark eyes looked quite
enormous. But, spite of every appearance of weakness, a sweet and gentle
smile lit up her small features when she was placed on the lap of her
mother, whom she kissed and embraced with intense yet mournful
affection.

"How has she been of late, Madame Ashton?" inquired Madame d'Harville of
the governess.

"Tolerably well, madame; although at one time I feared."

"Again!" cried Clémence, pressing her daughter to her heart with a
movement of involuntary horror.

"Fortunately, madame, I was mistaken," said the governess, "and the
whole passed away without any further alarm; Mademoiselle Claire became
composed, and merely suffered from a momentary feeling of weakness. She
has not slept much this afternoon, but I could not coax her to bed
without allowing her the pleasure of paying a visit to you."

"Dear little angel!" cried Madame d'Harville, covering her daughter with
kisses.

The interesting child repaid her mother's caresses with infantine
delight, when the groom of the chambers entered and announced:

"His royal highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein."

Claire, standing on her mother's lap, had thrown her arms about her
neck, and was clasping her with all the force of which her tiny arms
were capable. At the sight of Rodolph, Clémence blushed deeply, set her
child gently down on the carpet, and signed to Madame Ashton to take her
away; she then rose to receive her guest.

"You must give me leave," said Rodolph, smilingly, after having
respectfully bowed to the marquise, "to renew my acquaintance with my
little friend here, who I fear has almost forgotten me."

And, stooping down a little, he extended his hand to Claire, who, first
gazing at him with her large eyes, curiously scrutinised his features,
then, recognising him, she made a gentle inclination of the head, and
blew him a kiss from the tips of her small, thin fingers.

"You remember my lord, then, my child?" asked Clémence of little Claire,
who gave an assenting nod, and kissed her hand to Rodolph a second time.

"Her health appears to me much improved since I last saw her," said he,
addressing himself with unfeigned interest to Clémence.

"Thank heaven, my lord, she is better, though still sadly delicate and
suffering."

The marquise and the prince, mutually embarrassed at the thoughts of the
approaching interview, would have been equally glad to defer its
commencement, through the medium of Claire's presence; but, the discreet
Madame Ashton having taken her away, Rodolph and Clémence were left
quite alone.

[Illustration: "_You Must Give Me Leave_"
Original Etching by L. Poiteau]

The armchair in which Madame d'Harville was reclining stood on the right
hand of the chimney, and Rodolph remained without attempting to seat
himself, gracefully leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece. Never had
Clémence been so strongly impressed with admiration at the noble and
prepossessing appearance of the prince; never had his voice sounded more
gentle or sweet upon her ear. Fully understanding how painful it must be
to the marquise to open the conversation, Rodolph at once proceeded to
the main point by observing:

"You have been, madame, the victim of a base and treacherous action. A
cowardly and dishonourable disclosure on the part of the Countess
Macgregor has well-nigh effected irremediable mischief."

"Is it, indeed, so?" exclaimed Clémence, painfully surprised; "then my
presentiments were not ill-founded! And by what means did your royal
highness discover this?"

"Last night, at the ball given by the Countess C----, I discovered this
infamous secret. I was sitting in a lone part of the 'Winter Garden,'
when Countess Sarah and her brother, unconscious that a mass of verdure
alone concealed me from them, while it enabled me to hear each word they
spoke, began conversing freely upon their own projects, and the snare
they had spread for you. Anxious to warn you of the danger with which
you were threatened, I hastened to Madame de Nerval's ball, hoping to
meet you there, but you did not appear. To write and direct my letter
here was to incur the risk of its falling into the hands of the marquis,
whose suspicions were already aroused by your treacherous friend; and I
therefore preferred awaiting your arrival in the Rue du Temple, that I
might unfold to you the perfidy of Countess Macgregor. Let me hope you
will pardon my thus long dwelling on a subject which must be so painful
to you. And, but for the few lines you were kind enough to write, never
would my lips have in any way reverted to it."

After a momentary silence, Madame d'Harville said to Rodolph:

"There is but one way, my lord, in which I can prove to you my gratitude
for your late generous conduct. It is to confess to you that which I
have never revealed to a human being. What I have to say will not
exculpate me in your estimation, but it will, perhaps, enable you to
make some allowances for my imprudence."

"Candidly speaking, madame," said Rodolph, smiling, "my position as
regards you is a very embarrassing one."

Clémence, astonished at the almost jesting tone in which he spoke,
looked at Rodolph with extreme surprise, while she said, "How so, my
lord?"

"Thanks to a circumstance you are doubtless acquainted with, I am
obliged to assume the grave airs of a mentor touching an incident which,
since you have so happily escaped the vile snare laid for you by
Countess Sarah, scarcely merits being treated with so much importance.
But," continued Rodolph with a slight shade of gentle and affectionate
earnestness, "your husband and myself are almost as brothers; and,
before our time, our fathers had vowed the sincerest friendship for each
other. I have, therefore, a double motive in most warmly congratulating
you on having secured the peace and happiness of your husband!"

"And it is from my knowledge of the high regard and esteem with which
you honour M. d'Harville, that I have determined upon revealing the
whole truth, as well as to explain myself relative to an interest which
must appear to you as ill-chosen and unworthy as it now seems to me. I
wish also to clear up that part of my conduct which bears an injurious
appearance against the tranquillity and honour of him your highness
styles 'almost a brother.'"

"Believe me, madame, I shall at all times be most proud and happy to
receive the smallest proof of your confidence. Yet permit me to say, as
regards the interest you speak of, that I am perfectly aware it
originated as much in sincere pity as from the constant importunities of
Countess Sarah Macgregor, who had her own reasons for seeking to injure
you. And I also know equally well that you long hesitated ere you could
make up your mind to take the step you now so much regret."

Clémence looked at the prince with surprise.

"You seem astonished. Well, that you may not fancy I dabble in
witchcraft, some of these days I will tell you all about it," said
Rodolph, smiling. "But your husband is perfectly tranquillised, is he
not?"

"Yes, my lord," said Clémence, looking down in much confusion; "and it
is most painful to me to hear him asking my pardon for having ever
suspected me, and then eulogising my modest silence respecting my good
deeds."

"Nay, do not chide an illusion which renders him so happy. On the
contrary, endeavour to maintain the innocent deception. Were it not
forbidden to treat your late adventure lightly, and had not you, madame,
been so much involved in it, I would say that a woman never appears more
charming in the eyes of her husband than when she has some fault to
conceal. It is inconceivable how many little cajoleries, and what
winning smiles, are employed to ease a troubled conscience. When I was
young," added Rodolph, smiling, "I always, in spite of myself,
mistrusted any unusual marks of tenderness. And, by the same rule, I can
say of myself, that I never felt more disposed to appear in an amiable
light than when I was conscious of requiring forgiveness. So, directly I
perceived a more than ordinary anxiety to please and gratify me, I was
very sure (judging by my own conduct) to ascribe it to some little
peccadillo that needed overlooking and pardoning."

The light tone with which Rodolph continued to discuss an affair which
might have been attended with circumstances so fearful, at first excited
Madame d'Harville's wonder; but she quickly perceived that the prince,
beneath his outward appearance of trifling, sought to conceal, or at
least lessen, the importance of the service he had rendered her. And,
profoundly touched with his delicacy, she said:

"I comprehend your generous meaning, my lord; and you are fully at
liberty to jest and forget as much as you like the peril from which you
have preserved me. But that which I have to relate to you is of so
grave, so serious, and mournful a nature, is so closely connected with
the events of this morning, and your advice may so greatly benefit me,
that I beseech you to remember that to you I owe both my honour and my
life: yes, my lord, my life! My husband was armed; and he has owned, in
the excess of his repentance, that it was his intention to have killed
me, had his suspicions proved correct."

"Great God!" exclaimed Rodolph with emotion.

"And he would have been justified in so doing," rejoined Madame
d'Harville, bitterly.

"I beseech you, madame," said Rodolph,--and this time he spoke with deep
seriousness,--"I beseech you to be assured I am incapable of being
careless or indifferent to any matter in which you are concerned. If I
seemed but now to jest, it was but to make you think less of a
circumstance which has already occasioned you so much pain. But now,
madame, you may command my most solemn attention. Since you honour me by
saying my advice may be useful, I listen most anxiously and eagerly."

"You can, indeed, counsel me most beneficially, my lord. But, before I
explain to you my reasons for seeking your aid, I must say a few words
concerning a period of which you are ignorant,--I mean the years which
preceded my marriage with M. d'Harville."

Rodolph bowed, and Clémence continued:

"At sixteen years of age I lost my mother (and here a tear stole down
the fair cheek of Madame d'Harville). I cannot attempt to describe how
much I adored that beloved parent. Imagine, my lord, the very
personification of all earthly goodness. Her fondness for me was
excessive, and appeared her only consolation amid the many bitter
sorrows she had to endure. Caring but little for what is styled the
world, with delicate health, and a natural predilection for sedentary
occupation, her great delight had been in attending solely to my
education, and her ample store of solid and varied knowledge well fitted
her for the task. Conceive, my lord, her astonishment and mine when, in
my sixteenth year, my dear preceptress considered my education nearly
completed, my father--making the feeble health of my mother a
pretext--announced to us that a young and accomplished widow, whose
misfortunes rendered her justly interesting, would henceforth be charged
with finishing what my dear parent had begun. My mother at first
resolutely refused obedience to my father's command, while I in vain
besought him not to interpose a stranger's authority between myself and
my beloved mother. He was inexorable alike to our tears and prayers, and
Madame Roland, who stated herself to be the widow of a colonel who had
died in India, came to take up her abode with us, in the character of
governess to myself."

"What! the same Madame Roland your father married almost immediately
after the death of your mother?"

"The same, my lord."

"Was she, then, very beautiful?"

"Tolerably so,--nothing more."

"Clever,--witty, perhaps?"

"She was a clever dissembler,--a skilful manoeuvrer; her talent went
no higher. She might be about five and twenty years of age, with
extremely light hair and nearly white eyelashes; her eyes were large,
round, and a clear blue; the expression of her countenance was humble
and gentle; and while her outward manner was attentive, even to
servility, her real disposition was as perfidious as it was unfeeling."

"And what were her acquirements?"

"Positively none at all, my lord; and I cannot conceive how my father,
who until then had been so completely a slave to the dictates of worldly
propriety, did not reflect that the utter incapacity of this woman must
shamefully proclaim the real cause of her being in the house. My mother
earnestly pointed out to him the extreme ignorance of Madame Roland; he,
however, merely replied, in a tone which admitted of no further
argument, that, competent or otherwise, the young and interesting widow
should retain the situation in his establishment in which he had placed
her. This I heard subsequently. From that instant my poor mother
comprehended the whole affair, over which she deeply grieved; regretting
less, I fancy, her husband's infidelity than the domestic unhappiness
which would result from so indecorous a _liaison_, the account of which
she feared might reach my ears."

"But, even so far as his foolish passion was concerned, it seems to me
that your father acted very unwisely in introducing this woman into his
house."

"And you would be still more at a loss to understand his conduct if you
had but known the extreme formality and circumspection of his character.
Nothing could ever have induced him thus to trample under foot all the
established rules of society but the unbounded influence of Madame
Roland,--an influence she exercised with so much the more certainty as
she veiled her designs under the mask of the most passionate love for
him."

"But what was your father's age then?"

"About sixty."

"And he really credited the professions of love made by so much younger
a woman?"

"My father had been in his time one of the most fashionable and admired
men of the day. And Madame Roland, either following the suggestions of
her own artful mind or urged on by the counsels of others, who could
countenance much more--"

"Counsel such a person!"

"I will tell you, my lord. Imagining that a man whose reputation for
gallantry had always stood high in the world would, as he advanced in
years, be more easily delighted than another by being flattered upon his
personal advantages, and more credulously receive such compliments as
served to recall those days most soothing to his vanity to remember,
well, my lord, incredible as it may appear, this woman began to flatter
my poor misguided father upon the graceful _tournure_ of his features
and the inimitable elegance of his shape. And he in his sixtieth year!
Strange as you may consider it, spite of the excellent sense with which
my father was endowed, he fell blindly into the snare, coarse and vulgar
as it was. Such was--such still is, I doubt not--the secret of the
unbounded influence this woman obtained over him. And really, my lord,
spite of my present disinclination for mirth, I can scarcely restrain a
smile at the recollection of having frequently, before my marriage,
heard Madame Roland assert and maintain that what she styled real
maturity was the finest portion of a person's existence, and that this
maturity never began until about the fifty-fifth or sixtieth year of
one's age."

"I suppose that happened to be your father's age?"

"Precisely so, my lord! Then, and then only, according to Madame Roland,
had the understanding, combined with experience, attained their full
development; then only could a man, occupying a distinguished position
in the world, enjoy the consideration to which he was entitled; at that
period only were the _tout ensemble_ of his countenance, and the
exquisite grace of his manners, in their highest perfection; the
physiognomy offering at this delightful epoch of a man's life a heavenly
mixture of winning serenity and gentle gravity. Then the slight tinge of
melancholy, caused by the many recollections of the past deceit
experience is fain to look back upon, completes the irresistible charm
of real maturity; unappreciable (Madame Roland hastily added) except by
women with head and heart sufficiently good to despise the youthful
frivolity of a poor, inexperienced forty years, when the character and
countenance can scarcely be called formed, and when good taste turns
away from the boyish folly of such an immature season of life, and seeks
the fine, majestic features impressed with the sublime and poetic
expression resulting from a sixty years' study of the vast book of human
existence."

Rodolph could not restrain smiling at the powerful irony with which
Madame d'Harville sketched the portrait of her mother-in-law.

"There is one thing," said he to the marquise, "for which I cannot
forgive ridiculous people."

"What is that, my lord?"

"The being also wicked; which prevents our being able to laugh at them
as much as they deserve."

"They probably calculate upon that available advantage," replied
Clémence.

"Indeed, it is very probable, though equally lamentable, for, if it were
not for the recollection of all the pain Madame Roland has occasioned
you, I could be highly diverted with her system of real maturity as
opposed to the insipidity of mere boys of only forty years of age, who,
according to her assertion, would be scarcely out of their
leading-strings, as our grandfathers and grandmothers would say."

"What principally excited my aversion for her was the shamefulness of
her conduct towards my dear mother, and the unfortunately over-zealous
part she took in my marriage," said the marquise, after a moment's
pause.

Rodolph looked at her with much surprise.

"Nay, my lord," said Clémence, in a firm, though gentle tone, "I well
remember that M. d'Harville is your friend and my husband. I know
perfectly the grave importance of the words I have just uttered:
hereafter you yourself shall admit the justice of them. But to return to
Madame Roland, who was now, spite of her acknowledged incapacity,
established as my instructress: my mother had a long and most painful
altercation with my father on the subject, which drew down on us his
extreme displeasure, and from that period my mother and myself remained
secluded in our apartments, while Madame Roland, in quality of my
governess, directed the whole household, and almost publicly did the
honours of the mansion."

"What must your mother have suffered!"

"She did, indeed, my lord; but her sorrow was less for herself than me,
whose future destiny might be so deeply affected by the introduction of
this woman. Her health, always delicate, became daily weaker, and she
fell seriously ill. It chanced, most unfortunately, that our family
doctor, M. Sorbier, in whom she had the highest confidence, died about
this period, to my mother's extreme regret. Madame Roland immediately
urged my father to place my mother's case in the hands of an Italian
doctor, a particular friend of her own, and whom she described as
possessing a more than ordinary skill in the treatment of diseases.
Thanks to her importunities, my father, who had himself consulted him in
trifling maladies, and found no cause to be dissatisfied, proposed him
to my mother, who, alas, raised no objection. And this man it was who
attended upon her during her last illness."

Tears filled the eyes of Madame d'Harville as she uttered these words.

"I am ashamed to confess my weakness, my lord," added she; "but, for the
simple reason of this doctor having been appointed at the suggestion of
Madame Roland, he inspired me (and at that time without any cause) with
the most involuntary repugnance, and it was with the most painful
misgivings I saw him established in my mother's confidence. Still, as
regarded his knowledge of his profession, Doctor Polidori--"

"What do I hear?" exclaimed Rodolph.

"Are you indisposed, my lord?" inquired Clémence, struck with the sudden
expression the prince's countenance had assumed.

"No, no!" said Rodolph, as though unconscious of the presence of Madame
d'Harville, "no, I must be mistaken. Five or six years must have elapsed
since all this occurred, while I am informed that it is not more than
two years since Polidori came to Paris, and then under a feigned name.
He it was I saw yesterday,--I am sure of it,--the quack dentist
Bradamanti and Polidori are one and the same. Still, 'tis singular; two
doctors of the same name,[3]--what a strange rencontre!"

  [3] We must remind the reader that Polidori was a doctor of some
  eminence when he undertook the education of Rodolph.

"Madame," said Rodolph, turning to Madame d'Harville, whose astonishment
at his preoccupation still increased, "we will, if you please, compare
notes as to this Italian. What age was he?"

"About fifty."

"And his appearance,--his countenance?"

"Most sinister. Never shall I forget his clear, piercing, green eye, and
his nose curved like the bill of an eagle."

"'Tis he,--'tis he himself!" exclaimed Rodolph. "And do you think,
madame, that the Doctor Polidori you were describing is still in Paris?"

"That I cannot tell you, my lord. He quitted Paris about a year after my
father's marriage. A lady of my acquaintance, who at this period also
employed the Italian as her medical adviser--this lady, Madame de
Lucenay--"

"The Duchess de Lucenay?" interrupted Rodolph.

"Yes, my lord. But why this surprise?"

"Permit me to be silent on that subject. But, at the time of which you
speak, what did Madame de Lucenay tell you of this man?"

"She said that he travelled much after quitting Paris, and that she
often received from him very clever and amusing letters, descriptive of
the various places he visited. Now I recollect that, about a month ago,
happening to ask Madame de Lucenay whether she had heard lately from M.
Polidori, she replied, with an embarrassed manner, 'that nothing had
been heard of or concerning him for some time; that no one knew what had
become of him; and that by many he was supposed to be dead.'"

"Strange, indeed," said Rodolph, recalling the recent visit of Madame de
Lucenay to the charlatan Bradamanti.

"You know this man, then, my lord?"

"Unfortunately for myself, I do; but let me beseech you to continue your
recital; hereafter I will give you an insight into the history of this
Polidori."

"Do you mean the doctor?"

"Say, rather, the wretch stained with the most atrocious crimes."

"Crimes!" cried Madame d'Harville, in alarm; "can it be possible, the
man whom Madame Roland so highly extolled, and into whose hands my poor
mother was delivered, was guilty of crimes? Alas, my dear parent
lingered but a very short time after she passed into his care! Ah, my
lord, my presentiments have not deceived me!"

"Your presentiments?"

"Oh, yes! I was telling you just now of the invincible antipathy I felt
for this man from the circumstance of his having been introduced among
us by Madame Roland; but I did not tell you all, my lord."

"How so?"

"I was fearful lest the bitterness of my own griefs should make me
guilty of injustice towards an innocent person; but now, my lord, you
shall know everything. My mother had lain dangerously ill about five
days; I had always watched beside her, night as well as day. One
evening, that I felt much oppressed with confinement and fatigue, I went
to breathe the fresh air on the terrace of the garden: after remaining
about a quarter of an hour, I was returning by a long and obscure
gallery; by a faint light which streamed from the apartment of Madame
Roland I saw M. Polidori quit the room, accompanied by the mistress of
the chamber. Being in the shadow, they did not perceive me; Madame
Roland spoke some words to the doctor, but in so low a tone I could not
catch them; the doctor's answer was given in a louder key, and consisted
only of these words: 'The day after to-morrow;' and, when Madame Roland
seemed to urge him, still in so low a voice as to prevent the words
reaching me, he replied, with singular emphasis, 'The day after
to-morrow, I tell you,--the day after to-morrow.'"

"What could those words mean?"

"What did they mean? Alas, alas, my lord, it was on the Wednesday
evening I heard M. Polidori say 'The day after to-morrow;' on the Friday
my mother was a corpse!"

"Horrible, indeed!"

"After this mournful event I was consigned to the care of a relation,
who, forgetful of the afflicted state of my mind, as well as tender age,
told me, without reserve or consideration of the consequences, what
powerful reasons there were for my hating Madame Roland, and fully
enlightened me as to the ambitious projects entertained by this woman:
full well I could then imagine all my poor mother must have endured. I
thought my heart would break the first time I again saw my father, which
was upon the occasion of his coming to fetch me from the house of my
relation to take me into Normandy, where we were to pass the first
months of our mourning. During the journey he informed me, without the
least embarrassment, and as though it had been the most natural thing in
the world, that, out of regard for himself and me, madame had kindly
consented to take the command of the establishment, and to act as my
guide and friend. On arriving at Aubiers (so was my father's estate
called), the first object we beheld was Madame Roland, who had
established herself here on the very day of my mother's death. Spite of
her modest, gentle manner, her countenance betrayed an ill-disguised
triumph; never shall I forget the look, at once ironical and spiteful,
she cast on me as I descended from the carriage; it seemed to say, 'I am
mistress here,--'tis you who are the intruder.' A fresh grief awaited
me; whether from an inexcusable want of proper judgment or unpardonable
assurance, this woman occupied the apartment which had been my mother's:
in my just indignation I loudly complained to my father of this
unpleasant forgetfulness of my rights as well as wishes. He reprimanded
me severely for making any remonstrance on the subject, adding that it
was needless for me either to feel or express surprise on the subject,
as it was his desire I should habituate myself to consider Madame Roland
in every respect as a second mother, and show her a corresponding
deference. I replied that it would be a profanation to that sacred name
to act as he commanded; and, to his extreme wrath, I never allowed any
opportunity to escape by which I could evince my deeply rooted aversion
to Madame Roland. At times my father's rage knew no bounds, and bitterly
would he reproach me in the presence of that woman for the coldness and
ingratitude of my conduct towards an angel, as he styled her, sent by
heaven for our consolation and happiness. 'Let me entreat of you to
speak for yourself alone,' said I, one day, quite wearied with the
hypocritical conduct of Madame Roland and my father's blind infatuation.
The harshness and unreasonableness of his conduct became at last quite
unendurable; while Madame Roland, with the honeyed words of feigned
affection, would artfully intercede for me, because she well knew by so
doing she should only increase the storm she had raised. 'You must make
some allowances for Clémence,' she would say; 'the sorrow she
experiences for the excellent parent we all deplore is so natural, and
even praiseworthy, that you should respect her just grief, and pity her
for her unfounded suspicions.' 'You hear her! you hear her!' would my
father exclaim, pointing with mingled triumph and admiration to the
accomplished hypocrite; 'what angelic goodness! what enchanting
nobleness and generosity! Instantly entreat her pardon for the
unworthiness of your conduct.' 'Never!' I used to reply; 'the spirit of
my angel mother, who now beholds me, would be pained to witness such a
degradation in her child;' and, bursting with grief and mortification, I
would fly to my own chamber, leaving my father to dry the tears, and
calm the ruffled feelings of the woman I despised and hated. You will, I
hope, excuse me, my lord, for dwelling so long and so minutely on all my
early troubles, but it is only by so doing I can accurately describe to
you the sort of life I led at that period."

"I can enter fully into the painful subject; yet how often have the same
scenes been enacted in other families, and still, it is much to be
feared, will they be repeated till the end of time. But in what capacity
did your father introduce Madame Roland to the neighbourhood?"

"As my instructress and his friend, and she was estimated accordingly."

"I need scarcely inquire whether he shared in the solitude to which her
questionable character condemned the lady?"

"With the exception of some few and unavoidable visits, she saw no one.
My father, guided by his passion, or influenced by Madame Roland, threw
off his mourning for my mother ere he had worn it three months, under
the plea that the sable garb continually reminded him of his loss, and
prevented him from regaining his lost tranquillity. His manners to me
daily became colder and more estranged, while his perfect indifference
concerning me allowed a degree of liberty almost incredible in a person
of my age. I met him only at breakfast, after which he returned to his
study with Madame Roland, who acted as his secretary, read and answered
all his letters, etc.; that completed, they either walked or drove out
together, returning only an hour before dinner, against which, Madame
Roland would array herself in an elegant and well-chosen evening dress;
while my father would make a most studiously elaborate toilet, as
uncalled for as ill-adapted to his time of life. Occasionally, after
dinner, he received a few persons he could not avoid asking to his
house, when he would play at tric-trac with Madame Roland until ten
o'clock, at which hour he would offer his arm to conduct her to my
mother's apartment, and return to his guests. As for myself, I had
unrestrained permission to go where I pleased throughout the whole day.
Attended by a servant, I used to take long rides in the extensive woods
surrounding the château, and when, as occasionally happened, I felt my
spirits unequal to appearing at the dinner-table, not the slightest
inquiry was ever made after me, or my absence noticed."

"What singular neglect and forgetfulness!"

"Having accidentally encountered one of our neighbours during several
successive days of my excursions in the woods, I gave up riding there,
and confined myself entirely to the park."

"And how did this infamous woman conduct herself towards you when
alone?"

"She shunned all occasions of being with me as sedulously as I avoided
her; but once that we were unexpectedly _tête-à-tête_ with each other,
and that she was reproaching me for some severe words I had spoken the
preceding evening, she said, coldly, 'Have a care: you cannot contend
against my power; any such attempt will bring down certain ruin on your
head.' 'As it did upon that of my mother,' answered I. 'It is a pity,
madame, you have not M. Polidori by your side, to announce to you that
your vengeance can be satisfied--the day after to-morrow."

"And what reply did she make when you thus recalled those fearful
words?"

"She changed colour rapidly, her features were almost convulsed; then,
by a strong effort conquering her emotion, she angrily demanded what I
meant by the expression. 'Ask your own heart, madame,' answered I; 'in
the solitude of your chamber inquire of yourself to what I allude: your
conscience will find a ready explanation.' Shortly after that, a scene
occurred which for ever sealed my destiny.

"Among a great number of family portraits, which graced the walls of the
salon in which we usually spent the evening, was that of my mother. One
day I observed it had been removed from its accustomed place. Two
neighbours had dined with us. One of them, a M. Dorval, a country
lawyer, had always expressed the utmost veneration and respect for my
mother. When we reached the salon after dinner, I inquired of my father
what had become of my dear mother's picture. 'Cease!' cried my father,
significantly pointing to our guests, as though intimating his desire
that they should not hear any discussion on the subject; 'the reason of
the picture being taken away is that the sight of it continually
reminded me of the heavy loss I have sustained, and so prevented my
regaining my usual calmness and peace of mind.' 'And where is the
portrait at present?' inquired I. Turning towards Madame Roland, with an
impatient and uneasy air, he said, 'Where has the picture been put?' 'In
the lumber-room,' replied she, casting on me a glance of defiance,
evidently under the impression that the presence of witnesses would
prevent me from proceeding further in the matter. 'I can easily believe,
madame,' cried I, indignantly, 'that the recollection of my mother must
have been painful to you; but that was not a sufficient reason for
banishing from the walls the likeness of her who, when you were in want
and misery, kindly and charitably afforded you the shelter of her
roof.'"

"Excellent!" exclaimed Rodolph; "yours was, indeed, a stinging and a
just reproach."

"'Mademoiselle,' cried my father, 'you forget that this lady has
watched, and still continues to preside, with maternal solicitude over
your education; you also seem to banish from your recollection the very
high esteem and respect you are aware I entertain for her; and, since
you allow yourself thus to attack her before strangers, you will permit
me to tell you that, in my opinion, the charge of ingratitude lies at
the door of her who, overlooking the tender cares she has received,
presumes to reproach a person, deserving of the utmost interest and
respect, with misfortunes and calamities she so nobly sustained.' 'I
cannot venture to discuss the subject with you, my dear father,' said I,
submissively. 'Perhaps, then, mademoiselle, you will favour me with your
polite arguments in favour of rudeness and unmerited abuse,' cried
Madame Roland, carried away by rage into a neglect of her usual caution
and prudence; 'perhaps you will permit me to assert that, so far from
owing the slightest obligation to your mother, I have nothing to
remember but the constant coldness and dislike she invariably manifested
towards me, fully expressive of the disgust and displeasure with which
my residence in the house inspired her.' 'Forbear, madame!' exclaimed I,
interrupting her. 'Out of respect for my father, if not to spare your
own blushes, cease such shameful confessions as the one you have just
made, or you will make even me regret having exposed you to so
humiliating a disclosure.'"

"Better and better!" cried Rodolph; "this was, indeed, cutting with a
two-edged sword. Pray go on. And what said this woman?"

"By a very hackneyed, though convenient expedient, Madame Roland
contrived to end a scene in which she felt she was likely to have the
worst. With a sudden cry she threw herself into a chair, and very
naturally imitated a fainting-fit. Thanks to this incident, the two
visitors quitted the room in search of restoratives; while I retired to
my own apartment, leaving my father hanging in deep anxiety over the
wicked cause of all this confusion."

"Doubtless your next interview with your father must have been a stormy
one."

"He came to me next morning, and, without further preamble, addressed me
as follows: 'In order to prevent a recurrence of the disgraceful scene
of yesterday, I think proper to inform you, that, immediately that
decency permits both you and myself to throw off our mourning, it is my
intention to celebrate my marriage with Madame Roland, which will
compel you to treat her with the respect and deference due to my wife.
For certain reasons, it is expedient you should marry before me. You
will have as a dowry your mother's fortune, amounting to more than a
million francs. From this very day, I shall take the necessary steps to
form a suitable match for you, and, for that purpose, I shall accept one
of the many offers I have received for your hand.' After this
conversation, I lived more alone than ever, never meeting my father
except at mealtimes, which generally passed off in the utmost silence.
So really dull and lonely was my present existence, that I only waited
for my father to propose any suitor he might approve of, to accept him
with perfect willingness. Madame Roland, having relinquished all further
ill-natured remarks upon the memory of my deceased parent, indemnified
herself by inflicting on me the continual pain of seeing her appropriate
to herself the various trifles my dear mother had exclusively made use
of. Her easy chair, embroidery-frame, the books which composed her
private library, even a screen I myself had embroidered for her, and in
the centre of which were our united ciphers: this woman laid her
sacrilegious hands on all the elegant articles with which my mother's
taste and my affection had ornamented her apartments."

"I can well imagine all the horror these profanations must have caused
you."

"Still, great as were my sufferings, the state of loneliness, in which I
found myself, rendered them even greater."

"And you had no one, no person in whom you could confide?"

"No one; but at this time I received a touching proof of the interest my
fate excited, and which might have opened my eyes to the dangers
preparing for me. One of the two persons present, during the scene with
Madame Roland I so lately described, was a M. Dorval, a worthy old
notary, to whom my mother had rendered some signal service. By my
father's orders, I never since then entered the salon when strangers
were there; I had never, therefore, seen M. Dorval after the eventful
day when I spoke so undisguisedly to Madame Roland; great, therefore,
was my surprise to see him coming towards me one day, in the park, while
I was taking my accustomed walk. 'Mademoiselle,' said he to me, with a
mysterious air, 'I am fearful of being observed by your father; here is
a letter,--read it, and destroy it immediately,--its contents are most
important to you.' So saying, he disappeared as quickly as he came. In
the letter he informed me that it was in agitation to marry me to the
Marquis d'Harville, and that the match appeared in every respect
eligible, inasmuch as every one concurred in bearing testimony to the
many excellent qualities of M. d'Harville, who was young, rich,
good-looking, and highly distinguished for his talents and mental
attainments; yet that the families of two young ladies, with whom he had
been on the point of marriage, had abruptly broken off the matches. The
notary added that, although entirely ignorant of the cause of these
ruptures, he still considered it his duty to apprise me of them, without
in the slightest degree insinuating that they originated in any
circumstance prejudicial to the high opinion entertained of M.
d'Harville. The two young ladies alluded to were, one, the daughter of
M. Beauregard, a peer of France; the other, of Lord Dudley. M. Dorval
concluded by saying that his motive in making the communication was
because my father, in his extreme desire to conclude the marriage, did
not appear to attach sufficient importance to the facts now detailed."

"Now you recall it to my recollection," said Rodolph, after some minutes
spent in deep meditation on what he had just heard, "I remember that
your husband, at intervals of nearly twelve months, told me of two
marriages which had been broken off just as they were on the point of
taking place, and ascribing their abrupt termination to a difficulty in
arranging matters of a mere pecuniary nature."

Madame d'Harville smiled bitterly as she replied:

"You shall know what those motives really were, my lord, very shortly.
After reading the letter, so kindly intentioned on the part of the
worthy notary, I felt both my uneasiness and curiosity rapidly increase.
Who was D'Harville? My father had never mentioned him to me. In vain I
ransacked my memory; I could not recollect ever to have heard the name.
Soon, however, the current of my thoughts was directed into another
channel by the abrupt departure of Madame Roland for Paris. Although the
period of her absence was limited to eight days at the utmost, yet my
father expressed the deepest grief at even this trifling separation from
her. His temper became altogether soured, and his coldness towards me
hourly increased; he even went so far as to reply, when one day I
inquired after his health, 'I am ill,--and all through you.' 'Through
me?' exclaimed I. 'Assuredly, through you; you know full well how
indispensable to my happiness is the company of Madame Roland, yet this
incomparable woman, who has been so grossly insulted by you, has left me
to undertake her present journey solely on your account.' This mark of
interest on the part of Madame Roland filled me with the most lively
apprehensions of evil, and a vague presentiment floated across my mind
that my marriage was in some way or other mixed up with it. I must leave
it to your imagination, my lord, to picture the delight of my father
upon the return of my future mother-in-law. The next day he sent to
desire my company; I found him alone with her. 'I have, for some time,'
said he, 'been thinking of establishing you in the world; in another
month your mourning will have expired. To-morrow I expect M.
d'Harville, a young man possessed of every requisite, both as to fortune
and figure, to secure any woman's approbation; he is well looked upon in
society, and is capable of securing the happiness of any lady he may
seek in marriage. Now, having seen you, though accidentally, his choice
has fallen on you. In fact, he is most anxious to obtain your hand.
Every pecuniary arrangement is concluded. It therefore remains solely
with yourself to be married ere the next six weeks have elapsed. If, on
the contrary, from any capricious whim impossible for me to foresee, you
think fit to refuse the unlooked-for good offer now before you, it will
in no respect alter my own plans, as my marriage will take place,
according to my original intention, directly my mourning expires. And,
in this latter case, I am bound to inform you that your presence in my
house will not be agreeable to me, unless I have your promise to treat
my wife with the respect and tenderness to which she is entitled.' 'I
understand you,' replied I; 'whether I accept M. d'Harville or no, you
will marry; and my only resource will then be to retire to the Convent
of the Holy Heart?' 'It will,' answered he, coldly."

"His conduct now ceases to be classed under the term weakness," said
Rodolph; "it assumes the form of positive cruelty."

"Shall I tell you, my lord, what has always prevented me from feeling
the least resentment at my father's conduct? It is because I have always
had a strong presentiment that he would one day pay dearly--too dearly,
alas!--for his blind passion for Madame Roland. Thank Heaven, that evil
day has not yet arrived!"

"And did you not mention to your father what the old notary had informed
you of,--the abrupt breaking off of the two marriages M. d'Harville had
been on the point of contracting?"

"Indeed, I did, my lord. I signified to my father, upon the occasion of
the conversation I was relating to you, a wish to speak with him alone,
upon which Madame Roland abruptly rose and quitted the apartment. 'I
have no objection to the union you propose with M. d'Harville,' said I;
'only, as I understand, he has twice been upon the point of marriage,
and--' 'Enough--enough!' interrupted he, hastily. 'I know all about
those two affairs, which were so abruptly broken off merely because
matters of a pecuniary nature were not satisfactorily arranged;
although, I am bound to assure you, that not the slightest shadow of
blame was attributable to M. d'Harville. If that be your only objection,
you may consider the match as concluded on, and yourself as
married,--ay, and happily, too,--for, spite of your conduct, my first
wish is for your happiness.'"

"No doubt Madame Roland was delighted with your marriage?"

"Delighted? Yes, my lord," said Clémence, with bitterness. "She was, and
well might be, delighted with this union, which was, in fact, of her
effecting. She it was who had first suggested it to my father; she knew
full well the real occasion of breaking off the marriages so nearly
completed by M. d'Harville, and hence arose her exceeding anxiety for
him to become my husband."

"What motive could she possibly have had?"

"She sought to avenge herself on me by condemning me to a life of
wretchedness."

"But your father--"

"Deceived by Madame Roland, he fully and implicitly believed that
interested motives alone had set aside the two former marriages of M.
d'Harville."

"What a horrible scheme! But what was this mysterious reason?"

"You shall know shortly. Well, M. d'Harville arrived at Aubiers, and, I
confess, I was much pleased with his appearance, manners, and cultivated
mind. He seemed very amiable and kind, though somewhat melancholy. I
remarked in him a contradiction which charmed and astonished me at the
same time. His personal and mental advantages were considerable, his
fortune princely, and his birth illustrious; yet, at times, the
expression of his countenance would change, from a firm and manly energy
and decision of purpose, to an almost timid, shrinking look, as though
he feared even his own self; then an utter dejection of spirits and
exhaustion would ensue. There was, at these strangely contrasted
periods, such a look of deprecating humility, such an appearance of
conscious wrong, as touched me deeply, and won my pity to a great
extent. I admired greatly the kindness of manner he ever evinced to an
old servant,--a _valet de chambre_ who had been about him from his
birth, and who alone was suffered to attend upon his master now he had
reached man's estate. Shortly after M. d'Harville's arrival he remained
for two days secluded in his apartment. My father wished to visit him;
but the old servant alluded to objected, stating that his master had so
violent a headache, he could receive no one. When M. d'Harville emerged
from his chamber, he was excessively pale, and looked extremely ill. He
afterwards appeared to experience a sort of impatience and uneasiness
when any reference was made to his temporary indisposition. In
proportion as I became better acquainted with M. d'Harville, I
discovered that, on many points, a singular similarity of taste existed
between us. He had so much to be proud of, and so many reasons for being
happy, that his excessive and shrinking modesty struck me as something
more than admirable. The day for our marriage being fixed, he seemed to
delight in anticipating every wish I could form for the future, and,
when sometimes I alluded to the deep melancholy which at times
possessed him, and begged to know the cause, he would speak of his
deceased parents, and of the delight it would have afforded them to see
him married, to their hearts' dearest wish, to one so justly approved
both by his own judgment and affections, I could not well find fault
with reasons so complimentary to myself. M. d'Harville easily guessed
the terms on which I must have been living with my father and Madame
Roland, although the former, delighted at my marriage, which would serve
as a plea for accelerating his own, had latterly treated me with
excessive tenderness. In some of our conversations, M. d'Harville, with
infinite tact and good feeling, explained to me that his regard was
considerably heightened by the knowledge of all I had suffered since my
dear mother's death. I thought it my duty to hint to him, at such a
time, that, as my father was about to marry again, it might very
possibly affect the property I might be expected to inherit. He would
not even permit me to proceed, but most effectually convinced me of his
own utterly disinterested motives in seeking my hand. I could not but
think that the families, who had so abruptly broken off his former
projected alliances, must have been very unreasonable or avaricious
people if they made pecuniary matters a stumbling-block with one so
generous, easy, and liberal as M. d'Harville."

"And such as you describe him, so have I always found him," cried
Rodolph; "all heart, disinterestedness, and delicacy! But did you never
speak to him of the marriages so hastily broken off?"

"I will confess to you, my lord, that the question was several times on
my lips; but, when I recollected the sensitiveness of his nature, I
feared to pain him by questions which might, at any rate, have wounded
his self-love, or taxed his honour to reply to truly. The nearer the day
fixed for our marriage approached, the more delighted did M. d'Harville
appear. Yet I several times detected him absorbed in the most perfect
dejection, the deepest melancholy. One day, in particular, I caught his
eyes fixed on me with a settled gaze, as though resolving to confide to
me some important secret he yet could not bring himself to reveal. I
perceived a large tear trickle slowly down his cheek, as though wrung
from his very heart. The recollection of his two former prospects of
marriage, so suddenly destroyed, rose to my mind; and, I confess, I
almost felt afraid to proceed. A vague presentiment whispered within me
that the happiness of my whole life was at stake,--perhaps perilled for
ever. But then, on the other hand, such was my eager desire to quit my
father's house, that I turned a deaf ear to every suggestion of evil
arising from my union with M. d'Harville."

"And did M. d'Harville make you no voluntary confession?"

"Not any. When I inquired the cause of his continual fits of melancholy,
he would answer, 'Pray, do not heed it! But I am always most sad when
most happy.' These words, pronounced in the kindest and most touching
manner, reassured me a little. And how, indeed, was it possible, when
his voice would quiver with emotion, and his eyes fill with tears, to
manifest any further suspicion, by repeating my questions as to the
past, when it was with the future only I had any business? The persons
appointed to witness the contract on the part of M. d'Harville, M. de
Lucenay and M. de Saint-Rémy, arrived at Aubiers some days previous to
the marriage; my nearest relations alone were invited. Immediately after
the conclusion of the ceremony, we were to depart for Paris; and it is
true I felt for M. d'Harville none of that love with which a young wife
ought to regard the man she vows her future life to, but I admired and
respected his character and disposition, and, but for the disastrous
events which followed this fatal union, a more tender feeling could
doubtless soon have attached me to him. Well, we were married."

At these words, Madame d'Harville turned rather pale, and her resolution
appeared to forsake her. After a pause, she resumed:

"Immediately after the ceremony, my father embraced me tenderly, as did
Madame Roland also. Before so many persons I could not avoid the display
of this fresh exhibition of hypocrisy. With her dry and white hand she
squeezed mine so hard as to pain me, and said, in a whisper, and in a
tone as gentle as it was perfidious, these words, which I never can
forget: 'Think of me sometimes in the midst of your bliss, for it was I
who arranged your marriage.' Alas, I was far from comprehending at that
moment the full force of those words! Our marriage took place at eleven
o'clock, and we immediately entered our carriage, followed by my
waiting-woman and the old _valet de chambre_ of M. d'Harville's, and we
travelled so rapidly that we reached Paris before ten o'clock in the
evening. I should have been surprised at the silence and melancholy of
M. d'Harville had I not known that he had what he termed his happy
sadness. I was myself painfully disturbed; I was returning to Paris for
the first time since my mother's death; I arrived there alone with my
husband, whom I had hardly known more than six weeks, and who, up to the
evening before, had not addressed a word to me but what was marked by
respectful formality. Men, however well bred, do not think sufficiently
of the fear which the sudden change in their tone and manners occasions
to a young female as soon as she belongs to them; they do not reflect
that a youthful maiden cannot in a few hours forget all her timidity and
virgin scruples."

"Nothing is to me more barbarous than this system of carrying off a
young female as soon as the wedding ceremony is over,--a ceremony which
ought to consecrate the right and duty to employ still more every
tenderness of love and effort to render mutual affection still stronger
and more endearing."

"You will imagine, monseigneur, the indefinable alarm with which I found
myself in Paris,--in the city in which my mother had died hardly a year
before. We reached the Hôtel d'Harville--"

The emotion of the young lady redoubled, her cheeks were flushed with
scarlet, and she added, in a voice scarcely intelligible:

"You must know all; if not, I shall appear too contemptible in your
eyes. Well, then," she resumed, with desperate resolution, "I was led to
my apartment and left there alone; after an hour M. d'Harville joined me
there. I was weeping bitterly. My husband came towards me, and was about
to take my arm, when he fell at my feet in agony. He could not hear my
voice, his countenance was spasmodic with fearful convulsions, his eyes
rolled in their orbits with a rapidity that appalled me, his contorted
mouth was filled with blood and foam, and his hand grasped me with
inconceivable force. I made a desperate effort, and his stiffened
fingers at length unclasped from my wrist, and I fainted at the moment
when M. d'Harville was struggling in the paroxysm of this horrible
attack. This was my wedding night, my lord,--this was the vengeance of
Madame Roland!"

"Unhappy woman!" said Rodolph, overwhelmed. "I understand,--an
epileptic. Ah, 'tis horrible!"

"And that is not all," added Clémence, in a voice almost choked by
emotion; "my child, my angel girl, she has inherited this frightful
malady."

"Your daughter! She! What? Her paleness--her weakness--"

"Is, I dread to believe, hereditary; and the physicians think,
therefore, that it is incurable."

Madame d'Harville hid her face in her hands; overcome by this painful
disclosure, she had not courage to add another word. Rodolph also
remained silent. His mind recoiled affrighted from the terrible
mysteries of this night. He pictured to himself the young maiden,
already sad, in consequence of her return to the city in which her
mother had died, arriving at a strange house, alone with a man for whom
she felt an interest and esteem, but not love, nor any of those
sentiments which enchant the mind, none of the engrossing feeling which
removes the chaste alarms of a woman in the participation of a lawful
and reciprocal affection. No, no; on the contrary, Clémence arrived
agitated and distressed, with depressed spirits and tearful eyes. She
was, however, resolved on resignation and the fulfilment of duty, when,
instead of listening to language full of devotion, love, and tenderness,
which would compensate for the sorrowful feelings which were uppermost
in her mind, she sees convulsed at her feet a stricken man, who twists,
and foams, and shrieks, in the hideous convulsions of one of the most
fearful infirmities with which a man can be incurably smitten! This is
not all: his child, poor little innocent angel! is also withered from
her birth. These sad and painful avowals excited bitter reflections in
Rodolph's mind. "Such," said he, "is the law of the land. A young,
handsome, and pure girl, the confiding and gentle victim of a shameful
dissimulation, unites her destiny to that of a man tainted with an
incurable malady,--a fatal inheritance which he will assuredly transmit
to his children. The unhappy wife discovers this horrid mystery. What
can she do? Nothing,--nothing but suffer and weep; nothing but endeavour
to overcome her disgust and fright; nothing but pass her days in
anguish, in indefinable and endless terror; nothing but seek, perhaps,
culpable consolation without the desolate existence which has been
created around her. Again," said Rodolph, "these strange laws sometimes
produce horrible unions: fearful for humanity. In these laws, animals
always appear superior to man in the care bestowed upon them; in the
improvements that are studied for them; in the protection which
encircles, the guarantees which attend them. Buy an animal, and, if an
infirmity decried by the law is detected after the purchase, the sale is
null and void. Indeed, what a shame, what a case of public injury would
it be to compel a man to keep an animal which has a cough, is lame, or
has lost an eye! Why, it would be scandalous, criminal, unheard-of
infamy! Only imagine being compelled to keep, and keep for ever, a mule
with a cough, a horse that was blind, or an ass that was lame! What
frightful consequences might not such injustice entail on the community!
Therefore, no such bargains hold good, no words bind, no contract is
valid: the omnipotent law unlooses all that was thus bound. But if it
relates to a creature made after God's own image, if it respects a young
girl who, in the full and innocent reliance on the good faith of a man,
unites her lot with his, and wakes up in the company of an epileptic, an
unhappy wretch stricken with a fearful malady, whose moral and physical
consequences are immeasurably distressing, a malady which may throw
disorder and aversion into a family, perpetuate a horrible disease,
vitiate whole generations, yes, this law, so inexorable when lame,
blind, or coughing animals are the consideration--this law, so
singularly clear-sighted, which will not allow an unsound horse to
increase the species--this law will not loosen the victim of a union
such as we have described. These bonds are sacred, indissoluble: it is
to offend God and man to break them. In truth," continued Rodolph, "men
sometimes display a humility most shameful and an egotistical pride
which is only execrable. He values himself at less than the beast which
he protects by warranties which he refuses for himself; and he imposes
on himself, makes sacred, and perpetuates his most distressing
infirmities by putting them under the protection of the immutability of
laws, human and divine." Rodolph greatly blamed M. d'Harville, but he
promised to himself to excuse him in the eyes of Clémence, although
fully persuaded, after her sad disclosure, that the marquis was for ever
alienated from her heart. One thought led to another, and Rodolph said
to himself, "I have kept aloof from a woman I love, and who, perhaps,
already feels a secret inclination for me. Either from an attachment of
heart or friendship, she has bestowed her honour--her life--for the sake
of a fool whom she thought unhappy. If, instead of leaving her, I had
paid her all sorts of attentions, love, and consideration, my name would
have been such that her reputation would not have received the slightest
stain, the suspicions of her husband would never have been excited:
whilst, now, she is all but at the mercy of such an ass as M. Charles
Robert, who, I fear, will become the more indiscreet in proportion as he
has the less right to be so. And then, too, who knows if, in spite of
the dangers she has risked, the heart of Madame d'Harville will always
remain free? Any return to her husband is henceforward impossible.
Young, handsome, courted, with a disposition sympathising with all who
suffer, what dangers, what shoals and quicksands, lie before her! For M.
d'Harville, what anguish and what deep chagrin! At the same time jealous
of and in love with his wife, who cannot subdue the disgust and fright
which he excited in her on their nuptials,--what a lot is his!"

Clémence, with her forehead hidden by her hands, her eyes brimful of
tears, and her cheek reddened by embarrassment, avoided Rodolph's look,
such pain had the disclosure cost her.

"Ah, now," said Rodolph, after a long silence, "I can understand the
cause of M. d'Harville's sadness, which I could not before account for.
I can imagine his regrets--"

"His regrets!" exclaimed Clémence; "say his remorse, monseigneur, if he
have any, for never was such a crime more coolly meditated."

"A crime, madame?"

"What else is it, my lord, to bind to yourself in indissoluble bonds a
young girl, who confides in your honour, when you are fatally stricken
with a malady which inspires fear and horror? What else is it, to devote
with certainty an unhappy child to similar misery? What forced M.
d'Harville to make two victims? A blind, insensate passion? No; he found
my birth, my fortune, and my person, to his taste. He wished to make a
convenient marriage, because, doubtless, a bachelor's life wearied him."

"Madame, at least pity him."

"Pity him? If you wish pity, pray let it be bestowed on my child. Poor
victim of this odious union, what nights and days have I passed near
her! What tears have not her misfortunes wrung from me!"

"But her father suffers from the same unmerited afflictions."

"Yet it is that father who has condemned her to a sickly infancy, a
withering youth, and, if she should survive, to a life of isolation and
misery, for she will never marry. Ah, no! I love her too well to expose
her to the chance of one day's weeping over her own offspring, similarly
smitten, as I weep over her. I have suffered too much from treachery, to
render myself guilty of, or an accomplice in, such wickedness!"

"You are right; the vengeance of your mother-in-law was really
atrocious. But patience, and perhaps in your turn you will be avenged,"
said Rodolph, after a moment's reflection.

"What do you mean, my lord?" inquired Clémence, astonished at the change
in his voice.

"I have generally had the satisfaction of seeing those whom I have known
to be wicked most severely punished," he replied, in a voice that made
Clémence shudder. "But the day after this unhappy event what did your
husband say?"

"He confessed, with singular candour, that his two former marriages had
been broken off in consequence of the families becoming acquainted with
the secret of his fearful malady. Thus, then, after having been twice
rejected, he had the shameful, the unmanly courage, to drag a third poor
victim into the abyss of misery the kind intervention of friends had
preserved the others from. And this is what the world calls a gentleman
and a man of honour!"

"For one so good, so full of pity to others, yours are harsh words."

"Because I feel I have been unworthily treated. M. d'Harville easily
penetrated the girlish openness of my character; why, then, did he not
trust to my sympathy and generosity of feeling, and tell me the whole
truth?"

"Because you would have refused him."

"This very expression proves how guilty he was, and how treacherous was
his conduct, if he really entertained the idea of my rejecting his hand
if informed of the truth!"

"He loved you too well to incur the risk of losing you."

"No, no, my lord; had he really loved me, he would never have sacrificed
me to his selfish passion. Nay, so wretched was my position at that
time, and such was my desire to quit my father's roof, that, had he been
candid and explicit with me, it is more than probable he would have
moved me to pity the species of misery he was condemned to endure, and
to sympathise with one so cut off from the tender ties which sweeten
life. I really believe, at this moment, that, touched by his open, manly
confession, as well as interested for one labouring under so severe an
infliction of the Almighty's hand, I should scarcely have had the
courage to refuse him my hand; and, once aware of all I had undertaken,
nothing should have deterred me from the full and conscientious
discharge of every solemn duty towards him. But to compel this pity and
interest, merely because he had me in his power, and to exact my
consideration and sympathy, because, unhappily, I was his wife, and had
sworn to obligations, the full force of which had been concealed from
me, was at once the act of a coward and a wrong-judging mind. How could
I hold myself bound to endure the heavy penalties of my unfortunate
marriage, when my husband had trampled on every tie which binds an
honourable mind? And now, my lord, you may form some little idea of my
wedded life; you are now aware how shamefully I was deceived, and that,
too, by the person in whose hands I unsuspectingly placed the future
happiness of my whole existence. I had implicitly trusted in M.
d'Harville, and he had most dishonourably and treacherously repaid my
trustfulness with bitter and irremediable wrongs. The gentle, timid
melancholy which had so greatly interested me in his favour, and which
he attributed to pious recollections, was, in truth, only the workings
of a conscience ill at ease, and the knowledge of his own incurable
infirmity."

"Still, were he a stranger or an enemy, a heart so noble and generous as
yours would pity such sufferings as he endures?"

"But can I calm those sufferings? If he could distinguish my voice, or
if only a look of recognition answered my sorrowing glance! But no. Oh,
my lord, it is impossible for such as have never seen them to form an
idea of those frightful paroxysms, in which every sense is suspended,
and the unfortunate sufferer merely recovers from his frenzy to fall
into a sort of sullen dejection! When my dear child experiences one of
these attacks, it almost breaks my heart to see her tender frame
twisted, stiffened, and distorted, by the dreadful convulsions which
accompany it. Still, she is my own, my beloved infant, and, when I see
her bitter agonies, my hatred and aversion to her father are increased
an hundredfold. But, when my poor child becomes calmer, so does my
irritation against my husband subside also; and then--ah, then--the
natural tenderness of my heart makes my angry feelings give place to a
species of sorrow and pity for him. Yet surely I did not marry at only
seventeen years of age merely to experience the alternations of hatred
and painful commiseration, and to weep over a frail and sickly infant,
whom, after all, I may not be permitted to rear. And, as regards this
beloved object of my incessant prayers, permit me, my lord, to
anticipate a reproach I doubtless deserve, and which you would be
unwilling to make. My daughter, young as she is, is capable of
interesting my affections and fully occupying my heart; but the love she
inspires is so cruelly mixed with present anguish and future
apprehensions, that my tenderness for my child invariably ends in tears
and bitter grief. When I am with her, my heart is torn with agony, a
heavy, crushing weight presses on my heart at the thoughts of her
hopeless, suffering state. Not all the fondest devices of a mother's
love can overcome a malady pronounced by all our faculty as incurable.
Thus, then, by way of relief and refuge from the atmosphere of
wretchedness which surrounded me, I had pictured to myself the
possibility of finding calm and repose for my troubled spirit in an
attachment, so vain, so empty, that--But I have been deceived a second
time, most unworthily deceived; and there is now nothing left for me but
to resign myself to the gloom and misery of the life my husband's want
of candour has entailed upon me. But tell me, my lord, is it such an
existence as I was justified in expecting when I bestowed my hand on M.
d'Harville? And am I alone to blame for those injuries, to avenge which
my husband had this day determined to take my life? My fault was great,
very great; and the more so, because the object I had selected was every
way so unworthy, and leaves me the additional shame of having to blush
for my choice. Happily for me, my lord, the conversation you overheard
between the Countess Sarah and her brother on the subject of M. Charles
Robert spares me much of the humiliation I should otherwise have
experienced in making this confession. I only venture to hope that,
since listening to my relation, you may be induced to consider me as
much an object of pity as I admit I am of blame."

"I cannot express to you, madame, how deeply your narrative has touched
me. What gnawing grief, what hidden sorrows have you not been called
upon to endure, from the death of your mother to the birth of your
child! Who would ever believe such ills could reach one so envied, so
admired, and so calculated to enjoy and impart happiness to others?"

"Oh, my lord, there are some sorrows so deep, so unapproachable, that
for worlds we would not even have them suspected; and the severest
increase of suffering would arise from the very doubt of our being the
enviable creatures we are believed to be."

"You are right; nothing would be more painful than the question, openly
expressed, 'Is she or he as happy as they seem to be?' Still, if there
is any happiness in the knowledge, be assured you are not the only one
who has to struggle with the fearful contrast between reality and that
which the world believes."

"How so, my lord?"

"Because, in the eyes of all who know you, your husband is esteemed even
happier than yourself, since he possesses one so rich in every good
gift; and yet is not he also much to be pitied? Can there be a more
miserable existence than the one he leads? He has acted unfairly and
selfishly towards you, but has he not been bitterly punished? He loves
you with a passion, deep and sincere, worthy of you to have inspired,
yet he knows that your only feeling towards him is insurmountable
aversion and contempt. In his feeble, suffering child he beholds a
constant reproach; nor is that all he is called upon to endure;
jealousy also assails him with her nameless tortures."

"And how can I help that, my lord? By giving him no occasion for
jealousy, you reply. And certainly you are right. But, think you,
because no other person would possess my love, it would any the more be
his? He knows full well it would not. Since the fearful scene I related
to you, we have lived entirely apart, while in the eyes of the world I
have kept up every necessary appearance of married happiness. With the
exception of yourself, my lord, I have never breathed a syllable of this
fatal secret to mortal ears: thus, therefore, I venture to ask advice of
you I could not solicit from any human being."

"And I, madame, can with truth assure you that, if the trifling service
I have rendered you be deemed worthy of notice, I hold myself a thousand
times overpaid by the confidence you have reposed in me. But, since you
deign to ask my advice, and permit me to speak candidly--"

"Oh, yes, my lord, I beseech you to use the frankness and sincerity you
would show to a sister!"

"Then allow me to tell you that, for want of employing one of your most
precious qualities, you lose vast enjoyments, which would not only fill
up that void in your heart, but would distract you from your domestic
sorrows and supply that need of stirring emotions, excitement, and,"
added the prince, smiling, "I dare almost to venture to add,--pray
forgive me for having so bad an opinion of your sex,--that natural love
for mystery and intrigue which exercises so powerful an empire over
many, if not all, females."

"What do you mean, my lord?"

"I mean that, if you would play at the game of doing good, nothing would
please or interest you more."

Madame d'Harville surveyed Rodolph with astonishment.

"And understand," resumed he, "I speak not of sending large sums
carelessly, almost disdainfully, to unfortunate creatures, of whom you
know nothing, and who are frequently undeserving of your favour. But if
you would amuse yourself, as I do, at playing, from time to time, at the
game of Providence, you would acknowledge that occasionally our good
deeds put on all the piquancy and charms of a romance."

"I must confess, my lord," said Clémence, with a smile, "it never
occurred to me to class charity under the head of amusements."

"It is a discovery I owe to my horror of all tediums, all wearisome,
long-protracted affairs,--a sort of horror which has been principally
inspired by long political conferences and ministerial discussions. But
to return to our game of amusing beneficence: I cannot, alas, aspire to
possess that disinterested virtue which makes some people content to
entrust others with the office of either ill or well distributing their
bounty, and, if it merely required me to send one of my chamberlains to
carry a few hundred louis to each of the divisions in and around Paris,
I confess, to my shame, that the scheme would not interest me nearly as
much as it does at present, while doing good, after my notions on the
subject, is one of the most entertaining and exciting amusements you can
imagine. I prefer the word 'amusing,' because to me it conveys the idea
of all that pleases, charms, and allures us. And, really, madame, if you
would only become my accomplice in a few dark intrigues of this sort,
you would see that, apart from the praiseworthiness of the action,
nothing is really more curious, inviting, attractive, or diverting, than
these charitable adventures. And then, what mystery is requisite to
conceal the benefits we render! what precautions to prevent ourselves
from being discovered! what varied, yet powerful, emotions are excited
at the aspect of poor but worthy people shedding tears of joy and
calling down Heaven's blessing on your head! Depend upon it, such a
group is, after all, more gratifying than the pale, angry countenance of
either a jealous or an unfaithful lover, and there are very few who do
not class either under one head or the other. The emotions I describe
are closely allied to those you experienced this morning while going to
the Rue du Temple. Simply dressed, that you may escape observation, you
go forth with a palpitating heart; you also ascend with a throbbing
breast some modest _fiacre_, carefully drawing down the blinds to
prevent yourself from being seen; then, looking cautiously from side to
side that you are not observed, you quickly enter a mean-looking
dwelling, just like this morning, you see, the only difference being
that, whereas to-day you said, 'If I am discovered I am lost!' then you
would only smile as you mentally uttered, 'If I am discovered, they will
overwhelm me with praises and blessings!' Now, since you possess your
many adorable qualities in all their pure modesty, you would employ the
most artful schemes, the most complicated manoeuvres, to prevent
yourself from being known, and, consequently, wept over and blessed as
an angel of goodness."

"Ah, my lord," cried Madame d'Harville, deeply moved, "you are indeed my
preserver! I cannot express the new ideas, the consoling hopes, awakened
within me by your words. You are quite right; to endeavour to gain the
blessing and gratitude of such as are poor and in misery is almost equal
to being loved even as I would wish to be; nay, it is even superior in
its purity and absence of self. When I compare the existence I now
venture to anticipate with the shameful and degraded lot I was preparing
for myself, my own reproaches become more bitter and severe."

"I should, indeed, be grieved," said Rodolph, smiling, "were that to be
the case, since all my desire is to make you forget the past, and to
prove to you that there are various modes of recreating and distracting
our minds; the means of good and evil are very frequently nearly the
same: it is the end, only, which differs. In a word, if good is as
attractive, as amusing, as evil, why should we prefer the latter? I am
going to use a very commonplace and hackneyed simile. Why do many women
take as lovers men not nearly as worthy of that distinction as their own
husbands? Because the greatest charm of love consists in the
difficulties which surround it; for once deprived of the hopes, the
fears, the anxieties, difficulties, mysteries, and dangers, and little
or nothing would remain, merely the lover, stripped of all the prestige
derivable from these causes, and a very every-day object he would
appear; very much after the fashion of the individual who, when asked by
a friend why he did not marry his mistress, replied, 'Why, I was
thinking of it; but, if I did, where should I go to pass my evenings?'"

"Your picture is coloured after nature, my lord," said Madame
d'Harville, smiling.

"Well, then, if I can find the means of enabling you to experience the
fears, the anxieties, the excitement, which seem to have such charms for
you, if I can render useful your natural love for mystery and romance,
your inclination for dissimulation and artifice,--you see my bad opinion
of your sex will peep out in spite of me," added Rodolph, gaily,--"shall
I not change into fine and generous qualities instincts which otherwise
are mere ungovernable and unmanageable impulses, excellent, if well
employed, most fatal, if directed badly? Now, then, what do you say?
Shall we get up all manner of benevolent plots and charitable
dissipations? We will have our rendezvous, our correspondence, our
secrets, and, above all, we will carefully conceal all our doings from
the marquis, for your visit of to-day to the Morels has, in all
probability, excited his suspicions. There, you see, it only requires
your consent to commence a regular intrigue."

"I accept with joy and gratitude the mysterious associations you
propose, my lord," said Clémence; "and, by way of beginning our romance,
I will return to-morrow to visit those poor creatures to whom,
unfortunately, this morning I could only utter a few words of
consolation; for, taking advantage of my terror and alarm, the purse you
so thoughtfully supplied me with was stolen from me by a lame boy as I
ascended the stairs. Ah, my lord," added Clémence (and her countenance
lost the expression of gentle gaiety by which a few minutes before it
was animated), "if you only knew what misery, what a picture of
wretchedness--no! oh, no! I never could have believed so horrid a scene,
or that such want existed; and yet I bewail my condition and complain of
my severe destiny."

Rodolph, wishing to conceal from Madame d'Harville how deeply he was
touched at this application of the woes of others, as teaching patience
and resignation, yet fully recognising in the meek and subdued spirit
the fine and noble qualities of her mind, said, gaily:

"With your permission, I shall except the Morels from your jurisdiction;
you shall resign them to my care, and, above all things, promise me not
again to enter that miserable place, for, to tell you the truth, I live
there."

"You, my lord? What an idea!"

"Nay, but you really must believe me when I say I live there, for it is
actually true. I confess mine is somewhat a humble lodging, a mere
matter of eight pounds a year, in addition to which I pay the large and
liberal sum of six francs a month to the porteress, Madame Pipelet, that
ugly old woman you saw; but, to make up for all this, I have as my next
neighbour, Mlle. Rigolette, the prettiest grisette in the Quartier du
Temple. And you must allow that, for a merchant's clerk, with a salary
of only seventy-two pounds a year (I pass as a clerk), such a domicile
is well suited to my means."

"Your unhoped-for presence in that fatal house proves to me that you are
speaking seriously, my lord; some generous action leads you there, no
doubt! But what good action do you reserve for me? What part do you
propose for me to sustain?"

"That of an angel of consolation, and--pray excuse and allow me the
word--a very demon of cunning and manoeuvres! For there are some
wounds so painful, as well as delicate, that the hand of a woman only
can watch over and heal them. There are, also, unfortunate beings so
proud, so reserved, and so hidden from observation, that it requires
uncommon penetration to discover them, and an irresistible charm to win
their confidence."

"And when shall I have an opportunity of displaying the penetration and
skill for which you give me credit?" asked Madame d'Harville,
impatiently.

"Soon, I hope, you will have to make a conquest worthy of you; but, to
succeed, you must employ all your most ingenious resources."

"And when, my lord, will you confide this great secret to me?"

"Let me see! You perceive, we have already got as far as arranging our
rendezvous. Could you do me the favour to grant me an audience in four
days' time?"

"Dear me! so long first?" said Clémence, innocently.

"But what would become of the mystery of the affair, and all the strict
forms and appearances necessary to be kept up, if we were to meet
sooner? Just imagine! If our partnership were suspected, people would be
on their guard, and we should seldom achieve our purpose. I may very
probably have to write to you. Who was that aged female who brought me
your note?"

"An old servant of my mother's, the very personification of prudence and
discretion."

"I will then address my letters under cover to her, and she will
deliver them into your hands. If you are kind enough to return any
answer, address 'To M. Rodolph, Rue Plumet,' and let your maid put your
letters in the post."

"I will do that myself, my lord, when taking my usual morning's walk."

"Do you often walk out alone?"

"In fine weather nearly every day."

"That's right! It is a custom all young women should observe from the
very earliest period of their marriage,--either from a good or an
improper provision against future evil. The habit once established, it
becomes what the lawyers style a precedent; and, in subsequent days,
these habitual promenades excite no dangerous interpretations. If I had
been a woman,--and, between ourselves, I fear I should have been very
charitable, but equally flighty,--the very day after my marriage I
should, in all possible innocence, have taken the most mysterious steps,
and, with perfect simplicity, have involved myself in all manner of
suspicious and compromising proceedings, for the purpose of establishing
the precedent I spoke of, in order to be at liberty either to visit my
poor pensioners or to meet my lover."

"But that would be downright perfidy to one's husband, would it not, my
lord?" said Madame d'Harville, smiling.

"Fortunately for you, madame, you have never been driven to the
necessity of admitting the utility of such provisionary measures."

Madame d'Harville's smile left her lips. She cast down her eyes, and,
blushing deeply, said, in a low and sad voice, "This is not generous, my
lord!"

At first Rodolph regarded the marquise with astonishment, then added, "I
understand you, madame. But, once for all, let us weigh well your
position as regards M. Charles Robert. I will just imagine that one of
your acquaintances may one day have pointed out to you one of those
pitiable-looking mendicants who roll their eyes most sentimentally, and
play on the clarionet with desperate energy, to awaken the sympathy of
the passers-by. 'That is really and truly a genuine case of distress,'
observes your friend. 'That interesting musician has at least seven
children, and a wife deaf, dumb, blind,' etc. 'Ah, poor fellow!' you
reply, charitably aiding him with your purse. And so, each time you meet
this case of genuine distress, the clarionet-player, the moment he
discerns you from afar, fixes his imploring eyes upon you, while the
most touching strains of his instrument are directed to touch your
charitable sympathies, and that, too, so successfully, that again your
purse opens at this fresh appeal. One day, more than usually disposed to
pity this very unfortunate object by the importunities of the friend who
first pointed him out to you, and who is most wickedly abusing your
generous heart, you resolve to visit this case of genuine distress, as
your false friend terms it, and to behold the poor object of your
solicitude in the midst of his misery. Well, you go. But, lo! the
grief-stricken musician has vanished; and in his place you find a
lively, rollicking fellow, enjoying himself over some of the good things
of this world, and mirthfully carolling forth the last new alehouse
catch. Then disgust succeeds to pity; for you have bestowed your
sympathy and charity alike upon an impostor, neither more nor less. Is
it not so?"

Madame d'Harville could not restrain a smile at this singular apologue.
She, however, soon checked it, as she added:

"However grateful I may feel for this mode of justifying my great
imprudence, my lord, I can but confess I dare not avail myself of so
favourable a pretext as that of mistaken charity."

"Yet, after all, yours was an error based upon motives of noble and
generous pity for the wounded feelings of one you believed a genuine
object for commiseration. Fortunately, there are so many ways left you
of atoning for one indiscretion, that your regret need be but small.
Shall I not have the pleasure of seeing M. d'Harville this evening?"

"No, my lord. The scene of this morning has so much affected him that he
is--ill," said the marquise, in a low, tremulous tone.

"Ah," replied Rodolph, sadly, "I understand! Come, courage! you were
saying that you required an aim, a motive, a means of directing your
thoughts. Permit me to hope that all this will be accomplished by
following out the plan I have proposed. Your heart will be then so
filled with the delightful recollection of all the happiness you have
caused, and all the good you have effected, that, in all probability,
you will find no room for resentment against your husband. In place of
angry feelings, you will regard him with the same sorrowing pity you
look on your dear child. And as for the interesting little creature
herself, now you have confided to me the cause of her delicate health, I
almost think myself warranted in bidding you yet to entertain hopes of
overcoming the fearful complaint which has hitherto affected her tender
frame."

"Oh, my lord!" exclaimed Clémence, clasping her hands with eagerness,
"can it be possible? How? In what manner can my child be saved?"

"I have, as physician to myself and household, a man almost unknown,
though possessed of a first-rate science. Great part of his life was
passed in America; and I remember his speaking to me of some marvellous
cures performed by him on slaves attacked by this distressing
complaint."

"And do you really think, my lord--"

"Nay, you must not allow yourself to dwell too confidently upon success;
the disappointment would be so very severe. Only, do not let us wholly
despair."

Clémence d'Harville cast a hasty glance of unutterable gratitude over
the noble features of Rodolph, the firm, unflinching friend, who
reconciled her to herself with so much good sense, intelligence, and
delicacy of feeling. Then she asked herself how, for one instant, she
could ever have been interested in the fate of such a being as M.
Charles Robert,--the very idea was hateful to her.

"What do I not owe you, my lord?" cried she, in a voice of thrilling
emotion; "you console me for the past; you open to me a glimpse of hope
for my child; and you place before me a plan of future occupation which
shall afford me both consolation and the delight of doing my duty. Ah,
was I not right when I said that, if you would come here to-night, you
would finish the day as you had begun it,--by performing a good action?"

"And pray, madame, do not omit to add,--an action after my own heart,
where all is pleasure and unmixed enjoyment in its performance. And now,
adieu!" said Rodolph, rising as the clock struck half-past eleven.

"Adieu, my lord, and pray do not forget to send me news ere long of
those poor people in the Rue du Temple."

"I will see them to-morrow, for, unfortunately, I knew not of that
little limping rascal having stolen your purse; and I fear that the
unhappy creatures are in the most deplorable want. Have the kindness to
bear in mind that, in the course of four days, I shall come to explain
to you the nature of the part you will be required to undertake. One
thing I must prepare you for; and that is, the probability of its being
requisite for you to assume a disguise on the occasion."

"A disguise? Oh, how charming! What sort of one, my lord?"

"I cannot tell you at present. I will leave the choice to you."

       *       *       *       *       *

"All that is requisite," said the prince, on his return home, "to save
this excellent woman from the perils of another attachment, is to fill
her mind with generous thoughts; and, since an invincible repugnance
separates her from her husband, to employ her love for the romantic in
such charitable actions as shall require being enshrouded in mystery."



CHAPTER XII.

MISERY.


The reader has probably not forgotten that the garret in the Rue du
Temple was occupied by an unfortunate family, the father of whom was a
working lapidary, named Morel. We shall now endeavour to describe the
wretched abode of Morel and his children.

It was six o'clock in the morning; a deep silence dwelt around. The
streets were still deserted, for the snow fell fast, and the cold,
biting wind froze as it blew. A miserable candle, stuck upon a small
block of wood, and supported by two slips of the same material, scarcely
penetrated with its yellow, flickering light the misty darkness of the
garret,--a narrow, low-built place, two-thirds of which was formed by
the sloping roof, which communicated by a sharp angle with the wretched
flooring, and freely exposed the moss-covered tiles of the outer roof.
Walls covered with plaster, blackened by time, and split into countless
crevices, displayed the rotten, worm-eaten laths, which formed the frail
division from other chambers, while in one corner of this deplorable
habitation a door off the hinges opened upon a narrow staircase. The
ground, of a nameless colour, but foul, fetid, and slippery, was partly
strewed with bits of dirty straw, old rags, and bones, the residue of
that unwholesome and vitiated food sold by the dealers in condemned
meat, and frequently bought by starving wretches, for the purpose of
gnawing the few cartilages that may adhere.[4]

  [4] It is no uncommon thing to meet, in densely crowded parts
  of Paris, with persons who openly sell the flesh of animals born
  dead, as well as of others who have died of disease, etc.

So wretched a condition either arises from improvidence and vice, or
from unavoidable misery,--misery so great, so overwhelming and
paralysing, as to enfeeble every energy, and to render the unhappy
object of it too hopeless, too despairing, even to attempt to extricate
himself from the squalor of his utter destitution, and he crouches in
his dirt and desolation like an animal in its den.

During the day, Morel's garret was lighted by a species of long, narrow
skylight formed in the descending roof, framed and glazed, and made to
open and shut by means of a pulley and string; but, at the hour which we
are describing, a heavy fall of snow encumbered the window, and
effectually prevented its affording any light. The candle placed on
Morel's working-table, which stood in the centre of the chamber,
diffused a kind of halo of pale, sickly beams, which, gradually
diminishing, was at last lost in the dim shadow which overspread the
place, in whose murky duskiness might be seen the faint outline of
several white-looking masses. On the work-table, which was merely a
heavy and roughly cut wooden block of unpolished oak, covered with
grease and soot, lay, loosely scattered about, a handful of rubies and
diamonds, of more than ordinary size and brilliancy, while, as the mean
rays of the small candle were reflected on them, they glittered and
sparkled like so many coruscating fires.

Morel was a worker of real stones, and not false ones, as he had given
out, and as was universally believed, in the Rue du Temple. Thanks to
this innocent deception, the costly jewels entrusted to him were merely
supposed to be so many pieces of glass, too valueless to tempt the
cupidity of any one. Such riches, confided to the care of one as poor
and miserably destitute as Morel, will render any reference to the
honesty of his character quite unnecessary.

Seated on a high stool, and wholly overcome by fatigue, cold, and
weariness, after a long winter's night, passed in unceasing labour, the
poor lapidary had fallen asleep on his block, with his head upon his
half-frozen arms, and his forehead resting against a small grindstone,
placed horizontally on the table, and generally put in motion by a
little hand-wheel, while a fine steel saw, and various other tools
belonging to his trade, were lying beside him. The man himself, of whom
nothing but the skull, surrounded by a fringe of gray hairs, was
visible, was dressed in a shabby fustian jacket, without any species of
linen or garment beneath it, and an old pair of cloth trousers, while
his worn-out slippers scarcely concealed the blue, cold feet they
partially covered, from resting solely on the damp, shiny floor; and so
bitter, so freezing, was the sharp winter wind which freely entered into
this scarcely human dwelling, that, spite of the weariness and
exhaustion of the overworked artisan, his frame shuddered and shivered
with involuntary frequency. The length of the wick of the unsnuffed
candle bespoke the length of time even this uneasy slumber must have
lasted, and no sound save his troubled and irregular breathing broke the
deathlike silence that prevailed; for, alas! the other occupants of this
mean abode were not so fortunate as to be able to forget their
sufferings in sleep. Yet this narrow, pent-up, unwholesome spot
contained no less than seven other persons,--five children, the youngest
of whom was four years of age, the eldest twelve, a sick and declining
wife, with an aged grandmother, the parent of Morel's wife, now in her
eightieth year, and an idiot!

The cold must have been intense, indeed, when the natural warmth of so
many persons, so closely packed together in so small a place, could not
in any way affect the freezing atmosphere; it was evident, therefore,
to speak scientifically, that but little caloric was given out by the
poor, weak, emaciated, shivering creatures, all suffering and almost
expiring with cold and hunger, from the puny infant to the idiotic old
grandmother.

With the exception of the father of the family, who had temporarily
yielded to the aching of his heavy eyelids, no other creature slept,--no
other; because cold, starvation, and sickness will not allow so sweet an
enjoyment as the closing the eyes in peaceful rest. Little does the
world believe how rarely comes that sound, healthful, and refreshing
slumber to the poor man's pillow, which at once invigorates the mind and
body, and sends the willing labourer back to his toil refreshed and
recruited by the blessing of a beneficent Creator. To taste of nature's
sweet, refreshing, balmy sleep, sickness, sorrow, poverty, and mental
disquietude must not share the humble pallet.

In contrasting the deep misery of the poor artisan, with whose woes we
are now occupying the reader, with the immense value of the jewelry
confided to him, we are struck by one of those comparisons which afflict
while they elevate the mind. With the distracting spectacle of his
family's want and wretchedness, embracing a wide field from cold and
hunger to drivelling idiocy, constantly before his eyes, this man, in
the pursuance of his daily labour, is compelled to touch and handle and
gaze upon bright and sparkling gems, the smallest of which would be a
mine of wealth to him, and save those dearest to him from sufferings and
privations which wring his very heart; would snatch them from the slow
and lingering death which is consuming them before his eyes. Yet, amid
all these trials and temptations, the artisan remains firmly, truly, and
unflinchingly honest, and would no more appropriate one of the
glittering stones entrusted to him than he would satisfy his hunger at
the expense of his starving babes. Doubtless the man but performed his
duty to his employer,--his simple duty; but because it is enjoined to
all to be honest and faithful in that which is committed to them, does
that render the action itself less noble, magnanimous, or praiseworthy?
Is not this unfortunate artisan, so courageously, so bravely upright and
honest while entrusted with the property of another, the type and model
of an immense class of working people, who, doomed to a life of
continual poverty and privation, see, with calm, patient looks,
thousands of their brethren rolling in splendour and abounding in
riches, yet they toil on, resigned and unenvying, but still
industriously striving for bread their hardest efforts cannot always
procure? And is there not something consolatory, as well as gratifying
to our feelings, to consider that it is neither force nor terror, but
good natural sense and a right mind which alone restrain this formidable
ocean, this heaving mass, whose bounds once broken, a moral inundation
would ensue, in which society itself would be swallowed up? Shall we,
then, refuse to cooperate with all the powers of our mind and body with
those generous and enlightened spirits, who ask but a little sunshine
for so much misfortune, courage, and resignation?

       *       *       *       *       *

Let us now return to the, alas! too true specimen of distressing want we
shall endeavour to describe in all its fearful and startling reality.

The lapidary possessed only a thin mattress and a portion of a blanket
appropriated to the old grandmother, who, in her stupid and ferocious
selfishness, would not allow any person to share them with her. In the
beginning of the winter she had become quite violent, and had even
attempted to strangle the youngest child, who had been put to sleep with
her. This poor infant was a sickly little creature, of about four years
old, now far gone in consumption, and who found it too cold inside the
mattress, where she slept with her brothers and sisters. Hereafter we
shall explain this mode of sleeping so frequently employed by the very
poor, in comparison with whom the very animals are treated luxuriously,
for their litter is changed. Such was the picture presented in the
humble garret of the poor lapidary, when the eye was enabled to pierce
the gloomy penumbra caused by the flickering rays of the candle. By the
side of the partition wall, not less damp and cracked than the others,
was placed on the floor the mattress on which the idiot grandmother
reposed; as she could not bear anything on her head, her white hair was
cut very short, and revealed the shape of her head and flat forehead;
while her shaggy, gray eyebrows shaded the deep orbits, from which
glared a wild, savage, yet crafty look; her pale, hollow, wrinkled
cheeks hung upon the bones of the face and the sharp angles of her jaws.
Lying upon her side, and almost doubled up, her chin nearly touching her
knees, she lay, shivering with cold, beneath the gray rug, too small to
cover her all over, and which, as she drew it over her shoulders,
exposed her thin, emaciated legs, as well as the wretched old petticoat
in which she was clad. An odour most fetid and repulsive issued from
this bed.

At a little distance from the mattress of the grandmother, and still
extending along the side of the wall, was placed the _paillasse_ which
served as a sleeping-place for the five children, who were accommodated
after the following manner:

An opening was made at each side of the cloth which covered the straw,
and the children were inserted into this bed, or, rather, foul and
noisome dunghill, the outer case serving both for sheet and counterpane.
Two little girls, one of whom was extremely ill, shivered on one side,
and three young boys on the other, all going to bed without undressing,
if, indeed, the miserable rags they wore could be termed clothes. Masses
of thick, dry, light hair, tangled, ragged, and uncombed, left uncut
because their poor mother fancied it helped to keep them warm, half
covered their pale, thin, pinched features. One of the boys drew, with
his cold, benumbed fingers, the covering over their straw bed up to his
chin, in order to defend himself from the cold; while another, fearful
of exposing his hands to the influence of the frost, tried to grasp the
bed-covering with his teeth, which rattled and shook in his head; while
a third strove to huddle up to his brothers in the hopes of gaining a
little warmth. The youngest of the two girls, fatally attacked by
consumption, leaned her poor little face, which already bore the hue of
death, languidly against the chilly bosom of her sister, a girl just one
year older, who vainly sought, by pressing her in her arms, to impart
comfort and ease to the little sufferer, over whom she watched with the
anxious solicitude of a parent.

On another _paillasse_, also placed on the ground, at the foot of that
of the children, the wife of the artisan was extended, groaning in
helpless exhaustion from the effects of a slow fever and an internal
complaint, which had not permitted her to quit her bed for several
months. Madeleine Morel was in her thirty-sixth year; a blue cotton
handkerchief, tied round her low forehead, made the bilious pallor of
her countenance and sharp, emaciated features still more conspicuous. A
dark halo encircled her hollow, sunken eyes, while her lips were split
and bleeding from the effects of the fever which consumed her; her
dejected, grief-worn physiognomy, and small, insignificant features,
indicated one of those gentle but weak natures, without resource or
energy, which unable to struggle with misfortunes, yield at once, and
know no remedy but vain and ceaseless lamentations and regrets. Weak,
spiritless, and of limited capacity, she had remained honest because her
husband was so; had she been left to herself, it is probable that
ignorance and misfortune might have depraved her mind and driven her to
any lengths. She loved her husband and her children, but she had neither
the courage nor resolution to restrain giving vent to loud and open
complaints respecting their mutual misery; and frequently was the
lapidary, whose unflinching labour alone maintained the family, obliged
to quit his work to console and pacify the poor valetudinarian. Over and
above an old ragged sheet of coarse brown cloth, which partially covered
his wife, Morel had, in order to impart a little warmth, laid a few old
clothes, so worn out, and patched and pieced, that the pawnbroker had
refused to have anything to do with them.

A stove, a saucepan, a damaged earthen stewpan, two or three cracked
cups, scattered about on the floor, a bucket, a board to wash on, and a
large stone pitcher, placed beneath the angle of the roof near the
broken door, which the wind kept continually blowing to and fro,
completed the whole of the family possessions.

This picture of squalid misery and desolation was lighted up by the
candle, whose flame, agitated by the cold northeasterly wind which found
its way through the tiles on the roof, sometimes imparted a pale,
unearthly light on the wretched scene, and then, playing on the heaps of
diamonds and rubies lying beside the sleeping artisan, caused a thousand
scintillating sparks to spring forth and dazzle the eye with their
prismatic rays of brightness.

Although the profoundest silence reigned around, seven out of the eight
unfortunate dwellers in this attic were awake; and each, from the
grandmother to the youngest child, watched the sleeping lapidary with
intense emotion, as their only hope, their only resource, and, in their
childlike selfishness, they murmured at seeing him thus inactive and
relinquishing that labour which they well knew was all they had to
depend on; but with different feelings of regret and uneasiness did the
lookers-on observe the slumber of the toil-worn man. The mother trembled
for her children's meal; the children thought but of themselves; while
the idiot neither thought of nor cared for any one. All at once she sat
upright in her wretched bed, crossed her long, bony arms, yellow and
dry as box-wood, on her shrivelled bosom, and kept watching the candle
with twinkling eyes; then, rising slowly and stealthily, she crept
along, trailing after her her old ragged coverlet, which clung around
her as though it had been her winding-sheet. She was above the middle
height, and her hair being so closely shaven made her head appear
disproportionately small; a sort of spasmodic movement kept up a
constant trembling in her thick, pendulous under-lip, while her whole
countenance offered the hideous model of ferocious stupidity. Slowly and
cautiously the idiot approached the lapidary's work-table, like a child
about to commit some forbidden act. When she reached the candle, she
held her two trembling hands over the flame; and such was their
skeleton-like condition, that the flickering light shone through them,
imparting a pale, livid hue to her features. From her pallet Madeleine
Morel watched every movement of the old woman, who, still warming
herself over the candle, stooped her head, and with a silly kind of
delight watched the sparkling of the diamonds and rubies, which lay
glittering on the table. Wholly absorbed in the wondrous contemplation
of such bright and beautiful things, the idiot allowed her hands to fall
into the flame of the candle, nor did she seem to recollect where they
were till the sense of burning recalled her attention, when she
manifested her pain and anger by a harsh, screaming cry.

At this sound Morel started, and quickly raised his head. He was about
forty years of age, with an open, intelligent, and mild expression of
countenance, but yet wearing the sad, dejected look of one who had been
the sport of misery and misfortune till they had planted furrows in his
cheeks and crushed and broken his spirit. A gray beard of many weeks'
growth covered the lower part of his face, which was deeply marked by
the smallpox; premature wrinkles furrowed his already bald forehead;
while his red and inflamed eyelids showed the overtaxed and sleepless
days and nights of toil he so courageously endured. A circumstance, but
too common with such of the working class as are doomed by their
occupation to remain nearly all day in one position, had warped his
figure, and, acting upon a naturally feeble constitution, had produced a
contraction of his whole frame. Continually obliged to stoop over his
work-table and to lean to the left, in order to keep his grindstone
going, the lapidary, in a manner petrified, ossified in the attitude he
was frequently obliged to preserve from twelve to fifteen hours a day,
had acquired an habitual stoop of the shoulders, and was completely
drawn on one side. So his left arm, incessantly exercised by the
difficult management of the grindstone, had acquired a considerable
muscular development; whilst the right arm, always inert and leaning on
the table, the better to present the faces of the diamonds to the action
of the grindstone, had wasted to the most extreme attenuation; his
wasted limbs, almost paralysed by complete want of exercise, could
scarcely support the weary, worn-out body, as though all strength,
substance, and vitality had concentrated themselves in the only part
called into play when toiling for the subsistence of, with himself,
eight human creatures.

And often would poor Morel touchingly observe: "It is not for myself
that I care to eat, but to give strength to the arm which turns the
mill."

Awaking with a sudden start, the lapidary found himself directly
opposite to the poor idiot.

"What ails you? what is the matter, mother?" said Morel; and then added,
in a lower tone, for fear of awaking the family, whom he hoped and
believed were asleep, "Go back to bed, mother; Madeleine and the
children are asleep!"

"No, father," cried the eldest of the little girls, "I am awake; I am
trying to warm poor little Adèle."

"And I am too hungry to go to sleep," added one of the boys; "it was not
my turn to-night to have supper with Mlle. Rigolette."

"Poor things!" said Morel, sorrowfully; "I thought you were asleep--at
least--"

"I was afraid of awaking you, Morel," said the wife, "or I should have
begged of you to give me a drink of water; I am devoured with thirst! My
feverish fit has come on again!"

"I will directly," said the lapidary; "only let me first get mother back
to bed. Come! come! what are you meddling with those stones for? Let
them alone, I say!" cried he to the old woman, whose whole attention
seemed riveted upon a splendid ruby, the bright scintillations of which
had so charmed the poor idiot that she was trying by every possible
means to gain possession of it.

"There's a pretty thing! there, there!" replied the woman, pointing with
vehement gestures to the prize she so ardently coveted.

"I shall be angry in a few minutes," exclaimed Morel, speaking in a loud
voice to terrify his mother-in-law into submission, and gently pushing
back the hand she advanced to seize her desired treasure.

"Oh, Morel! Morel!" murmured Madeleine, "I am parching, dying with
thirst. How can you be so cruel as to refuse me a little water?"

"But how can I at present? I must not allow mother to meddle with these
stones,--perhaps to lose me a diamond, as she did a year ago; and God
alone knows the wretchedness and misery it cost us,--ay, may still
occasion us. Ah, that unfortunate loss of the diamond, what have we not
suffered by it!"

As the poor lapidary uttered these words, he passed his hand over his
aching brow with a desponding air, and said to one of the children:

"Felix, give your mother something to drink. You are awake, and can
attend to her."

"No, no," exclaimed Madeleine; "he will take cold. I will wait."

"Oh, mother," said the boy, rising, "never mind me. I shall be quite as
warm up as I am in this _paillasse_."

"Come, will you let the things alone?" cried Morel, in a threatening
tone, to the idiot woman, who kept bending over the precious stones and
trying to seize them, spite of all his efforts to move her from the
table.

"Mother," called out Felix, "what shall I do? The water in the pitcher
is frozen quite hard."

"Then break the ice," murmured Madeleine.

"It is so thick, I can't," answered the boy.

"Morel!" exclaimed Madeleine, in a querulous and impatient tone, "since
there is nothing but water for me to drink, let me at least have a
draught of that! You are letting me die with thirst!"

"God of heaven grant me patience!" cried the unfortunate man. "How can I
leave your mother to lose and destroy these stones? Pray let me manage
her first."

But the lapidary found it no easy matter to get rid of the idiot, who,
beginning to feel irritated at the constant opposition she met with,
gave utterance to her displeasure in a sort of hideous growl.

"Call her, wife!" said Morel. "She will attend to you sometimes."

"Mother! mother!" called Madeleine, "go to bed, and be good, and then
you shall have some of that nice coffee you are so fond of!"

"I want that! and that! There! there!" replied the idiot, making a
desperate effort this time to possess herself of a heap of rubies she
particularly coveted. Morel firmly, but gently, repulsed her,--all in
vain; with pertinacious obstinacy the old woman kept struggling to break
from his grasp, and snatch the bright gems, on which she kept her eyes
fixed with eager fondness.

"You will never manage her," said Madeleine, "unless you frighten her
with the whip; there is no other means of making her quiet."

"I am afraid not," returned Morel; "but, though she has no sense, it yet
goes to my heart to be obliged to threaten an old woman, like her, with
the whip."

Then, addressing the old woman, who was trying to bite him, and whom he
was holding back with one hand, he said, in a loud and terrible voice:
"Take care; you'll have the whip on your shoulders if you don't make
haste to bed this very instant!"

These menaces were equally vain with his former efforts to subdue her.
Morel then took a whip which lay beside his work-table, and, cracking it
violently, said: "Get to bed with you directly! Get to bed!"

As the loud noise of the whip saluted the ear of the idiot, she hurried
away from the lapidary's work-table, then, suddenly turning around, she
uttered low, grumbling sounds between her clenched teeth; while she
surveyed her son-in-law with looks of the deepest hatred.

"To bed! to bed, I say!" continued he, still advancing, and feigning to
raise his whip with the intention of striking; while the idiot, holding
her fist towards her son-in-law, retreated backwards to her wretched
couch.

The lapidary, anxious to terminate this painful scene, that he might be
at liberty to attend to his sick wife, kept still advancing towards the
idiot woman, brandishing and cracking his whip, though without allowing
it to touch the unhappy creature, repeatedly exclaiming, "To bed! to
bed,--directly! Do you hear?"

The old woman, now thoroughly conquered, and fully believing in the
reality of the threats held out, began to howl most hideously; and
crawling into her bed, like a dog to his kennel, she kept up a continued
series of cries, screams, and yells, while the frightened children,
believing their poor old grandmother had actually been beaten, began
crying piteously, exclaiming, "Don't beat poor granny, father! Pray
don't flog granny!"

It is wholly impossible to describe the fearful effect of these
nocturnal horrors, in which were mingled, in one turmoil of sounds, the
supplicating cries of the children, the furious yellings of the idiot,
and the wailing complaints of the lapidary's sick wife.

To poor Morel such scenes as this were but too frequent. Still, upon the
present occasion, his patience and courage seemed utterly to forsake
him; and, throwing down the whip upon his work-table, he exclaimed, in
bitter despair, "Oh, what a life! what a life!"

"Is it my fault if my mother is an idiot?" asked Madeleine, weeping.

"Is it mine, then?" replied Morel. "All I ask for is peace and quiet
enough to allow me to work myself to death for you all. God knows I
labour alike night and day! Yet I complain not. And, as long as my
strength holds out, I will exert myself to the utmost; but it is quite
impossible for me to attend to my business, and be at once a keeper to a
mad woman and a nurse to sick people and young children. And Heaven is
unjust to put it upon me,--yes, I say unjust! It is too much misery to
heap on one man," added Morel, in a tone bordering on distraction. So
saying, the heart-broken lapidary threw himself on his stool, and
covered his face with his hands.

"Can I help the people at the hospital having refused to receive my
mother, because she was not raving mad?" asked Madeleine, in a low,
peevish, and complaining voice. "What can I do to alter it? What is the
use of your grumbling to me about my mother? and, if you fret ever so
much about what neither you nor I can alter, what good will that do?"

"None at all," rejoined the artisan, hastily brushing the large bitter
drops despair had driven to his eyes; "none whatever,--you are right;
but when everything goes against you, it is difficult to know what to
do or say."

"Gracious Father!" cried Madeleine; "what an agony of thirst I am
enduring! My lips are parched with the fever which is consuming me, and
yet I shiver as though death were on me!"

"Wait one instant, and I will give you some drink!" So saying, Morel
took the pitcher which stood beneath the roof, and, after having with
difficulty broken the ice which covered the water, he filled a cup with
the frozen liquid, and brought it to the bedside of his wife, who
stretched forth her impatient hands to receive it; but, after a moment's
reflection, he said, "No, no, I must not let you have it cold as this;
in your present state of fever it would be dangerous."

"So much the better if it be dangerous! Quick, quick--give it me!" cried
Madeleine, with bitterness; "it will the sooner end my misery, and free
you from such an incumbrance as I am; then you will only have to look
after mad folks and young children,--there will be no sick-nurse to take
up your time."

"Why do you say such hard words to me, Madeleine?" asked Morel,
mournfully; "you know I do not deserve them. Pray do not add to my
vexations, for I have scarcely strength or reason enough left to go on
with my work; my head feels as though something were amiss with it, and
I fear much my brain will give way,--and then what would become of you
all? 'Tis for you I speak; were there only myself, I should trouble very
little about to-morrow,--thank Heaven, the river flows for every one!"

"Poor Morel!" said Madeleine, deeply affected. "I was very wrong to
speak so angrily to you, and to say I knew you would be glad to get rid
of me. Pray forgive me, for indeed I did not mean any harm; for, after
all, what use am I either to you or the children? For the last sixteen
months I have kept my bed! Gracious God! what I do suffer with thirst!
For pity's sake, husband, give me something to moisten my burning lips!"

"You shall have it directly; I was trying to warm the cup between my
hands."

"How good you are! and yet I could say such wicked things to you!"

"My poor wife, you are ill and in pain, and that makes you impatient;
say anything you like to me, but pray never tell me again I wish to get
rid of you!"

"But what good am I to any one? what good are our children? None
whatever; on the contrary, they heap more toil upon you than you can
bear."

"True; yet you see that my love for them and you has endued me with
strength and resolution to work frequently twenty hours out of the
twenty-four, till my body is bent and deformed by such incessant labour.
Do you believe for one instant that I would thus toil and struggle on my
own account? Oh, no! life has no such charms for me; and if I were the
only sufferer, I would quickly put an end to it."

"And so would I," said Madeleine. "God knows, but for the children I
should have said to you, long ago, 'Morel, we have had more than enough
to weary us of our lives; there is nothing left but to finish our misery
by the help of a pan of charcoal!' But then I recollected the poor,
dear, helpless children, and my heart would not let me leave them, alone
and unprotected, to starve by themselves."

"Well, then, you see, wife, that the children are, after all, of real
good to us, since they prevent us giving way to despair, and serve as a
motive for exerting ourselves," replied Morel, with ready ingenuity, yet
perfect simplicity of tone and manner. "Now, then, take your drink, but
only swallow a little at a time, for it is very cold still."

"Oh, thank you, Morel!" cried Madeleine, snatching the cup, and drinking
it eagerly.

"Enough! enough! no more! you shall not have any more just now,
Madeleine."

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Madeleine, giving back the cup, "how cold
it seems now I have swallowed it,--it has brought back those dreadful
shiverings!"

"Alas!" ejaculated Morel, "I told you so,--ah, now you are quite ill
again!"

"I have not strength even to tremble,--I seem as though I were covered
over with ice."

Morel took off his jacket, and laid it over his wife's feet, remaining
quite naked down to his waist,--the unhappy man did not possess a shirt.

"But you will be frozen to death, Morel!"

"Never mind me; if I find it cold by and by, I will put my jacket on for
a few minutes."

"Poor fellow!" sighed Madeleine. "Ah, as you say, Heaven is not just!
What have we done to be so wretched, while so many others--"

"Every one has their troubles,--some more, some less,--the great as well
as the small."

"Yes; but great people know nothing of the gnawings of hunger, or the
bitter pinching of the cold. Why, when I look on those diamonds, and
remember that the smallest amongst them would place us and the poor
children in ease and comfort, my heart sickens, and I ask myself why it
is some should have so much, and others nothing? And what good are these
diamonds, after all, to their owners?"

"Why, if we were to go to the question of what half the luxuries of life
are really good for, we might go a great way; for instance, what is the
good of that grand gentleman Madame Pipelet calls the commandant having
engaged and furnished the first floor of this house, when he seldom
enters it? What use is it his having there good beds, and warm covering
to them, since he never sleeps in them?"

"Very true; there is more furniture lying idle there than would supply
two or three poor families like ours. And then Madame Pipelet lights a
fire every day, to preserve the things from the damp. Only think of so
much comfortable warmth being lost, while we and the children are almost
frozen to death! But then, you will say, we are not articles of value;
no, indeed, we are not. Oh, these rich folks, what hard hearts they
have!"

"Not harder than other people's, Madeleine; but then, you see, they do
not know what misery or want are. They are born rich and happy, they
live and die so. How, then, do you expect they can ever think such poor
distressed beings exist in a world which to them is all happiness? No! I
tell you, they have no idea of such things as fellow creatures toiling
beyond their strength for food, and perishing at last with hunger! How
is it possible for them to imagine privations like ours? The greater
their hunger, the greater enjoyment of their abundant meal. Is the
weather severe, or the cold intense, they call it a fine frost, a
healthful, bracing season. If they walk out, they return to a glowing,
cheerful fire, which the cold only makes them relish the more; so that
they can scarcely be expected to sympathise with such as are said to
suffer from cold and hunger, when those two things rather add to than
diminish their pleasure."

"Ah, poor folks are better than rich, since they can feel for each
other, and are always ready and willing to assist each other as much as
lies in their power. Look at that kind, good Mlle. Rigolette, who has so
often sat up all night, either with me or the children, during our
illness. Why, last night she took Jérome and Pierre into her room, to
share her supper, and it was not much, either, she had for
herself,--only a cup of milk and some bread; at her age, all young
people have good appetites, and she must have deprived herself to give
to the children."

"Poor girl! she is indeed most kind,--and why is she so? Because she
knows what poverty is. As I said to you just now, if the rich only
knew--"

"And then that nice-looking lady who came, seeming so frightened all the
while, to ask us if we wanted anything. Well, now she knows that we do
want everything, will she ever come again, think you?"

"I dare say she will; for, spite of her uneasy and terrified looks, she
seemed very good and kind."

"Oh, yes; if a person be but rich, they are always right in your
opinion. One might almost suppose that rich folks are made of different
materials to poor creatures like us."

"Stop, wife!" said Morel, gently; "you are getting on too fast. I did
not say that; on the contrary, I agree that rich people have as many
faults as poor ones; all I mean is, that, unfortunately, they are not
aware of the wretchedness of one-half of the world. Agents in plenty are
employed to hunt out poor wretches who have committed any crime, but
there are no paid agents to find out half-starving families and honest
artisans, worn-out with toil and privations, who, driven to the last
extremity of distress, are, for want of a little timely succour, led
into sore temptation. It is quite right to punish evil-doers; it would,
perhaps, be better still to prevent ill deeds. A man may have striven
hard to remain honest for fifty years; but want, misery, and utter
destitution put bad thoughts in his head, and one rascal more is let
loose on the world; whilst there are many who, if they had but known of
his distressed condition--However, it is no use talking of that,--the
world is as it is: I am poor and wretched, and therefore I speak as I
do; were I rich, my talk would be of fêtes, and happy days, and worldly
engagements--And how do you find yourself now, wife?"

"Much the same; I seem to have lost all feeling in my limbs. But how you
shiver! Here, take your jacket, and pray put it on. Blow out that
candle, which is burning uselessly,--see, it is nearly day!"

And, true enough, a faint, glimmering light began to struggle through
the snow with which the skylight was encumbered, and cast a dismal ray
on the interior of this deplorable human abode, rendering its
squalidness still more apparent; the shade of night had at least
concealed a part of its horrors.

"I shall wait now for the daylight before I go back to work," said the
lapidary, seating himself beside his wife's _paillasse_, and leaning his
forehead upon his two hands.

After a short interval of silence, Madeleine said:

"When is Madame Mathieu to come for the stones you are at work upon?"

"This morning. I have only the side of one false diamond to polish."

"A false diamond! How is that?--you who only make up real stones,
whatever the people in the house may believe."

"Don't you know? But I forgot, you were asleep the other day when Madame
Mathieu came about them. Well, then, she brought me ten false
diamonds--Rhine crystals--to cut exactly to the same size and form as
the like number of real diamonds she also brought. There, those are them
mixed with the rubies on my table. I think I never saw more splendid
stones, or of purer water, than those ten diamonds, which must, at
least, be worth 60,000 francs."

"And why did she wish them imitated?"

"Because a great lady to whom they belonged--a duchess, I think she
said--had given directions to M. Baudoin, the jeweller, to dispose of
her set of diamonds, and to make her one of false stones to replace it.
Madame Mathieu, who matches stones for M. Baudoin, explained this to me,
when she gave me the real diamonds, in order that I might be quite sure
to cut the false ones to precisely the same size and form. Madame
Mathieu gave a similar job to four other lapidaries, for there are from
forty to fifty stones to cut; and I could not do them all, as they were
required by this morning, because M. Baudoin must have time to set the
false gems. Madame Mathieu says that grand ladies, very frequently
unknown to anybody but the jeweller, sell their valuable diamonds, and
replace them with Rhenish crystals."

"Why, don't you see, the mock stones look every bit as well as the real
stones? Yet great ladies, who only use such things as ornaments, would
never think of sacrificing one of their diamonds to relieve the distress
of such unfortunate beings as we are."

"Come, come, wife! Be more reasonable than this; sorrow makes you
unjust. Who do you think knows that such people as Morel and his family
are in existence, still less that they are in want?"

"Oh, what a man you are, Morel! I really believe, if any one were to cut
you in pieces, that, while they were doing it, you would try to say,
'Thank you!'"

Morel compassionately shrugged his shoulders.

"And how much will Madame Mathieu owe you this morning?" asked
Madeleine.

"Nothing; because you know I have already had an advance of 120 francs."

"Nothing! Why, our last sou went the day before yesterday. We have not a
single farthing belonging to us!"

"Alas, no!" cried Morel, with a dejected air.

"Well, then, what are we to do?"

"I know not."

"The baker refuses to let us have anything more on credit,--will he?"

"No; and I was obliged yesterday to beg Madame Pipelet to lend me part
of a loaf."

"Can we borrow anything more of Mother Burette?"

"She has already every article belonging to us in pledge. What have we
to offer her to lend more money on,--our children?" asked Morel, with a
smile of bitterness.

"But yourself, my mother, and all the children had but part of a loaf
among you all yesterday. You cannot go on in this way; you will be
starved to death. It is all your fault that we are not on the books of
the charitable institution this year."

"They will not admit any persons without they possess furniture, or some
such property; and you know we have nothing in the world. We are looked
upon as though we lived in furnished apartments, and, consequently,
ineligible. Just the same if we tried to get into any asylum, the
children are required to have at least a blouse, while our poor things
have only rags. Then, as to the charitable societies, one must go
backwards and forwards twenty times before we should obtain relief; and
then what would it be? Why, a loaf once a month, and half a pound of
meat once a fortnight.[5] I should lose more time than it would be
worth."

  [5] Such is the ordinary allowance made at charitable
  societies, in consequence of the vast number of applicants for
  relief.

"But, still, what are we to do?"

"Perhaps the lady who came yesterday will not forget us!"

"Perhaps not. But don't you think Madame Mathieu would lend us four or
five francs, just to keep us from starving? You have worked for her
upwards of ten years; and surely she will not see an honest workman like
you, burthened with a large and sickly family, perish for want of a
little assistance like that?"

"I do not think it is in her power to aid us. She did all in her power
when she advanced me little by little 120 francs. That is a large sum
for her. Because she buys diamonds, and has sometimes 50,000 francs in
her reticule, she is not the more rich for that. If she gains 100
francs a month, she is well content, for she has heavy expenses,--two
nieces to bring up; and five francs is as much to her as it would be to
me. There are times when one does not possess that sum, you know; and
being already so deeply in her debt, I could not ask her to take bread
from her own mouth and that of her family to give it to me."

"This comes of working for mere agents in jewelry, instead of procuring
employment from first-hand master jewellers. They are sometimes less
particular. But you are such a poor, easy creature, you would almost let
any one take the eyes out of your head. It is all your fault that--"

"My fault!" exclaimed the unhappy man, exasperated by this absurd
reproach. "Was it or was it not your mother who occasioned all our
misfortunes, by compelling me to make good the price of the diamond she
lost? But for that we should be beforehand with the world; we should
receive the amount of my daily earnings; we should have the 1,100 francs
in our possession we were obliged to draw out of the savings-bank to put
to the 1,300 francs lent us by M. Jacques Ferrand. May every curse light
on him!"

"And you still persist in not asking him to help you? Certainly he is so
stingy that I daresay he would do nothing for you; but then it is right
to try. You cannot know without you do try."

"Ask him to help me!" cried Morel. "Ask him! I had rather be burnt
before a slow fire. Hark ye, Madeleine! Unless you wish to drive me mad,
mention that man's name no more to me."

As he uttered these words, the usually mild, resigned expression of the
lapidary's countenance was exchanged for a look of gloomy energy, while
a slight suffusion coloured the ordinarily pale features of the agitated
man, as, rising abruptly from the pallet beside which he had been
sitting, he began to pace the miserable apartment with hurried steps;
and, spite of the deformed and attenuated appearance of poor Morel, his
attitude and action bespoke the noblest, purest indignation.

"I am not ill-disposed towards any man," cried he, at length, pausing of
a sudden; "and never, to my knowledge, harmed a human being. But, I tell
you, when I think of this notary, I wish him--ah! I wish him--as much
wretchedness as he has caused me." Then pressing both hands to his
forehead, he murmured, in a mournful tone: "Just God! what crime have I
committed that a hard fate should deliver me and mine, tied hand and
foot, into the power of such a hypocrite? Have his riches been given him
only to worry, harass, and destroy those his bad passions lead him to
persecute, injure, and corrupt?"

"That's right! that's right!" said Madeleine; "go on abusing him. You
will have done yourself a great deal of good, shall you not, when he
puts you in prison, as he can do any day, for that promissory note of
1,300 francs on which he obtained judgment against you? He holds you
fast as a bird at the end of a string. I hate this notary as badly as
you do; but since we are so completely in his power, why you should--"

"Let him ruin and dishonour my child, I suppose?" burst from the pale
lips of the lapidary, with violent and impatient energy.

"For heaven's sake, Morel, don't speak so loud; the children are awake,
and will hear you."

"Pooh, pooh!" returned Morel, with bitter irony; "it will serve as a
fine example for our two little girls. It will instruct them to expect
that, one of these days, some villain or other like the notary may take
a fancy to them,--perhaps the same man; and then, I suppose, you would
tell me, as now, to be careful how I offended him, since he had me in
his power. You say, if I displease him, he can put me in prison. Now,
tell the truth: you advise me, then, to leave my daughter at his mercy,
do you not?"

And then, passing from the extreme of rage at the idea of all the
wickedness practised by the notary to tender recollections of his child,
the unhappy man burst into a sort of convulsive weeping, mingled with
deep and heavy sobs, for his kindly nature could not long sustain the
tone of sarcastic indignation he had assumed.

"Oh, my children!" cried he, with bitter grief; "my poor children! My
good, my beautiful, too--too beautiful Louise! 'Tis from those rich
gifts of nature all our troubles proceeded. Had you been less lovely,
that man would never have pressed his money upon me. I am honest and
hard-working; and if the jeweller had given me time, I should never have
been under the obligation to the old monster, of which he avails himself
to seek to dishonour my child. I should not then have left her a single
hour within his power; but I dare not remove her,--I dare not! For am I
not at his mercy? Oh, want! oh, misery! What insults do they not make us
endure!"

"But what can you do?" asked Madeleine. "You know he threatens Louise
that if she quits him he will put you in prison directly."

"Oh, yes! He dares address her as though she were the very vilest of
creatures."

"Well, you must not mind that; for should she leave the notary, there is
no doubt he would instantly throw you into prison, and then what would
become of me, with these five helpless creatures and my mother? Suppose
Louise did earn twenty francs a month in another place, do you think
seven persons can live on that?"

"And so that we may live, Louise is to be disgraced and left to ruin?"

"You always make things out worse than they are. It is true the notary
makes offers of love to Louise; she has told us so repeatedly. But then
you know what a good girl she is; she would never listen to him."

"She is good, indeed; and so right-minded, active, and industrious!
When, seeing how badly we were off in consequence of your long illness,
she insisted upon going to service that she might not be a burthen to
us, did I not say what it cost me to part with her? To think of my sweet
Louise being subjected to all the harshness and humiliation of a
servant's life,--she who was naturally so proud that we used
jokingly--ah, we could joke then!--to call her the Princess, because she
always said that, by dint of care and cleanliness, she would make our
little home like a palace! Dear Louise! It would have been my greatest
happiness to have kept her with me, though I had worked all day and all
night too. And when I saw her blooming face, with her bright eyes
glancing at me as she sat beside my work-table, my labour always seemed
lightened; and when she sung like a bird those little songs she knew I
liked to hear, I used to fancy myself the happiest father alive. Poor
dear Louise! so hard-working, yet always so gay and lively! Why, she
could even manage your mother, and make her do whatever she wished. But
I defy any one to resist her sweet words or winning smile. And how she
watched over and waited upon you! What pains she would take to try and
divert you from thinking of what you suffered! And how tenderly she
looked after her little brothers and sisters, finding time for
everything! Ah, with our Louise all our joy and happiness--all--all--left
us!"

"Don't go on so, Morel. Don't remind me of all these things, or you will
break my heart," cried Madeleine, weeping bitterly.

"And, then, when I think that perhaps that old monster--Do you know,
when that idea flashes across my brain, my senses seem disturbed, and I
have but one thought, that of first killing him and then killing
myself?"

"What would become of all of us if you were to do so? Besides, I tell
you again, you make things worse than they really are. I dare say the
notary was only joking with Louise. He is such a pious man, and goes so
regularly to mass every Sunday, and only keeps company with priests
folks say. Why, many people think that he is safer to place money with
than the bank itself."

"Well, and what does all that prove? Merely that he is a rich hypocrite,
instead of a poor one. I know well enough what a good girl Louise is;
but then she loves us so tenderly that it breaks her heart to see the
want and wretchedness we are in. She knows well enough that if anything
were to happen to me you would all perish with hunger; and by
threatening to put me into prison he might work on the dear child's
mind,--like a villain as he is,--and persuade her, on our account! O,
God, my brain burns! I feel as though I were going mad."

"But, Morel, if ever that were the case, the notary would be sure to
make her a great number of fine presents or money, and, I am sure, she
would not have kept them all to herself. She would certainly have
brought part to us."

"Silence, woman! Let me hear no more such words escape your lips. Louise
touch the wages of infamy! My good, my virtuous girl, accept such foul
gifts! Oh, wife!"

"Not for herself, certainly. But to bring to us perhaps she would--"

"Madeleine," exclaimed Morel, excited almost to frenzy, "again, I say,
let me not hear such language from your lips; you make me shudder.
Heaven only knows what you and the children also would become were I
taken away, if such are your principles."

"Why, what harm did I say?"

"Oh, none."

"Then what makes you uneasy about Louise?"

The lapidary impatiently interrupted his wife by saying:

"Because I have noticed for the last three months that, whenever Louise
comes to see us, she seems embarrassed, and even confused. When I take
her in my arms and embrace her, as I have been used to do from her
birth, she blushes."

"Ah, that is with delight at seeing you, or from shame."

"She seems sadder and more dejected, too, each visit she pays us."

"Because she finds our misery constantly increasing. Besides, when I
spoke to her concerning the notary, she told me he had quite ceased his
threats of putting you in prison."

"But did she tell you the price she has paid to induce him to lay aside
his threats? She did not tell you that, I dare say, did she? Ah, a
father's eye is not to be deceived; and her blushes and embarrassments,
when giving me her usual kiss, make me dread I know not what. Why, would
it not be an atrocious thing to say to a poor girl, whose bread depended
on her employer's word, 'Either sacrifice your virtuous principles, and
become what I would have you, or quit my house? And if any one should
inquire of me respecting the character you have with me, I shall speak
of you in such terms that no one will take you into their service.'
Well, then, how much worse is it to frighten a fond and affectionate
child into surrendering her innocence, by threatening to put her father
into prison if she refused, when the brute knows that upon the labour of
that father a whole family depends? Surely the earth contains nothing
more infamous, more fiendlike, than such conduct."

"Ah," replied Madeleine, "and then only to think that with the value of
one, only one of those diamonds now lying on your table, we might pay
the notary all we owe him, and so take Louise out of his power and keep
her at home with us. Don't you see, husband?"

"What is the use of your repeating the same thing over and over again?
You might just as well tell me that if I were rich I should not be
poor," answered Morel, with sorrowful impatience. For such was the
innate and almost constitutional honesty of this man, that it never once
occurred to him that his weak-minded partner, bowed down and irritated
by long suffering and want, could ever have conceived the idea of
tempting him to a dishonourable appropriation of that which belonged to
another.

With a heavy sigh, the unfortunate man resigned himself to his hard
fate. "Thrice happy those parents who can retain their innocent children
beneath the paternal roof, and defend them from the thousand snares laid
to entrap their unsuspecting youth. But who is there to watch over the
safety of the poor girl condemned at an early age to seek employment
from home? Alas, no one! Directly she is capable of adding her mite to
the family earnings, she leaves her dwelling at an early hour, and
repairs to the manufactory where she may happen to be engaged.
Meanwhile, both father and mother are too busily employed to have
leisure to attend to their daughter's comings or goings. 'Our time is
our stock in trade,' cry they, 'and bread is too dear to enable us to
lay aside our work while we look after our children.' And then there is
an outcry raised as to the quantity of depraved females constantly to be
met with, and of the impropriety of conduct among those of the lower
orders, wholly forgetting that the parents have neither the means of
keeping them at home, nor of watching over their morals when away from
them."

Thus mentally moralised Morel. Then, speaking aloud, he added:

"After all, our greatest privation is when forced to quit our parents,
wives, or children. It is to the poor that family affection is most
comforting and beneficial. Yet, directly our children grow up, and are
capable of becoming our dearest companions, we are forced to part with
them."

At this moment some one knocked loudly at the door.



CHAPTER XIII.

JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.


The lapidary, much astonished, rose and opened the door. Two men entered
the garret. One, tall, lanky, with an ill-favoured and pimply face,
shaded by thick grizzly whiskers, held in his hand a thick cane, loaded
at the head; he wore a battered hat, and a long-tailed and bespattered
green coat, buttoned up close to his throat. Above the threadbare velvet
collar was displayed his long neck, red and bald like that of a vulture.
This man's name was Malicorne. The other was a shorter man, with a look
as low-lived, and red, fat, puffed features, dressed with a great effort
at ridiculous splendour. Shiny buttons were in the folds of the front of
his shirt, whose cleanliness was most suspicious, and a long chain of
mosaic gold serpentined down a faded plaid waistcoat, which was seen
beneath his seedy Chesterfield, of a yellowish gray colour. This
gentleman's name was Bourdin.

"How poverty-stricken this hole smells," said Malicorne, pausing on the
threshold.

"Why, it does not scent of lavender-water. Confound it, but we have a
lowish customer to deal with," responded Bourdin, with a gesture of
disgust and contempt, and then advanced towards the artisan, who was
looking at him with as much surprise as indignation.

Through the door, left a little ajar, might be seen the villainous,
watchful, and cunning face of the young scamp Tortillard, who, having
followed these strangers unknown to them, was sneaking after, spying,
and listening to them.

"What do you want?" inquired the lapidary, abruptly, disgusted at the
coarseness of these fellows.

"Jérome Morel?" said Bourdin.

"I am he!"

"Working lapidary?"

"Yes."

"You are quite sure?"

"Quite sure. But you are troublesome, so tell me at once your business,
or leave the room."

"Really, your politeness is remarkable! Much obliged! I say, Malicorne,"
said the man, turning to his comrade, "there's not so much fat to cut at
here as there was at that 'ere Viscount de Saint-Rémy's."

"I believe you; but when there is fat, why the door's kept shut in your
face, as we found in the Rue de Chaillot. The bird had hopped the twig,
and precious quick, too, whilst such vermin as these hold on to their
cribs like a snail to his shell."

"I believe you; well, the stone jug just suits such individuals."

"The sufferer (creditor) must be a good fellow, for it will cost him
more than it's worth; but that's his lookout."

"If," said Morel, angrily, "you were not drunk, as you seem to be, I
should be angry with you. Leave this apartment instantly!"

"Ha! ha! He's a fine fellow with his elegant curve," said Bourdin,
making an insulting allusion to the contorted figure of the poor
lapidary. "I say, Malicorne, he has cheek enough to call this an
apartment,--a hole in which I would not put my dog."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" exclaimed Madeleine, who had been so frightened
that she could not say a word before. "Call for assistance; perhaps they
are rogues. Take care of your diamonds!"

And, seeing these two ill-looking strangers come closer to his
working-bench, on which his precious stones were still lying, Morel,
fearful of some evil intentions, ran towards the table, and covered the
jewels with his two hands.

Tortillard, still on the watch, caught at Madeleine's words, observed
the movement of the artisan, and said to himself:

"Ha! ha! ha! So they said he was a lapidary of sham stones; if they were
mock he would not be afraid of being robbed; this is a good thing to
know. So Mother Mathieu, who comes here so often, is a matcher of _real_
stones, after all, and has real diamonds in her basket; this is a good
thing to know, and I'll tell the Chouette," added Bras Rouge's brat.

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

The children, alarmed at this scene, began to cry, and the idiotic
mother sat up in her bed.

"If any one has a right to call for the guard, it is we, you Mister
Twistabout," said Bourdin.

"And the guard would lend us a hand to carry you off to gaol if you
resist," added Malicorne. "We have not the magistrate with us, it is
true; but if you have any wish for his company, we'll find you one, just
out of bed, hot and heavy; Bourdin will go and fetch him."

"To prison! me?" exclaimed Morel, struck with dismay.

"Yes, to Clichy."

"To Clichy?" repeated the artisan, with an air of despair.

"It seems a hardish pill," said Malicorne.

"Well, then, to the debtors' jail, if you like that better," said
Bourdin.

"You--what--indeed--why--the notary--ah, _mon Dieu_!"

And the workman, pale as death, fell on his stool, unable to add another
word.

"We are bound bailiffs, come to lay hold of you; now are you fly?"

"Morel, it is the note of Louise's master! We are undone!" exclaimed
Madeleine, in a tone of agony.

"Hear the judgment," said Malicorne, taking from his dirty and crammed
pocketbook a stamped writ.

After having skimmed over, according to custom, a part of this document
in an unintelligible tone, he distinctly articulated the last words,
which were, unfortunately, but too important to the artisan:

    "Judgment finally given. The Tribunal condemns Jérome Morel to
    pay to Pierre Petit-Jean, merchant,[6] by every available means,
    even to the arrest of body, the sum of 1,300 francs, with
    interest from the day of protest, and to pay all other and extra
    costs. Given and judged at Paris, 13 September, etc., etc."

  [6] The cunning notary, unable to prosecute in his own name,
  had made the unfortunate Morel give a blank acceptance, and
  had filled up the note of hand with the name of a third party.

"And Louise! Louise!" cried Morel, almost distracted in his brain, and
apparently unheeding the long preamble which had just been read. "Where
is Louise, then, for, doubtless, she has quitted the notary, since he
sends me to prison? My child! My Louise! What has become of you?"

"Who the devil is Louise?" asked Bourdin.

"Let him alone!" replied Malicorne, brutally; "don't you see the
respectable old twaddler is not right in his nonsense-box?" Then,
approaching Morel, he added: "I say, my fine fellow, right about file!
March on! Let us get out of here, will you, and have a little fresh air.
You stink enough to poison a cat in this here hole!"

"Morel!" shrieked Madeleine, wildly, "don't go! Kill those wretches! Oh,
you coward, not to knock them down! What! are you going to let them
take you away? Are you going to abandon us all?"

"Pray don't put yourself out of the way, ma'am," said Bourdin, with an
ironical grin. "I've only just got to remark that if your good man lays
his little finger on me, why I'll make him remember it," continued he,
swinging his loaded stick round and round.

Entirely occupied with thoughts of Louise, Morel scarcely heard a word
of what was passing. All at once an expression of bitter satisfaction
passed over his countenance, as he said:

"Louise has doubtless left the notary's house; now I shall go to prison
willingly." Then, casting a troubled look around him, he exclaimed: "But
my wife! Her mother! The children! Who will provide for them? No one
will trust me with stones to work at in prison, for it will be supposed
my bad conduct has sent me there. Does this hard-hearted notary wish the
destruction of myself and all my family also?"

"Once, twice, old chap," said Bourdin, "will you stop your gammon? You
are enough to bore a man to death. Come, put on your things, and let us
be off."

"Good gentlemen, kind gentlemen," cried Madeleine, from her sick-bed,
"pray forgive what I said just now! Surely you will not be so cruel as
to take my husband away; what will become of me and my five poor
children, and my old mother, who is an idiot? There she lies; you see
her, poor old creature, huddled up on her mattress; she is quite out of
her senses, my good gentlemen; she is, indeed, quite mad!"

"La! what, that old bald-headed thing a woman? Well, hang me if that
ain't enough to astonish a man!"

"I'll be hanged if it isn't, then!" cried the other bailiff, bursting
into a horse-laugh; "why, I took it for something tied up in an old
sack. Look! her old head is shaved quite close; it seems as though she
had got a white skull-cap on."

"Go, children, and kneel down, and beg of these good gentlemen not to
take away your poor father, our only support," said Madeleine, anxious
by a last effort to touch the hearts of the bailiffs. But, spite of
their mother's orders, the terrified children remained weeping on their
miserable mattress.

At the unusual noise which prevailed, added to the aspect of two strange
men in the room, the poor idiot turned herself towards the wall, as
though striving to hide from them, uttering all the time the most
discordant cries and moans. Morel, meanwhile, appeared unconscious of
all that was going on; this last stroke of fate had been so frightful
and unexpected, and the consequences of his arrest were so dreadful,
that his mind seemed almost unequal to understanding its reality. Worn
out by all manner of privations, and exhausted by over-toil, his
strength utterly forsook him, and he remained seated on his stool, pale
and haggard, and as though incapable of speech or motion, his head
drooping on his breast, and his arms hanging listlessly by his side.

"Deuce take me," cried Malicorne, "if that old patterer is not going
fast asleep! Why, I say, my chap, you seem to think nothing of keeping
gen'l'men like us waiting; just remember, will you, our time is
precious! You know this is not exactly a party of pleasure, so march, or
I shall be obliged to make you."

Suiting the action to the word, the man grasped the artisan by the
shoulder, and shook him roughly; which so alarmed the children, that,
unable to restrain their terror, the three little boys emerged from
their _paillasse_, and, half naked as they were, came in an agony of
tears to throw themselves at the feet of the bailiffs, holding up their
clasped hands, and crying, in tones of touching earnestness:

"Pray, pray don't hurt our dear father!"

At the sight of these poor, shivering, half-clad infants, weeping with
affright, and trembling with cold, Bourdin, spite of his natural
callousness and long acquaintance with scenes of this sort, could not
avoid a feeling almost resembling compassion from stealing over him,
while his pitiless companion, brutally disengaging himself from the
grasp of the small, weak creatures who were clinging to him, exclaimed:

"Hands off, you young ragamuffins! A devilish fine trade ours would be,
if we were to allow ourselves to be mauled about by a set of beggars'
brats like you!"

As though the scene were not sufficiently distressing, a fearful
addition was made to its horrors. The eldest of the little girls, who
had remained in the _paillasse_ with her sick sister, suddenly
exclaimed:

"Mother! mother! I don't know what's the matter with Adèle! She is so
cold, and her eyes are fixed on my face, and yet she does not breathe."

The poor little child, whose consumptive appearance we have before
noticed, had expired gently, and without a sigh, her looks fixed
earnestly on the sister she so tenderly loved.

No language can describe the cry which burst from the lips of the
lapidary's wife at these words, which at once revealed the dreadful
truth; it was one of those wild, despairing, convulsive shrieks, which
seem to sever the very heart-strings of a mother.

"My poor little sister looks as though she were dead!" continued the
child; "she frightens me, with her eyes fixed on me, and her face so
cold!"

Saying which, in an agony of terror, she leaped from beside the corpse
of the infant, and ran to shelter herself in her mother's arms, while
the distracted parent, forgetting that her almost paralysed limbs were
incapable of supporting her, made a violent effort to rise and go to the
assistance of her child, whom she could not believe was actually past
recovery; but her strength failed her, and with a deep sigh of despair
she sunk upon the floor. That cry found an echo in the heart of Morel,
and roused him from his stupor. He sprang with one bound to the
_paillasse_, and withdrew from it the stiffened form of an infant four
years old, dead and cold. Want and misery had accelerated its end,
although its complaint, which had originated in the positive want of
common necessaries, was beyond the reach of any human aid to remove. Its
poor little limbs were already rigid with death. Morel, whose very hair
seemed to stand on end with despair and terror, stood holding his dead
child in his arms, motionlessly contemplating its thin features with a
fixed bloodshot gaze, though no tear moistened his dry, burning
eyeballs.

"Morel! Morel, give Adèle to me!" cried the unhappy mother, extending
her arms towards him; "she is not dead,--it is not possible! Let me have
her, and I shall be able to warm her in my arms."

The curiosity of the idiot was excited by observing the pertinacity with
which the bailiffs kept close to the lapidary, who would not part with
the body of his child. She ceased her yells and cries, and, rising from
her mattress, approached gently, protruded her hideous, senseless
countenance over Morel's shoulder, staring in vacant wonder at the pale
corpse of her grandchild, the features of the idiot retaining their
usual expression of stupid sullenness. At the end of a few minutes, she
uttered a sort of horrible yawning noise, almost resembling the roar of
a famished animal; then, hurrying back to her mattress, she threw
herself upon it, exclaiming:

"Hungry! hungry! hungry!"

"Well, gentlemen," said the poor, half-crazed artisan, with haggard
looks, "you see all that is left me of my poor child, my Adèle,--we
called her Adèle, she was so pretty she deserved a pretty name; and she
was just four years old last night. Ay, and this morning even I kissed
her, and she put her little arms about my neck and embraced me,--oh, so
fondly! And now, you see, gentlemen, perhaps you will tell me there is
one mouth less to feed, and that I am lucky to get rid of one,--you
think so, don't you?"

The unfortunate man's reason was fast giving way under the many shocks
he had received.

"Morel," cried Madeleine, "give me my child! I will have her!"

"To be sure," replied the lapidary; "that is only fair. Everybody ought
to secure their own happiness!" So saying, he laid the child in its
mother's arms, and uttering a groan, such as comes only from a breaking
heart, he covered his face with his hands; while Madeleine, almost as
frenzied as her husband, placed the body of her child amid the straw of
her wretched bed, watching it with frantic jealousy, while the other
children, kneeling around her, filled the air with their wailings.

The bailiffs, who had experienced a temporary feeling of compassion at
the death of the child, soon fell back into their accustomed brutality.

"I say, friend," said Malicorne to the lapidary, "your child is dead,
and there's an end of it! I dare say you think it a misfortune; but
then, you see, we are all mortal, and neither we nor you can bring it
back to life. So come along with us; for, to tell you the truth, we're
upon the scent of a spicy one we must nab to-day. So don't delay us,
that's a trump!"

But Morel heard not a word he said. Entirely preoccupied with his own
sad thoughts, the bewildered man kept up a kind of wandering delivery of
his own afflicting ideas.

"My poor Adèle!" murmured he; "we must now see about laying you in the
grave, and watching by her little corpse till the people come to carry
it to its last home,--to lay it in the ground. But how are we to do that
without a coffin,--and where shall we get one? Who will give me credit
for one? Oh, a very small coffin will do,--only for a little creature of
four years of age! And we shall want no bearers! Oh, no, I can carry it
under my arm. Ha! ha! ha!" added he, with a burst of frightful mirth;
"what a good thing it is she did not live to be as old as Louise! I
never could have persuaded anybody to trust me for a coffin large enough
for a girl of eighteen years of age."

"I say, just look at that chap!" said Bourdin to Malicorne. "I'll be
dashed if I don't think as he's a-going mad, like the old woman there!
Only see how he rolls his eyes about,--enough to frighten one! Come, I
say, let's make haste and be off. Only hark, how that idiot creature is
a-roaring for something to eat! Well, they are rum customers, from
beginning to end!"

"We must get done with them as soon as we can. Although the law only
allows us seventy-six francs, seventy-five centièmes, for arresting this
beggar, yet, in justice to ourselves, we must swell the costs to two
hundred and forty or two hundred and fifty francs. You know the sufferer
(the creditor) pays us!"

"You mean, advances the cash. Old Gaffer there will have to pay the
piper, since he must dance to the music."

"Well, by the time he has paid his creditor 2,500 francs for debt,
interest, and expenses, etc., he'll find it pretty warm work."

"A devilish sight more than we do our job up here! I'm a'most
frost-bitten!" cried the bailiff, blowing the ends of his fingers.
"Come, old fellow, make haste, will you! Just look sharp! You can
snivel, you know, as we go along. Why, how the devil can we help it, if
your brat has kicked the bucket?"

"These beggars always have such a lot of children, if they have nothing
else!"

"Yes, so they have," responded Malicorne. Then, slapping Morel on the
shoulder, he called out in a loud voice, "I tell you what it is, my
friend, we're not going to be kept dawdling here all day,--our time is
precious. So either out with the stumpy, or march off to prison,
without any more bother!"

"Prison!" exclaimed a clear, youthful voice; "take M. Morel to prison!"
and a bright, beaming face appeared at the door.

"Ah, Mlle. Rigolette," cried the weeping children, as they recognised
the happy, healthful countenance of their young protectress and friend,
"these wicked men are going to take our poor father away, and put him in
prison! And sister Adèle is just dead!"

"Dead!" cried the kind-hearted girl, her dark eyes filling with
compassionating tears; "poor little thing! But it cannot be true that
your father is in danger of a prison;" and, almost stupefied with
surprise, she gazed alternately from the children to Morel, and from him
to the bailiffs.

"I say, my girl," said Bourdin, approaching Rigolette, "as you do seem
to have the use of your senses, just make this good man hear reason,
will you? His child has just died. Well, that can't be helped now; but,
you see, he is a-keeping of us, because we're a-waiting to take him to
the debtors' prison, being sheriffs' officers, duly sworn in and
appointed. Tell him so!"

"Then it is true!" exclaimed the feeling girl.

"True? I should say it was and no mistake! Now, don't you see, while the
mother is busy with the dead babby--and, bless you! she's got it there,
hugging it up in bed, and won't part with it!--she won't notice us? So I
want the father to be off while she isn't thinking nothing about it!"

"Good God! Good God!" replied Rigolette, in deep distress; "what is to
be done?"

"Done? Why, pay the money, or go to prison! There is nothing between
them two ways. If you happen to have two or three thousand francs by you
you can oblige him with, why, shell out, and we'll be off, and glad
enough to be gone!"

"How can you," cried Rigolette, "be so barbarous as to make a jest of
such distress as this?"

"Well, then," rejoined the other man, "all joking apart, if you really
do wish to be useful, try to prevent the woman from seeing us take her
husband away. You will spare them both a very disagreeable ten minutes!"

Coarse as was this counsel, it was not destitute of good sense; and
Rigolette, feeling she could do nothing else, approached the bedside of
Madeleine, who, distracted by her grief, appeared unconscious of the
presence of Rigolette, as, gathering the children together, she knelt
with them beside their afflicted mother.

Meanwhile Morel, upon recovering from his temporary wildness, had sunk
into a state of deep and bitter reflections upon his present position,
which, now that his mind saw things through a calmer medium, only
increased the poignancy of his sufferings. Since the notary had
proceeded to such extremities, any hope from his mercy was vain. He felt
there was nothing left but to submit to his fate, and let the law take
its course.

"Are we ever to get off?" inquired Bourdin. "I tell you what, my man, if
you are not for marching, we must make you, that's all."

"I cannot leave these diamonds about in this manner,--my wife is half
distracted," cried Morel, pointing to the stones lying on his
work-table. "The person for whom I am polishing them will come to fetch
them away either this morning or during the day. They are of
considerable value."

"Capital!" whispered Tortillard, who was still peeping in at the half
closed door; "capital, capital! What will Mother Chouette say when I
tell her this bit of luck?"

"Only give me till to-morrow," said Morel, beseechingly; "only till I
can return these diamonds to my employer."

"I tell you, the thing can't be done. So let's have no more to say about
it."

"But it is impossible for me to leave diamonds of such value as these
exposed, to be lost or even stolen in my absence."

"Well, then, take them along with you. We have got a coach waiting
below, for which you will have to pay when you settle the costs. We will
go all together to your employer's house, and, if you don't meet with
him, why, then, you can deposit these jewels at the office of the
prison, where they will be as safe as in the bank; only look sharp, and
let's be off before your wife and children perceive us."

"Give me but till to-morrow,--only to bury my child!" implored Morel, in
a supplicating voice, half stifled by the heavy sobs he strove in vain
to repress.

"Nonsense, I tell you; why, we have lost an hour here already!"

"Besides, it's dull work going to berrins," chimed in Malicorne. "It
would be too much for your feelings, p'raps."

"Yes," said Morel, bitterly; "it is dull work to see what we would have
given our lives to save laid in the cold earth. But, as you are men,
grant me that satisfaction." Then, looking up, and observing the
nonchalant air with which his prayer was received, he added, "But no,
persons of so much feeling as you are would fear to indulge me, lest I
should find it a gloomy sight. Well, then, at least grant me one word!"

"The deuce take your last words! Why, old chap, there seems no end to
them. Come, put the steam on; make haste," said Malicorne, with brutal
impatience, "or we shall lose t'other gent we're after."

"When did you receive orders to arrest me?"

"Oh, why, judgment was signed four months ago! But it was only yesterday
our officer got instructions to put it in execution."

"Only yesterday! And why has it been delayed so long?"

"How the devil should I know? Come, look about you, and put up your
things."

"Only yesterday? And during the whole day we saw nothing of Louise!
Where can she be? Or what has become of her?" inquired the lapidary
mentally, as he took from his table a small box filled with cotton, in
which he placed his stones. "But never mind all that now. I shall have
plenty of time to think about it when I am in prison."

"Come, look sharp there a bit. Tie up your things to take with you, and
put your clothes on, there's a fine fellow!"

"I have no clothes to tie up, and have nothing whatever to take with me
except these jewels, that I may deposit them at the office of the
prison."

"Well, then, dress yourself as quick as you can."

"I have no other dress than that you now see me in."

"I say, mate," cried Bourdin, "does he really mean to be seen in our
company with such rags as those on?"

"I fear, indeed, I shall shame such gentlemen as you are!" said Morel,
bitterly.

"It don't much signify," replied Malicorne, "as nobody will see us in
the coach."

"Father!" cried one of the children, "mother is calling for you!"

"Listen to me!" said Morel, addressing one of the men with hurried
tones; "if one spark of human pity dwells within you, grant me one
favour! I have not the courage to bid my wife and children farewell; it
would break my heart! And if they see you take me away, they will try to
follow me. I wish to spare all this. Therefore, I beseech you to say, in
a loud voice, that you will come again in three or four days, and
pretend to go away. You can wait for me at the next landing-place, and I
will come to you in less than five minutes; that will spare all the
misery of taking leave. I am quite sure it would be too much for me, and
that I should become mad! I was not far off it a little while ago."

"Not to be caught!" answered Malicorne; "you want to do me! But I'm up
to you! You mean to give us the slip, you old chouse!"

"God of heaven!" cried Morel, with a mixture of grief and indignation,
"has it come to this?"

"I don't think he means what you say," whispered Bourdin to his
companion; "let us do what he asks; we shall never get away unless we
do. I'll stand outside the door; there is no other way of escaping from
this garret; he cannot get away from us."

"Very well. But what a dog-hole! What a place for a man to care about
leaving! Why, a prison will be a palace to it!" Then, addressing Morel,
he said, "Now, then, be quick, and we will wait for you on the next
landing; so make up some pretence for our going."

"Well," said Bourdin in a loud voice, and bestowing a significant look
on the unhappy artisan, "since things are as you say, and as you think
you shall be able to pay us in a short time, why, we shall leave you for
the present, and return in about four or five days; but you must not
disappoint us then, remember!"

"Thank you, gentlemen. I have no doubt I shall be able to pay you then."

The bailiffs then withdrew, while Tortillard, hearing the men talk of
quitting the room, had hastened down-stairs for fear of being detected
listening.

"There, Madame Morel!" said Rigolette, endeavouring to draw the wife of
the lapidary from the state of gloomy abstraction into which she had
fallen, "do you hear that? The men have gone, and left your husband
undisturbed."

"Mother! mother!" exclaimed the children, joyfully, "they have not taken
father away!"

"Morel, Morel!" murmured Madeleine, her brain quite turned, "take one
of those diamonds--take the largest--and sell it; no one will know it,
and then we shall be delivered from our misery; poor little Adèle will
get warm then, and come back to us."

Taking advantage of the instant when no one was observing him, the
lapidary profited by it to steal from the room. One of the men was
waiting for him on the little landing-place, which was also covered only
by the roof; on this small spot opened the door of a garret, which
adjoined the apartment occupied by the Morels, and in which M. Pipelet
kept his dépôt of leather; and, further, this little angular recess, in
which a person could not stand upright, was dignified by the melancholy
porter with the name of his Melodramatic Cabinet, because, by means of a
hole between the lath and plaster, he frequently indulged in the luxury
of woe by witnessing the many touching scenes occasioned by the distress
of the wretched family who dwelt in the garret beyond it. This door had
not escaped the lynx eye of the bailiff, who had, for a time, suspected
his prisoner of intending either to escape or conceal himself by means
of it.

"Now, then, let us make a start of it!" cried he, beginning to descend
the stairs as Morel emerged from the garret. "Rather a ragged recruit to
march with," added he, beckoning to the lapidary to follow him.

"Only an instant, one single instant, for the love of God!" exclaimed
Morel, as, kneeling down, he cast a last look on his wife and children
through a chink in the door. Then clasping his hands, he said, in a low,
heart-broken voice, while bitter tears flowed down his haggard cheeks:

"Adieu, my poor children! my wife! May Heaven preserve you all!
Farewell, farewell!"

"Come, don't get preaching!" said Bourdin, coarsely, "or your sermons
may keep us here till night, which is what I can't stand, for I am
almost froze to death as it is. Ugh! what a kennel! what a hole!"

Morel rose from his knees and was about to follow the bailiff, when the
words, "Father! father!" sounded up the staircase.

"Louise!" exclaimed the lapidary, raising his hands towards heaven in a
transport of gratitude; "thank God I shall be able to embrace you before
I go!"

"Heaven be praised, I am here in time!" cried the voice, as it rapidly
approached, and quick, light steps were distinguishable, swiftly
ascending the stairs.

"Don't be uneasy, my dear," said a second voice, evidently proceeding
from some individual considerably behind the first speaker, but whose
thick puffing and laborious breathing announced the coming of one who
did not find mounting to the top of the house so easy an affair as it
seemed to her light-footed companion.

The reader may, perhaps, have already guessed that the last comer was no
other than Madame Pipelet, who, less agile than Louise, was compelled to
advance at a much slower pace.

"Louise! Is it, indeed, you, my own, my good Louise?" said Morel, still
weeping. "But how pale you look! For mercy's sake, my child, what is the
matter?"

"Nothing, father, nothing, I assure you!" said Louise, in much
agitation; "but I have run so fast! See, I have brought the money!"

"What?"

"You are free!"

"You knew, then, that--"

"Oh, yes! Here, sir, you will find it quite right," said the poor girl,
placing the rouleau of gold in the hands of Malicorne.

"But this money, Louise,--how did you become possessed of it?"

"I will tell you all about it by and by; pray do not be uneasy; let us
go and comfort my mother. Come, father."

"No, not just this minute!" cried Morel, remembering that, as yet,
Louise was entirely ignorant of the death of her little sister; "wait an
instant. I have something to say to you first. But about this money?"

"All right," said Malicorne, as, having finished counting the gold, he
put it in his pocket; "precisely one thousand three hundred francs. And
is that all you have got for me, my pretty dear?"

"I thought, father," said Louise, struck with alarm and surprise at the
man's question, "that you only owed one thousand three hundred francs."

"Nor do I," replied Morel.

"Precisely so!" answered the bailiff; "the original debt is one thousand
three hundred francs; well, that is all right now, and we may put
'settled' against that: but then, you see, there are the costs, caption,
etc., amounting to eleven hundred and forty francs, still to be paid."

"Gracious heavens!" cried Louise, "I thought one thousand three hundred
francs would pay everything! But, sir, we will make up the money, and
bring it to you very soon; take this for the present, it is a good sum;
take it as paid on account; it will go towards the debt, at least, won't
it, father?"

"Very well; then all you have to do is to bring the required sum to the
prison, and then, and not till then, your father--if he is your
father--will be set at liberty. Come, master, we must start, or we never
shall get there."

"Do you really mean to take him away?"

"Do I? Don't I? Just look here; I am ready to give you a memorandum of
having received so much on account; and, whenever you bring the rest,
you shall have a receipt in full, and your father along with it. There,
now, that's a handsome offer, ain't it?"

"Mercy! mercy!" supplicated Louise.

"Whew!" cried the man, "here's a scene over again! My stars, I hope this
one isn't a-going mad, too, for the whole family seems uncommon queer
about the head! Well, I declare I never see anything like it! It is
enough to set a man 'prespiring' in the midst of winter!" and here the
bailiff burst into a loud, coarse laugh at his own brutal wit.

"Oh, my poor, dear father!" exclaimed Louise, almost distractedly; "when
I had hoped to have saved you!"

"No, no!" cried the lapidary, in a tone of utter despair, and stamping
his foot in wild desperation, "hope nothing for me; God has forgotten
me, and Heaven has ceased to be just to a wretch like me!"

"Calm yourself, my worthy friend," said a rich, manly voice; "there is
always a kind Providence that watches over and preserves good and honest
men like you."

At the same instant Rodolph appeared at the door of the small recess we
have spoken of, from whence he had been an invisible spectator of much
that we have related; he was pale, and extremely agitated. At this
sudden apparition the bailiff drew back, with surprise; while Morel and
his daughter gazed on the stranger with bewildered wonder. Taking from
his waistcoat pocket a quantity of folded bank-notes, Rodolph selected
three, and, presenting them to Malicorne, he said:

"Here are two thousand five hundred francs; give this young woman back
the money you have just received from her."

Still more and more astonished at this singular interference, the man
half hesitated to take the notes, and, when he had received them, he
eyed them with the utmost suspicion, turning and twisting them about in
every direction; at length, satisfied both as to their reality and
genuineness, he finally deposited them in his pocketbook: but, as his
surprise and alarm began to subside, so did his natural coarseness of
idea return, and, eyeing Rodolph from head to foot with an impertinent
stare, he exclaimed:

"The notes are right enough; but pray who and what are you that go about
with such sums? I should just wish to know whose it is, and how you came
by it?"

Rodolph was very plainly dressed, and his appearance by no means
improved by the dust and dirt his clothes had gathered during his stay
in M. Pipelet's Cabinet of Melodrama.

"I desired you to give back the gold you received just now from this
young person," replied Rodolph, in a severe and authoritative tone.

"You desired me! And who the devil are you, to give your orders?"
answered the man, approaching Rodolph in a threatening manner.

"Give back the gold! Give it back, I say!" said the prince, grasping the
wrist of Malicorne so tightly that the unhappy bailiff winced beneath
his iron clutch.

"I say," bawled he, "hands off, will you? Curse me if I don't think
you're old Nick himself! I am sure your fingers are cased with iron."

"Then return the money! Why, you despicable wretch! do you want to be
paid twice over? Now return the gold and begone, or, if you utter one
insolent word, I'll fling you over the banisters!"

"Well, don't kick up such a row! There's the girl's money," said
Malicorne, giving back to Louise the rouleau he had received. "But mind
what you are about, my sparky, and don't think to ill-use me because you
happen to be the strongest!"

"That's right!" said Bourdin, ensconcing himself behind his taller
associate. "And who are you, I should like to know, who give yourself
such airs?"

"Who is he? Why, my lodger, my king of lodgers, you ill-looking,
half-starved, hungry hounds! you ill-taught, dirty fellows!" exclaimed
Madame Pipelet, who, puffing and panting for breath, had at last reached
the landing where they stood; her head, as usual, adorned with her
Brutus wig, which, during the heat and bustle she had experienced in
ascending the stairs, had got pushed somewhat awry, while in her hand
she bore an earthen stewpan, filled with smoking-hot broth, which she
was charitably conveying to the Morels.

"What the devil does this old hedgehog want?" cried Bourdin.

"If you dare make any of your saucy speeches about me," returned Madame
Pipelet, "I'll make you feel my nails,--ay, and my teeth, too, if you
provoke me! And, if you don't mend your manners, my lodger, my king of
lodgers will pitch you over the banisters, and I will sweep you out into
the street, as I would a heap of rubbish."

"This old beldam will bring the whole house about our ears," said
Bourdin to Malicorne; "we've touched the blunt, our expenses and all, so
I say 'Off' is a good word."

"Here, take your property," said the latter, flinging a bundle of
law-papers at the feet of Morel.

"Pick them up, and deliver them decently; you have been paid as a
respectable officer would have been, act like one!" cried Rodolph,
seizing the bailiff vigorously with one hand, while with the other he
pointed to the papers.

Fully convinced by this second powerful grip how useless any attempt at
resistance would prove, the bailiff stooped down, and, mechanically
picking up the papers, gave them to Morel, who, scarcely venturing to
credit his senses, believed himself under the influence of a delightful
dream.

"Well, young chap," grumbled out Malicorne, "although you have got a
fist as strong as a drayman's, mind you, if ever you fall into my
clutches, I'll make you smart for this!" So saying, he doubled his fist
at Rodolph, and then scrambled down the stairs, taking four or five at a
time, followed by his companion, who kept looking behind him with
indescribable terror; while Madame Pipelet, burning to avenge the
insults offered to her king of lodgers, looked at her steaming stewpan
with an air of inspiration, and heroically exclaimed:

"The debts of the Morels are paid! Henceforward they will have plenty of
food, and can do without my messes! Look out there below!"

So saying, she stooped over the banisters, and poured the contents of
her stewpan down the backs and shoulders of the two bailiffs, who had
just reached the first floor landing.

"There goes!" screamed out the delighted porteress. "Capital! Ha, ha,
ha! there they are! two regular sops, in the pan! Well, I do enjoy
this!"

"What the devil is this?" exclaimed Malicorne, thoroughly soaked with
the hot, greasy liquid. "I say, I wish you would mind what you are about
up there, you old figure of fun!"

"Alfred!" bawled Madame Pipelet, in a tone sharp and shrill enough to
have split the tympanum of a deaf man; "Alfred, my old darling, have at
'em! They wanted to behave ill to your 'Stasie (Anastasie)! The nasty
fellows have been taking liberties,--quite violent! Knock them down with
your broom! And call the oyster-woman, and the man at the wine-vaults,
to help you! Get out, you! Get--get--get out! Cht, cht, cht! Thieves!
thieves! robbers! Cht--b-r-r-r-r-r-r--hou, hou, hou! Knock them--knock
them down! That's right, old dear! Pay them off! Break their bones!
Serve them out! Boum, boum, boum!"

And, by way of conclusion to this concatenation of discordant noises,
accompanied by a constant succession of stamping and kicking of feet,
Madame Pipelet, carried away by the excitement of the moment, flung her
earthen stewpan to the bottom of the staircase, which, breaking into a
thousand pieces at the very instant that the two bailiffs, terrified by
the yells and noises from overhead, were precipitately descending the
stairs with hasty strides, added not a little to their terror.

"Ah, ah, ah!" cried Anastasie, bursting into loud fits of laughter. "Now
be off with you,--I think you have had enough!" Then, crossing her arms,
she stood, like a triumphant Amazon, rejoicing in the victory she had
achieved.

While Madame Pipelet was thus venting her rage upon the bailiffs, Morel
had thrown himself, in heartfelt gratitude, at the feet of Rodolph.

"Ah, sir," exclaimed he, when at last words came to his assistance, "you
have saved a whole family! To whom do we owe this unhoped-for
assistance?"

"'To the God who watches over and protects all honest men,' as your
immortal Béranger says."


   NOTE.--The following are some curious particulars relative to
   bodily restraint, as cited in the "Pauvre Jacques," a journal
   published under the patronage of the "Society for the
   Furtherance and Protection of Christianity:"

           (Prison Committee.)   (_Comité des Prisons._)

   "A protest and intimation of bodily restraint are generally
   carried about by sheriffs' officers, and charged by law, the
   first, 4_f._ 35_c._, the second, 4_f._ 70_c._; for these,
   however, the officers usually demand, for the former, 10_f._
   40_c._, for the second, 16_f._ 40_c._; thus illegally claiming
   from the unfortunate victims of law 26_f._ 80_c._, for that
   which is fixed by that very law at 9_f._ 50_c._

   "For an arrest, the legal charge is, including stamp and
   registering, 3_f._ 50_c._; coach-hire, 5_f._; for arrest and
   entry in the prison books, 60_f._ 25_c._; office dues, 8_f._
   Total, 76_f._ 75_c._ A bill of the usual scale ordinarily
   charged by sheriffs' officers, now lying before us, shows that
   these allowances by law are magnified by the extortion of the
   officers into a sum of about 240_f._, instead of the 76_f._ they
   are alone entitled to claim."

   The same journal says: "Sheriffs' officer ---- has been to our
   office, requesting us to correct an article which appeared in
   one of our numbers, headed, 'A woman hung.' 'I did not hang the
   woman!' observed he, angrily. We did not assert that he did,
   but, to prevent any further misapprehension, content ourselves
   with reprinting the paragraph in question: 'A few days ago, a
   sheriffs' officer, named ----, went to the Rue de la Lune, to
   arrest a carpenter, who dwelt there. The man, perceiving him
   from the street, rushed hastily into his house, exclaiming, "I
   am a ruined man! The officers are here to arrest me!" His wife,
   at these words, hastened to secure the door; while the carpenter
   ran to a room on the top of the house, to conceal himself. The
   officer, finding admittance refused, went and fetched a
   magistrate and a blacksmith; the door was forced, and, on
   proceeding up-stairs, the woman was found hanging in her own
   bedchamber. The officer did not allow himself to be diverted
   from the pursuit by the sight of the corpse; he continued his
   search, and at length discovered the husband in his
   hiding-place. "I arrest you!" cried the bailiff. "I have no
   money!" replied the man. "Then you must go to prison." "Let me
   at least bid my wife adieu!" "It is not worth while waiting for
   that,--your wife is dead! She has hung herself!"' Now, M. ----
   (adds the journal we have quoted), what have you to say to that?
   You see we have merely copied your own statement upon oath, in
   which you have detailed all these frightful circumstances with
   horrible minuteness!"

   The same journal also cites two or three hundred similar facts,
   of which the following may serve as a specimen: "The expenses
   upon a note of hand for 300_f._ have been run up by the
   sheriffs' officers to 964_f._; the debtor, therefore, who is a
   mere artisan, with a family of five children, has been detained
   in prison for the last seven months!"

   The author of this work had a double reason for borrowing thus
   largely from the pages of the "Pauvre Jacques." In the first
   place, to show that the horrors of the last chapter are far
   below reality in their painful details. And secondly, to prove
   that, if only viewed in a philanthropic light, the allowing such
   a state of things to go on (namely, the exorbitant and illegal
   fees both demanded and exacted by certain public functionaries),
   frequently acts as a preventive to the exercise of benevolence,
   and paralyses the hand of charity. Thus, were a small capital of
   1000_f._ collected among kind-hearted individuals, three or four
   honest, though unfortunate, artisans might be released from a
   prison and restored to their families, by employing the
   above-named sum in paying the debts of such as were incarcerated
   for amounts varying from 250 to 300_f._! But when the original
   debt is increased threefold by the excessive and illegal
   expenses, even the most charitable recede from the good work of
   delivering a fellow creature, from the impression that
   two-thirds of their well-intentioned bounty would only go into
   the pockets of pampered sheriffs' officers and their satellites.
   And yet no class of unfortunate beings stand more in need of aid
   and charitable assistance than the unfortunate class we have
   just been speaking of.



CHAPTER XIV.

RIGOLETTE.


Louise, the daughter of the lapidary, was possessed of more than
ordinary loveliness of countenance, a fine, tall, graceful person,
uniting, by the strict regularity of her faultless features and elegance
of her figure, the classic beauty of Juno with the lightness and
elegance assigned to the statue of the hunting Diana. Spite of the
injury her complexion had received from exposure to weather, and the
redness of her well-shaped hands and arms, occasioned by household
labour,--despite even the humble dress she wore, the whole appearance of
Louise Morel was stamped with that indescribable air of grace and
superiority Nature sometimes is pleased to bestow upon the lowly-born,
in preference to the descendant of high lineage.

We shall not attempt to paint the joy, the heartfelt gratitude of this
family, so wondrously preserved from so severe a calamity; even the
recent death of the little girl was forgotten during the first burst of
happiness. Rodolph alone found leisure to remark the extreme paleness
and utter abstraction of Louise, whose first ecstasy at finding her
father free passed away, apparently plunged in a deep and painful
reverie. Anxious to relieve the mind of Morel of any apprehensions for
the future, and also to explain a liberality which might have raised
suspicions as to the character he chose to assume, Rodolph drew the
lapidary to the further end of the staircase, leaving to Rigolette the
task of acquainting Louise with the death of her little sister, and said
to him:

"Did not a young lady come to visit you and your family on the morning
of the day before yesterday?"

"Yes, and appeared much grieved to see the distress we were in."

"Then you must thank her,--not me."

"Can it be possible, sir? That young lady--"

"Is your benefactress. I frequently wait upon her from our warehouse;
when I hired an apartment here, I learned from the porteress all the
particulars of your case, and the painful situation you were placed in;
relying on this lady's well-known kindness and benevolence, I hastened
to acquaint her with all I had heard respecting you; and, the day before
yesterday, she came herself, in order to be fully aware of the extent of
your misery. The distress she witnessed deeply affected her; but as it
might have been brought about by misconduct, she desired me to take upon
myself the task of inquiring into every circumstance relative to your
past and present condition with as little delay as possible, being
desirous of regulating her benevolent aid by the good or bad accounts
she might receive of your honesty and good conduct."

"Kind, excellent lady! Well might I say--"

"As you observed just now to Madeleine, 'If the rich did but know!'--was
not that it?"

"Is it possible that you are acquainted with the name of my wife? Who
could have told you that?"

"My worthy friend," said Rodolph, interrupting Morel, "I have been
concealed in the little garret adjoining your attic since six o'clock
this morning."

"Have you, indeed, sir?"

"Yes, my honest fellow, I have, and from my hiding-place heard all that
passed among you."

"Oh, sir! but why did you do so?"

"I could not have employed more satisfactory means of getting at your
real character and sentiments; and I was desirous of seeing and hearing
all you did or said without your being aware of my presence. The porter
had made me acquainted with this small retreat, which he offered to me
for a wood-closet. This morning, I asked his permission to visit it, and
remained there more than an hour, during which time I had ample proof
that a more upright, noble mind did not exist, and that the courageous
resignation with which you bore your heavy trials was above all praise."

"Nay, indeed, sir, I do not merit such words as these. I was born
honest, I hope, and it comes natural to me to act as I have done."

"I am quite sure of that; therefore I do not laud your conduct, I
appreciate it. Just as I was about to quit my hiding-place, to relieve
you of the presence of the bailiffs, I heard the voice of your daughter,
and I meant to have allowed her the happiness of saving you. Unhappily,
the rapacity of the men deprived poor Louise of the full completion of
her pious task. I then made my appearance. Fortunately, I yesterday
received several sums that were due to me, so that I was enabled to
advance the money for your benefactress, and to pay off your unfortunate
debt. But your distress has been so great, so unmerited, and so nobly
sustained, that the well-deserved interest you have excited shall not
stop here; and I take upon myself, in the name of your preserving angel,
to promise you henceforward calmness, peace, and happiness, for yourself
and family."

"Can it be possible? But, at least, sir, let me beseech you to tell me
the name of this angel of goodness,--this heavenly preserver,--that it
may dwell in our hearts and on our lips! By what name shall we bless her
in our prayers?"

"Think of her and speak of her as the angel she is. Ah, you were right
in saying just now that both rich and poor had their sorrows!"

"And is this dear lady, then, unhappy?"

"Who is free from care and suffering in this world of trial? But I see
no cause for concealing from you the name of your protectress. The lady,
then, is named--"

Remembering that Madame Pipelet was aware of Madame d'Harville's having,
at her first coming to the house, inquired for the commandant, and
fearing her indiscreet mention of the circumstance, Rodolph resumed,
after a short pause:

"I will venture to tell you this lady's name, upon one condition--"

"Pray go on, sir."

"That you never mention it again to any one,--mind, I say to any person
whatever."

"I solemnly promise you never to let it pass my lips; but may I not hope
to be permitted to thank this friend of the unfortunate?"

"I will let Madame d'Harville know your wish; but I scarcely think she
will consent to it."

"Then this generous lady is called--"

"The Marquise d'Harville."

"Never will that name be forgotten by me! Henceforward it will be to me
as that of my patron saint,--the object of my grateful worship! Oh, when
I remember that, thanks to her, my wife, children,--all, are
saved!--saved--no, no, not all,--my little Adèle has gone from us! We
shall see her sweet face no more; but still, I know we must have parted
with her sooner or later; the dear child's doom was long since decreed!"

Here the poor lapidary wiped away the tears which filled his eyes at the
recollection of his lost darling.

"As for the last duties that have now to be performed for your poor
child," said Rodolph, "if you will be guided by me, this is how we will
arrange it. I have not yet begun to occupy my chamber; it is large,
airy, and convenient. There is already one bed in it; and I will give
orders to add all that may be requisite for the accommodation of
yourself and family, until Madame d'Harville is enabled to find an
eligible abode for you. The remains of your little daughter can then be
left in your attic, where, until the period of interment, they can be
properly watched and guarded by a priest with all requisite attention. I
will request M. Pipelet to take upon himself every necessary arrangement
for the mournful office of laying the poor babe in its peaceful grave."

"Nay, sir,--but, indeed, I cannot allow you to be turned out of your
apartment! Now that we are so happily freed from our misery, and that I
have no longer the dread of being dragged to prison, our poor garret
will seem to me like a palace,--more especially if my Louise remains to
watch over the family as she used to do."

"Your daughter shall never again quit you. You said, awhile ago, that
the first desire of your heart was to have Louise always with you. Well
then, as a reward for your past sufferings, I promise you she shall
never leave you more."

"Oh, sir, this is too much; it cannot be reality! It seems as though I
were dreaming some happy dream. I fear I have never been as religious as
I ought. I have, in fact, known no other religion than that of honour.
But such a reverse, such a change from wretchedness to joy, would make
even an atheist believe, if not in priests, at least in a gracious,
interposing, and preserving Providence."

"And if," said Rodolph, sadly, "a father's sorrow for the loss of his
child can be assuaged by promises of rewards or recompense, I would say
that the heavenly hand which takes one child from you gives you back the
other."

"True,--most true! And henceforward our dear Louise will be with us to
help us to forget our poor Adèle."

"Then you will accept the offer of my chamber, will you not? Or else how
shall we be able to arrange for the mournful duties to the poor infant?
Think of your wife, whose head is already in so weak a state. It will
never do to allow her to remain with so afflicting a spectacle
constantly before her eyes."

"What goodness," exclaimed the lapidary, "thus to remember all,--to
think of all! Oh, you are indeed a friend! May Heaven bless and
recompense you!"

"Come, you must reserve your thanks for the excellent lady you term your
protecting angel. 'Tis her goodness inspires me with a desire to imitate
her benevolence and charity. I feel assured I am but speaking as she
would speak, were she here, and that all I do she will fully approve. So
now, then, it is arranged you will occupy my room. But, just tell me,
this Jacques Ferrand--"

The forehead of Morel became clouded over at the mention of this name.

"I suppose," continued Rodolph, "there is no doubt as to his being the
same Jacques Ferrand who practises as a notary in the Rue du Sentier?"

"None whatever, sir," answered Morel; "but do you know him?" Then,
assailed afresh by his fears for Louise, the lapidary continued: "Since
you overheard all our conversation, tell me, sir,--tell me, do you not
think I have just cause to hate this man, as I do? For who knows but my
daughter--my Louise--"

The unhappy artisan could not proceed; he groaned with anguish, and
concealed his face with his hands.

Rodolph easily divined the nature of his apprehensions.

"The very step taken by the notary ought to reassure your mind," said
he, "as, there can be no doubt, he was instigated by revenge for your
daughter's rejection of his improper advances to proceed to the hostile
measures adopted. However, I have every reason to believe he is a very
bad and dangerous man; and if my suspicions respecting him are
realised," said Rodolph, after a few moments' silence, "then rely on
Providence to punish him. If the just vengeance of the Almighty seems
occasionally to slumber, it awakens, sooner or later."

"He is both rich and hypocritical!" cried the lapidary.

"At the moment of your deepest despair, a guardian angel appeared to
save you from ruin; so, at the moment when least expected, will an
inexorable Avenger call upon the notary to atone for his past crimes, if
he be guilty."

At this moment Rigolette came out of the miserable garret belonging to
Morel; the kind-hearted girl had evidently been shedding tears, and was
trying to dry her eyes before she descended the stairs. Directly Rodolph
perceived her, he exclaimed:

"Tell me, my good neighbour, will it not be much better for M. Morel and
his family to occupy my chamber while they are waiting till his
benefactress, whose agent I am, shall have found a comfortable residence
for him?"

Rigolette surveyed Rodolph with an air of unfeigned surprise.

"Really," cried she, at length, "are you in earnest in making so kind
and considerate an offer?"

"Quite so, on one condition, which depends on yourself."

"Oh, all that is in my power!"

"You see, I had some rather difficult accounts to arrange for my
employer, which are wanted as early as possible,--indeed, I expect they
will be sent for almost directly; my papers are in my room. Now would
you be neighbourly enough to let me bring my work into your apartment,
and just spare a little corner of your table? I should not disturb your
work the least in the world, and then the whole of the Morel family, by
the assistance of Madame Pipelet and her husband, may be at once
established in my apartment."

"Certainly I will, and with great pleasure; neighbours should always be
ready to help and oblige each other. I am sure, after all you have done
for poor M. Morel, you have set a good example; so I shall be very glad
to give you all the assistance in my power, monsieur."

"No, no,--don't call me monsieur! say 'my dear friend,' or 'neighbour,'
whichever you prefer; unless you lay aside all ceremony, I shall not
have courage to intrude myself and papers into your room," said Rodolph,
smiling.

"Well, pray don't let that be any hindrance; then, if you like, I'll
call you 'neighbour,' because, you know, you are so."

"Father! father!" said one of Morel's little boys, coming out of the
garret, "mother is calling for you! Make haste, father,--pray do!"

The lapidary hastily followed the child back to his chamber.

"Now, then, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigolette, "you must do me one
more service."

"With all my heart, if it lies in my power to do so."

"I feel quite sure you are a clever manager and housekeeper; now we must
go to work at once to provide the Morels with comfortable clothing, and
such matters as may be essential for their accommodation in my
apartment, which at present merely contains my slender stock of
bachelor's furniture, sent in yesterday. Beds, bedding, and a great
quantity of requisites will be needed for so many persons; and I want
you to assist me in procuring them all the comforts I wish them to have
with as little delay as possible."

Rigolette reflected a moment, and then replied:

"You shall have all this before two hours have passed: good clothes,
nicely made, warm and comfortable, good white linen for all the family,
two small beds for the children, one for the grandmother, and, in fact,
all that is required; but, I can tell you, all this will cost a great,
great deal of money."

"_Diable!_ and how much?"

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

"For everything?"

"Yes; you see it is a great sum of money," said Rigolette, opening her
eyes very wide and shaking her head.

"But we could procure all this?"

"Within two hours."

"My little neighbour, you must be a fairy!"

"Oh, no! it is easy enough. The Temple is but two steps from here, and
you will get there everything you require."

"The Temple?"

"Yes, the Temple."

"What place is that?"

"What, neighbour, don't you know the Temple?"

"No, neighbour."

"Yet it is the place where such persons as you and I fit themselves out
in furniture and clothes, when they are economical. It is much cheaper
than any other place, and the things are also good."

"Really!"

"I think so. Well, now, I suppose--how much did you pay for your
greatcoat?"

"I cannot say precisely."

"What, neighbour! not know how much you gave for your greatcoat?"

"I will tell you, in confidence, neighbour," said Rodolph, smiling,
"that I owe for it; so, you see, I cannot exactly say."

"Oh, neighbour, neighbour, you do not appear to me to be very orderly in
your habits!"

"Alas, neighbour, I fear not!"

"I must cure you of that, if you desire that we should continue friends;
and I see already that we shall be, for you seem so kind! You will not
be sorry to have me for a neighbour, I can see. You will assist me and I
shall assist you,--we are neighbours, and that's why. I shall look after
your linen; you will give me your help in cleaning my room. I am up very
early in the morning, and will call you, that you may not be late in
going to your work; I will knock against the wainscot until you say to
me, 'Good morning, neighbour!'"

"That's agreed; you shall awaken me, you shall take charge of my linen,
and I will clean out your room."

"Certainly. And, when you have anything to buy, you must go to the
Temple; for see now, for example, your greatcoat must have cost you
eighty francs, I have no doubt; well, you might have bought one just as
good at the Temple for thirty francs."

"Really, that is marvellous! And so you think that for four or five
hundred francs these poor Morels--"

"Will be completely set up, and very comfortable for a long while."

"Neighbour, an idea comes across me."

"Well, what is this idea?"

"Do you understand all about household affairs?"

"Yes; I should think so," said Rigolette, with a slight affectation of
manner.

"Take my arm, then, and let us go to the Temple and buy all these things
for the Morels; won't that be a good way?"

"Oh, how capital! Poor souls! But, then, the money?"

"I have it."

"What, five hundred francs?"

"The benefactor of the Morels has given me _carte blanche_; and she
will spare nothing to see these poor people restored to comfort. Is
there any place where we can buy better supplies than at the Temple?"

"Certainly not; you will not find better things anywhere; and then there
is everything, and all ready, there; little frocks for children, and
gowns for the mother."

"Well, then, neighbour, let us go at once to the Temple:"

"Ah, _mon Dieu_! but--"

"What?"

"Nothing; only, you see, my time is everything to me, and I am already a
little behindhand, through coming here to watch over poor Madame Morel;
and you must know that an hour in one way, and an hour in another, that
by little and little makes whole days; well, a day is thirty sous, and,
whether we gain something or nothing, we must live; but bah! never mind.
I will make up for that at night, and then, d'ye see, parties of
pleasure are very rare, and I call this one. It will seem to me that I
am rich, rich, rich, and that it is with my own money that I shall buy
all these things for the Morels. So come along, neighbour, I will throw
on my shawl and cap, and then I am ready."

"Suppose, whilst you are doing this, I bring my papers to your
apartment?"

"Willingly; and then you will see my room," said Rigolette, with pride,
"for it is all tidy, which will convince you how early I am in the
morning; and that, if you are idle and a sluggard, so much the worse for
you, for I shall be a troublesome neighbour."

So saying, light as a bird, Rigolette descended the staircase, followed
by Rodolph, who went into his own room to brush off the dust which had
settled on him in M. Pipelet's garret. We will hereafter disclose how it
was that Rodolph was not informed of the carrying off of Fleur-de-Marie
from the farm at Bouqueval, and why he had not visited the Morels the
day after his conversation with Madame d'Harville.

Rodolph, furnished, by way of saving appearances, with a thick roll of
papers, entered Rigolette's chamber.

Rigolette was nearly the same age as Goualeuse, her old prison
acquaintance. There was between these two young girls the same
difference that there is between laughter and tears; between joyous
light-heartedness and melancholy dejection; between the wildest
thoughtlessness and a dark and constant reflection on the future;
between a delicate, refined, elevated, poetic nature, exquisitely
sensitive, and incurably wounded by remorse, and a gay, lively, happy,
good, and compassionate nature. Rigolette had no sorrows but those
derived from the woes of others, and with these she sympathised with all
her might, devoting herself, body and soul, to any suffering fellow
creature; but, her back turned on them, to use a common expression, she
thought no more about them. She often checked her bursts of laughter by
a flood of tears, and then checked her tears by renewing her laughter.
Like a real Parisian, Rigolette preferred excitement to calm, and motion
to repose; the loud and echoing harmony of the orchestra at the fête of
the Chartreuse or the Colysée to the soft murmurs of the breeze, waters,
and leaves; the bustling disturbance of the thoroughfares of Paris to
the silent solitude of the fields; the brilliancy of fireworks, the
flaring of the grand finale, the uproar of the maroons and Roman
candles, to the serenity of a lovely night,--starlight, clear, and
still. Alas, yes! the dear, good little girl actually preferred the
pavement of the streets of the capital to the fresh moss of the shaded
paths, perfumed with violets; the dust of the Boulevards to the waving
of the ears of corn, mingled with the scarlet of the wild poppies and
the azure of the bluebells.

Rigolette only left her chamber on Sundays, and each morning to provide
her prescribed allowance of chickweed, bread, milk, and millet, for
herself and her two birds, as Madame Pipelet observed; but she lived in
Paris for Paris, and would have been wretched to have resided anywhere
but in the capital.

A few words as to the personal appearance of the grisette, and we will
then introduce Rodolph into the chamber of his neighbour.

Rigolette was scarcely eighteen years of age, of middle height, rather
small than large, but so gracefully formed, so admirably proportioned,
so delightfully filled out, so entirely in accordance with her step,
which was light and easy, that she seemed perfect of her kind. The
movement of her finely formed feet, always encased in well-made boots of
black cloth, with a rather thick sole, reminded you of the quick,
pretty, and cautious tread of the quail or wagtail. She did not seem to
walk, but to pass over the pavement as if she were gliding over the
surface. This step, so peculiar to grisettes, at once nimble,
attractive, and as if somewhat alarmed, may doubtless be attributed to
three causes: their desire to be thought pretty, their fear of being
mistaken for what they are not, and to the desire they always have not
to lose a minute in their peregrinations.

Rodolph had not seen Rigolette but by the dim light of Morel's garret,
or on the landing-place, equally obscure, and he was therefore really
struck by the bright and fresh countenance of the young girl when he
softly entered her apartment, which was lighted up by two large windows.
He remained motionless for a moment, in admiration of the striking
picture before his eyes. Standing in front of a glass placed over her
mantelpiece, Rigolette was tying under her chin the ribands of a small
cap of bordered tulle, ornamented with a light trimming of
cherry-coloured riband. The cap, which fitted tightly, was placed at the
back of her head, and thus revealed two large and thick bandeaux of
glossy hair, shining like jet, and falling very low in front. Her
eyebrows, fine and well defined, seemed as if traced in ink, and curved
above two large black, piercing, and intelligent eyes; her firm and
velvety cheeks were suffused with the rosy hue of health, fresh to the
eye, fresh to the touch, like a ripe peach covered with the dew of dawn;
her small, upturned, attractive, and saucy nose, would have been a
fortune to any Lisette or Marton; her mouth, which was rather large, had
rosy and moist lips, small, white, close, and pearly teeth, and was
laughter-loving and sportive; three charming dimples, which gave a
characteristic grace to her features, were placed, two in her cheeks,
and the other in her chin, close to a beauty-spot, a small ebony speck,
which was most killingly situated at the corner of her mouth. Between a
worked collar, which fell very low, and the border of the little cap,
gathered in by a cherry-coloured riband, was seen a forest of beautiful
hair, so accurately twisted and turned up that their roots were seen as
clearly and as black as if they had been painted on the ivory of that
lovely neck. A plum-coloured merino gown, with a plain back and close
sleeves, made skilfully by Rigolette, covered a figure so small and
slender that the young girl never wore a corset,--for economy's sake. An
ease and unusual freedom in the smallest action of the shoulders and
body, which resembled the facile undulations of a cat's motions, evinced
this fact. Imagine a gown fitting tightly to a form rounded and polished
as marble, and we must agree that Rigolette could easily dispense with
this accessory to the toilet of which we have spoken. The tie of a small
apron of dark green levantine formed a girdle around a waist which might
have been spanned by the ten fingers.

Believing herself to be alone (for Rodolph still remained at the door,
motionless and unperceived), the grisette, having smoothed down her
bandeaux with her small hand, white and delicately clean, put her small
foot on a chair and stooped to tie the lace of her boot. This attitude
developed to Rodolph a portion of a cotton stocking, white as snow, and
a well-formed ankle and leg.

After the detail we have given of this toilet, we may guess that
Rigolette had selected her prettiest cap and best apron to do honour to
her neighbour on their excursion to the Temple. She found the pretended
tradesman's clerk very much to her taste; his face, at once kind, bold,
and animated, pleased her greatly; and then he had been so kind to the
Morels, by giving up his room to them; so that, thanks to this proof of
goodness, and, perhaps, also to his good looks, Rodolph had unwittingly
advanced into the confidence of the grisette with giant strides. She,
according to her ideas, founded on the compelled intimacy and reciprocal
obligation which neighbourhood invites, thought herself very fortunate
in having such a neighbour as Rodolph to succeed to the travelling
clerk, Cabrion, and François Germain; for she was beginning to find that
the next room had remained very long empty, and was afraid that she
should never again see it occupied in an agreeable manner.

Rodolph took advantage of his invisibility to cast a curious eye around
him, and he found the apartment even beyond the praises which Madame
Pipelet had bestowed on the extreme cleanliness of the humble home of
Rigolette. Nothing could be more lively or better arranged than this
apartment. A gray paper, with green garlands, covered the walls; the
floor, painted of a red colour, shone like a looking-glass; a small
earthenware stone was placed in the chimney, where was piled up, very
symmetrically, a small store of wood, cut so short, so thin, that,
without exaggeration, each piece might have been compared to a very
large match. On the stone mantelpiece, painted gray marble, there were,
for ornaments, two pots of common flowers, covered in with green moss; a
small case of boxwood contained a silver watch instead of a pendule. On
one side was a brass candlestick, shining like gold, and having in it a
small piece of wax-light; and, on the other side, no less
resplendently, one of those lamps formed by a cylinder and a brass
reflector, supported by a bar of steel, and having a base of lead. A
tolerably large square glass, in a black wood frame, was over the
mantelpiece. Curtains of gray and green Persian cloth, with a
woollen-fringed border, cut and worked by Rigolette, and hung in light
rings of black iron, decorated the windows; and the bed was covered with
a counterpane of the same make and material. Two closets, with glass
doors, and painted white, were in each side of the recess, enclosing, no
doubt, household utensils,--the portable stove, the fountain, brooms,
etc.; for none of these things spoiled the neat appearance of the
chamber. A chest of drawers of well veined and shining walnut-tree; four
chairs of the same wood; a large table for ironing and working, covered
with one of those green woollen coverings which we sometimes see in a
peasant's cottage; a straw armchair, with a stool to match, the constant
seat of the workwoman,--such was the unpretending furniture. There was,
too, in one of the window-seats, a cage with two canary birds, the
faithful companions of Rigolette. By one of those notable ideas which
occur to the poor, this cage was placed in the middle of a large wooden
chest, about a foot deep, placed on a table. This chest, which Rigolette
called her bird's garden, was filled with mould, covered with moss
during the winter, and in spring the young girl sowed grass seeds, and
planted flowers there. Rodolph examined the place with interest, and
entered fully into the cheerful disposition of the grisette. He pictured
to himself this solitude, enlivened by the song of the birds and of
Rigolette herself. In summer, no doubt, she worked at the open window,
half veiled by a verdant curtain of sweet peas, roses, nasturtiums, and
blue and white convolvulus. In winter she warmed herself near her small
stove, by the soft light of her lamp.

Rodolph was thus reflecting, when, looking mechanically at the door, he
saw there a large bolt,--a bolt which would not have been out of place
on the door of a prison. This bolt made him reflect. It might have two
meanings, two very distinct uses: to close the door on the lover within;
to close the door on the lover without. Rodolph was aroused from his
reflections by Rigolette, who, turning her head, saw him, and, without
changing her attitude, said to him:

"What, neighbour, are you there?" Then the well-formed ankle instantly
disappeared beneath the ample skirt of the plum-coloured gown, and
Rigolette added, "Ah, Mr. Cunning!"

"I was here admiring in silence."

"Admiring what, neighbour?"

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

"Why, you must know that is my enjoyment. I never go out, and so I can
do no less than make my home comfortable."

"But really I never saw anything half so nice. What pretty curtains! and
the drawers as handsome as mahogany! You must have spent a great deal of
money here."

"Oh, don't mention it! I had, of my own, four hundred and twenty-five
francs when I left the prison, and almost all has been spent."

"When you left the prison!--you?"

"Yes, but it is a very long story. Of course, you do not suppose that I
was in prison for anything wrong?"

"Of course not; but how was it?"

"After the cholera, I was quite alone in the world. I was then, I think,
ten years of age."

"But who had taken care of you till then?"

"Ah, some excellent people! But they died of the cholera;" here
Rigolette's large eyes became moistened. "They had sold the little they
possessed to pay their small debts, and I remained without having any
one who would take care of me. Not knowing what to do, I went to the
guard-house, opposite to our house, and said to the sentinel: 'Sir, my
relations are dead, and I do not know where to go to; what must I do?'
Then the officer came, and he took me to the commissary, who put me in
prison as a vagabond, and I did not go out until I was sixteen years
old."

"But your relations?"

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

"And what were they? What was their business or pursuit?"

"Papa Crétu, so I always called him, was a house-painter, and his wife
worked at her needle."

"Then they were pretty well off?"

"Oh, like other people in their station, though they were not married;
but they called each other husband and wife. They had their ups and
downs; to-day plenty, if there was work to be had; to-morrow short
commons, if there was none; but that did not prevent the couple from
being content and always cheerful;" at this remembrance Rigolette's face
brightened up. "There was not such a household in the quarter,--always
merry, always singing, and, with it all, as good as they could be. What
they had any one was welcome to share. Mamma Crétu was a plump body,
about thirty years old, as neat as a penny, as active as an eel, as
merry as a lark. Her husband was a regular good-tempered fellow, with a
large nose, a wide mouth, and always a paper cap on his head, and such a
funny face,--oh, so funny,--you could not look at him without laughing.
When he came home after work, he did nothing but sing, and make faces,
and gambol like a child. He used to dance me on his knees, and play
with me like a child of my own age; and his wife spoiled me, as if I had
been a blessing to her. They both required only one thing from me, and
that was to be in a good humour; and in that I never thwarted them,
thank Heaven. So they called me Rigolette,[7] and the name has stuck to
me. As to mirth, they set me the example, for I never saw them
sorrowful. If ever there was a word, it was the wife who said to her
husband, 'Crétu, you silly fellow, do be quiet, you make me laugh too
much.' Then he said to her, 'Hold your foolish tongue, Ramonette,'--I
don't know why he called her Ramonette,--'do be still, you really make
my sides ache, you are so funny.' And then I laughed to see them laugh,
and in this way I was brought up, and in this way they formed my
disposition; and I hope I have profited by it."

  [7] The French verb _rigoler_ is "to be merry."--E. T.

"Most assuredly you have, neighbour. So there never were any disputes
between them?"

"Never, oh, never! Sunday, Monday, and sometimes on Tuesday, they made
holiday, or kept wedding-day, as they called it, and always took me with
them. Papa Crétu was an excellent workman, and, when he chose to work,
he could earn what he pleased, and so could his wife, too. If they had
got enough to do for Sunday and Monday, and live on pretty comfortably,
they were perfectly satisfied. If, after this, they were on short
allowance for a time, they didn't mind it. I remember, when we had only
bread and water, Papa Crétu took from his library--"

"He had a library, then?"

"Oh, he used to call a little box so, in which he put his collection of
new songs; for he bought all the new ones, and knew them every one.
When, then, there was nothing but bread in the house, he used to take an
old cookery book from his library, and say to us, 'Well, now, let us
see, what shall we eat to-day? This, or that?' And then he used to read
out a long list of good things. Each of us chose a dish, and then Papa
Crétu took an empty saucepan, and, with the funniest airs and gestures
in the world, pretended to put into the saucepan all the ingredients
requisite for making a capital stew; and then he used to pretend to pour
it all out into a dish--also empty--which he placed on the table, with
still the same drolleries, which almost split our sides. Then he took up
his book again, and, whilst he was reading to us, for instance, the
recipe of a good fricassée of chicken, which we had chosen, and which
made our mouths water, we ate our bread, all laughing like so many mad
people."

"And, in this happy household, were there any debts to trouble them?"

"None whatever. So long as the money lasted, they ate, drank, and made
merry, and, when it was all gone, they lived upon 'make believe,' as
before."

"And did they never think of the future?"

"Oh, yes, they thought of it, of course; but what is the future to such
as we? Present and future are like Sunday and Monday; the one we spend
gaily and happily outside the barriers, the other is got over in the
faubourgs."

"And why, since this couple seemed so well assorted, did they never
marry?"

"A friend of theirs once put that very question in my presence."

"Well, and what did they say?"

"'Oh,' said they, 'if ever we have any children, it may be all very well
to marry, but as far as we are concerned, we do very well as we are. And
why should we make an obligation of that which we now perform willingly?
Besides, getting married costs money, and we have none to spare in
unnecessary expenses.' But, my goodness," added Rigolette, "how I am
running on. But, really, when once I begin to talk of these kind people,
who were so good to me, I never know when to leave off. Here,
neighbour, will you give me my shawl off the bed, and put it nicely over
my shoulders, then pin it underneath the collar of my habit-shirt with
this large pin, and then we will set off, for it will take us some time
to select the different things you wish to buy for the poor Morels."

Rodolph readily obeyed the directions of Rigolette. First he took from
the bed a large plaid shawl, which he placed with all imaginable care on
the well-formed shoulders of Rigolette.

"That will do, neighbour. Now, lift up my collar, and press the shawl
and dress together; then stick in the pin; but pray try not to prick me
with it."

The prince executed the orders given with zealous accuracy; then
observed, smilingly, to the grisette:

"Ah, Mlle. Rigolette, I should not like to be your _femme de chambre_;
there is danger in it!"

"Yes, I know," answered Rigolette gaily; "there is great danger for me
of having a pin run in by your awkwardness. But now," added she, after
they had left the room, and carefully locked the door after them, "take
my key; it is so large, I always expect it will burst my pocket; it is
as large as a pistol," and here the light-hearted girl laughed merrily
at her own conceit.

Rodolph accordingly "took charge" (that is the prescribed form of
speech) of an enormous key, which might well have figured in one of
those allegorical devices in which the vanquished are represented as
humbly offering the keys of their lost cities to the conquerors.
Although Rodolph believed himself too much changed by years to run any
risk of being recognised by Polidori, he still deemed it prudent to draw
up the collar of his paletot as he passed by the door of the apartments
belonging to the quack, Bradamanti.

"Neighbour," said Rigolette, "don't forget to tell M. Pipelet that you
are about to send in some things which are to be carried at once up to
your chamber."

"You are right, my good friend; let us step into the porter's lodge for
an instant."

M. Pipelet, with his everlasting bell-shaped hat on his head, dressed,
as usual, in the accustomed green coat, and seated before a table
covered with scraps of leather and fragments of boots and shoes, was
occupied in fixing a new sole on a boot, his whole look and manner
impressed with the same deeply meditative air which characterised his
usual proceedings. Anastasie was just then absent from the lodge.

"Well, M. Pipelet," said Rigolette, "I hope you will be pleased to hear
the good news. Thanks to my good neighbour here, the poor Morels have
got out of trouble. La! when one thinks of that poor man being taken off
to prison--oh, those bailiffs have no hearts!"

"Nor manners either, mademoiselle," rejoined M. Pipelet, in an angry
tone, wrathfully brandishing the boot then in progress of repair, and
into which he had inserted his left hand and arm. "No! I have no
hesitation in declaring, in the face of all mankind, that they are a set
of mannerless scoundrels. Why, taking advantage of the darkness of our
stairs, they actually carried their indecent violence so far as to lay
their audacious fingers upon the waist of my wife. When I first heard
the cries of her insulted modesty, I could not restrain myself, and,
spite of all efforts to restrain myself, I yielded to the natural
impetuosity of my disposition. Yes, I will frankly confess, my first
impulse was to remain perfectly motionless."

"But, I suppose, afterwards," said Rigolette, who had much ado to
preserve a serious air, "afterwards, M. Pipelet, you pursued them, and
bestowed the punishment they so well deserved?"

"I'll tell you, mademoiselle," answered Pipelet, deliberately; "when
these shameless ruffians passed before my lodge, my blood boiled, and I
could not prevent myself from hastily covering my face, that I might not
be shocked by the sight of these luxurious malefactors; but, afterwards,
I ceased to be astonished; for well I knew I might expect some sight or
sound to shock my senses; full well I was prepared for some direful
misfortune ere the day had passed, for I dreamed last night of Cabrion."

Rigolette smiled, while the heavy groans which broke from the oppressed
mind of the porter were mingled with blows of his hammer, as he
vigorously applied it to the sole of the boot he was mending.

"You wisely chose the wisest part, my dear M. Pipelet, that of despising
offences, and holding it beneath you to revenge them; but try to forget
these ill-conducted bailiffs, and oblige me by doing me a great favour."

"Man is born to help his fellow man," drawled out Pipelet, in a
melancholy and sententious tone; "and he is still further called upon so
to do when a good and worthy gentleman, moreover, a lodger in one's
house, is concerned."

"What I have to request of you is to carry up to my apartments for me
several things I am about to send in, and which are for the Morels."

"Make yourself easy upon that point, monsieur," replied Pipelet. "I will
faithfully perform your wishes."

"And afterwards," said Rodolph, mournfully, "you must obtain a priest to
watch by a little girl the Morels have lost in the night. Go and give
the requisite notification of the death, and bespeak a suitable
funeral."

"Make your mind easy, monsieur," replied Pipelet, more gravely even than
before; "directly my wife returns, I will go to the mayor, the church,
and the _traiteur's_: to the church, for the soul of the dead; to the
_traiteur's_, for the body of the living," added M. Pipelet,
philosophically and poetically. "Consider it done in both cases; my good
sir, consider it done."

At the entrance to the alley, Rodolph and Rigolette encountered
Anastasie returning from market with a huge basket of provisions.

"That's right! That's right!" cried the porteress, looking at the pair
with a knowing and significant air; "there you go, arm in arm already.
To be sure, look and love, love and look. Young people will be young
people, no doubt on't. Me and Alfred was just the same. Whoever heard of
a pretty girl without a beau? So, go along, my dears, and make
yourselves happy while you can." Then, after gazing after them some
minutes, the old woman disappeared in the depths of the alley, crying
out, "Alfred, my old darling! Don't worry yourself; 'Stasie's coming to
bring you something nice,--oh, so nice!"


END OF VOLUME II.


       *       *       *       *       *
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.

Word Variations appearing in the original text which have been retained:

"box-wood" and "boxwood"
"court-yard" and "courtyard"
"dairy-maid" and "dairymaid"
"incumber" and "encumber"
"milk-woman" and "milkwoman"
"out-building" and "outbuilding"
"Saint-Remy" (16) and "Saint-Rémy" (6)
"stew-pan" and "stewpan"

Words using the [oe] ligature, which have been herein represented as
"oe": manoeuvre, et coeteras, chef-d'oeuvre

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.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 2 of 6" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.