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<pre>

Project Gutenberg's The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6, by Eugène Sue

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6

Author: Eugène Sue

Illustrators: G. Mercier
              Bicknell
              Léon Poiteau
              Adrian Marcel

Release Date: September 22, 2010 [EBook #33802]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS, V.3 ***




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






</pre>



<div class="figcenter" style="width: 324px;"><a name="frontispiece" id="frontispiece"></a>
<img src="images/i001.jpg" width="324" height="500" alt="Took my head between his hands.
Original Etching by Mercier." title="Took my head between his hands." />
<span class="caption"><i>Took my head between his hands.</i><br />
<span class="artist">Original Etching by Mercier.</span></span>
</div>




<div class="frontmatter">
<h1>The Mysteries of Paris.</h1>

<p class="title"><i>ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS<br />
BY MERCIER, BICKNELL, POITEAU,<br />
AND ADRIAN MARCEL.</i><br />
<span class="pad8"><span class="smcap"><i>By</i></span> <i>EUGENE SUE</i></span></p>


<p class="volume"><i>IN SIX VOLUMES<br />
VOLUME III.</i></p>


<p class="center"><i>PRINTED FOR<br />
FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS &amp; CO.<br />
BOSTON</i></p>
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p class="edition"><i>Edition De Luxe.</i></p>

<p class="center"><i>This edition is limited to one thousand copies,
of which this is</i></p>

<p class="edition">No.______</p>


<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>



<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents">
<tr><td align="left"><span class="allcaps">CHAPTER</span></td><td class="tcol2">&nbsp;</td><td class="tcol3"><span class="allcaps">PAGE</span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">I.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">The Temple</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">II.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">The Arrest</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">III.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">Jacques Ferrand</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">IV.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">The Office</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">V.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">The Clients</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">VI.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">The Anonymous Letter</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">VII.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">Reflections</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">VIII.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">The Bachelors' Breakfast</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">IX.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">St. Lazare</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">X.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">Mont Saint-Jean</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_240">240</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">XI.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">La Louve and La Goualeuse</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_255">255</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">XII.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">The Protectress</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_285">285</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">XIII.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">The Forced Friendship</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_300">300</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol1">XIV.</td><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">Cecily</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#Page_313">313</a></td></tr>
</table>


<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2>


<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations">
<tr><td class="tcol2">&nbsp;</td><td class="tcol3"><span class="allcaps">PAGE</span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">Took my head between his hands</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#frontispiece"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">Drew carefully out a sheet of paper</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#image35">35</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">Morel fell back on the stool</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#image83">83</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">He will scold you awfully</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#image134">134</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">M. d'Harville had blown his brains out</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#image222">222</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tcol2"><span class="smcap">La Goualeuse in the prison</span></td><td class="tcol3"><a href="#image279">279</a></td></tr>
</table>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.</h2>



<hr style="width: 10%;" />
<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<h5>THE TEMPLE.</h5>


<p>To the deep snow which had fallen during the past
night had succeeded a very sharp wind, so that the
ordinarily muddy pavement was hard and dry, as
Rigolette and Rodolph wended onwards to the immense
and singular bazar called the Temple, the young
girl leaning unceremoniously on the arm of her cavalier,
who, on his part, appeared as much at his ease as though
they had been old familiar friends.</p>

<p>"What a funny old woman Madame Pipelet is!"
observed the grisette to her companion; "and what
very odd things she says!"</p>

<p>"Well, I thought her remarks very striking, as well
as appropriate."</p>

<p>"Which of them, neighbour?"</p>

<p>"Why, when she said 'Young people would be young
people,' and '<i>Vive l'amour!</i>'"</p>

<p>"Well?"</p>

<p>"Well! I only mean to say those are precisely my
sentiments."</p>

<p>"Your sentiments?"</p>

<p>"Yes, I should like nothing better than to pass my
youth with you, taking '<i>Vive l'amour!</i>' for my motto."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p>

<p>"I dare say, for certainly you are not hard to please."</p>

<p>"Why, where would be the harm,&mdash;are we not near
neighbours? Of course we are, or else I should not be
seen walking out with you in this manner in broad day."</p>

<p>"Then you allow me to hope&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hope what?"</p>

<p>"That you will learn to love me."</p>

<p>"Oh, bless you, I do love you already!"</p>

<p>"Really?"</p>

<p>"To be sure I do. Why, how can I help it? You
are good and gay; though poor yourself, you have done
all in your power by interesting rich people in the fate
of the Morels; your appearance pleases me; and you
have altogether a nice look, and a sort of air such as
one is glad to find in a person we expect to go about
with a great deal. So there, I think, are abundant
reasons for my loving you."</p>

<p>Then, suddenly breaking into loud fits of laughter,
Rigolette abruptly exclaimed, "Look there, only look at
that fat woman with the furred shoes! What does she
remind you of? I'll tell you,&mdash;of a great sack being
drawn along by two cats without tails!" and again she
laughed merrily.</p>

<p>"I would rather look at you, my pretty neighbour,
than at all the fat old women or tailless cats in Europe.
I am so delighted to find you already love me."</p>

<p>"I only tell you the truth; if I disliked you, I should
speak just as plainly. I cannot reproach myself with
ever having deceived or flattered any one; but, if a
person pleases me, I tell them so directly."</p>

<p>Again interrupting the thread of her discourse, the
grisette drew up suddenly before the windows of a shop,
saying, "Oh, do pray only look at that pretty clock and
those two handsome vases! I had already saved up
three francs and a half, and had put it in my money-box,
to buy such a set as that. In five or six years I
might have been able to buy them."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p>

<p>"Saved up, do you say? Then, I suppose, you earn&mdash;"</p>

<p>"At least thirty sous a day,&mdash;sometimes forty; but I
never reckon upon more than thirty, which is the more
prudent; and I regulate all my expenses accordingly,"
said Rigolette, with an air as important as though she
was settling the financial budget.</p>

<p>"But with thirty sous a day, how do you manage to
live?"</p>

<p>"Oh, bless you! that is easily reckoned. Shall I tell
you how I manage, neighbour? I fancy you are rather
extravagant in your notions; so, perhaps, it may serve
as a lesson for you."</p>

<p>"Yes, pray do."</p>

<p>"Well, then, thirty sous a day make five and forty
francs a month, do they not?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"Well, then, out of that I pay twelve francs for lodging;
that leaves me twenty-three francs for food, etc."</p>

<p>"Is it possible? Twenty-three francs for one month's
food!"</p>

<p>"Yes, really, all that! Certainly, for such a person
as myself, it does seem an enormous sum; but then, you
see, I deny myself nothing."</p>

<p>"Oh, you little glutton!"</p>

<p>"Ah! but then, remember, I include the food for both
my birds in that sum."</p>

<p>"Certainly it seems less exorbitant, when you come to
reckon, for three than for one; but just tell me how you
manage day by day, that I may profit by your good
example."</p>

<p>"Well, then, be attentive, and I will go over the
different things I spend in it. First of all, one pound
of bread, that costs four sous; then two sous' worth of
milk make six; four sous' worth of vegetables in winter,
or fruit and salad in summer,&mdash;I am very found of salad,
because, like vegetables, it is such a nice clean thing to
prepare, and does not soil the hands; there goes ten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>
sous at once; then three sous for butter, or oil and vinegar,
to season the salad with, that makes thirteen sous;
a pail of nice fresh water,&mdash;oh, I must have that! it is
my principal extravagance,&mdash;that brings it to fifteen sous,
don't you see? Then add two or three sous a week for
chickweed and seed for my birds, who generally have
part of my bread and milk; all this comes to exactly
twenty-three francs a month, neither more nor less."</p>

<p>"And do you never eat meat?"</p>

<p>"Meat, indeed! I should think not. Why, it costs
from ten to twelve sous a pound! A likely thing for
me to buy! Besides, there is all the nuisance and smell
of cooking; instead of which, milk, vegetables, or fruit,
are always ready when you wish for them. I tell you
what is a favourite dish of mine, without being troublesome
to prepare, and which I excel in making."</p>

<p>"Oh, pray let me know what it is?"</p>

<p>"Why, I get some beautiful ripe, rosy apples, and put
them at the top of my little stove; when they are quite
tender, I bruise them with a little milk, and just a taste
of sugar. It is a dish for an emperor. If you behave
well, I will let you taste it some day."</p>

<p>"Prepared by your hands, it can scarcely fail being
excellent; but let us keep to our reckoning. Let me
see, we counted twenty-three francs for living, etc., and
twelve francs for lodging; that makes thirty-five francs
a month."</p>

<p>"Well, then, out of the forty-five or fifty francs I earn,
there remains from ten to fifteen francs a month for my
wood and oil during the winter, as well as for my clothes
and washing; that is to say, for soap and other requisites;
because, excepting my sheets, I wash my own things;
that is another of my extravagances,&mdash;a good laundress
would pretty well ruin me; while, as I am a very quick
and good ironer, the expense is principally that of my
own time. During the five winter months I burn a load
and a half of wood, while I consume about four or five<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>
sous' worth of oil for my lamp daily; that makes it cost
me about eighty francs a year for fire and lights."</p>

<p>"So that you have, in fact, scarcely one hundred
francs to clothe yourself, and find you in pocket
money."</p>

<p>"No more; yet out of that sum I managed to save
my three francs and a half."</p>

<p>"But your gowns, your shoes,&mdash;this smart little
cap?"</p>

<p>"As for caps, I never wear one but when I go out, so
that is not ruinous; and, at home, I go bareheaded.
As for my gowns and boots, have I not got the Temple
to go to for them?"</p>

<p>"Ah, yes, this convenient, handy Temple! So you
buy there?"</p>

<p>"All sorts of pretty and excellent dresses. Why,
only imagine, great ladies are accustomed to give
their old, cast-off gowns, etc., to their maids. When I
say old, I mean that, perhaps, they have worn them for
a month or two, just to ride out in the carriage. Well,
and then the ladies' maids sell them to the persons who
have shops at the Temple for almost nothing. Just
look at the nice dark merino dress I have on; well, I
only gave fourteen francs for it, when, I make no doubt,
it cost at least sixty, and had scarcely been put on. I
altered it to fit myself; and I flatter myself it does me
credit."</p>

<p>"Indeed, it does, and very great credit, too. Yes, I
begin to see now, thanks to the Temple, you really may
contrive to make a hundred francs a year suffice for
your dress."</p>

<p>"To be sure; why, I can buy in the summer sweet
pretty gowns for five or six francs; boots, like these I
have on, and almost new, for two or three francs a pair;
just look at my boots. Now, would not any one say
they had been made for me?" said Rigolette, suddenly
stopping, and holding up one of her pretty little feet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>
really very nicely set off by the well-fitting boot she
wore.</p>

<p>"It is, indeed, a charming foot; but you must have
some difficulty in getting fitted. However, I suppose,
at the Temple, they keep shoes and boots of all sizes,
from a woman's to a child's."</p>

<p>"Ah, neighbour, I begin to find out what a terrible
flatterer you are. However, after what I have told you,
you must see now that a young girl, who is careful, and
has only herself to keep, may manage to live respectably
on thirty sous a day; to be sure, the four hundred and
fifty francs I brought out of prison with me helped me
on famously, for when people saw that I had my own
furniture in my apartments, they felt more confidence
in entrusting me with work to take home. I was
some time, though, before I met with employment.
Fortunately for me, I had kept by me as much money
as enabled me to live three months without earning
anything."</p>

<p>"Shall I own to you that, under so gay and giddy a
manner, I scarcely expected to hear so much sound
sense as that uttered by your pretty mouth, my good
neighbour?"</p>

<p>"Ah! but let me tell you that, when one is all alone
in the world, and has no wish to be under any obligation,
it is quite necessary, as the proverb says, to mind
how we build our nest, to take care of it when it is
built."</p>

<p>"And certainly yours is as charming a nest as the
most fastidious bird could desire."</p>

<p>"Yes, isn't it? for, as I say, I never refuse myself
anything. Now, I consider my chamber as above my
means; in fact, too handsome for one like me; then I
have two birds; always, at least, two pots of flowers
on my mantelpiece, without reckoning those on the
window-ledges; and yet, as I told you, I had actually
got three francs and a half in my money-box, towards<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>
the ornaments I hoped some day to be able to buy for
my mantelpiece."</p>

<p>"And what became of this store?"</p>

<p>"Oh, why, lately, when I saw the poor Morels so
very, very wretched, I said to myself, 'What is the use
of hoarding up these stupid pieces of money, and letting
them lie idle in a money-box, when good and honest
people are actually starving for want of them?' So I
took out the three francs, and lent them to Morel.
When I say lent, I mean I told him I only lent them, to
spare his feelings; but, of course, I never meant to have
them back again."</p>

<p>"Yes, but my dear neighbour, you cannot refuse to let
them repay you, now they are so differently situated."</p>

<p>"Why, no; I think if Morel were to offer them to
me now, I should not refuse them; it will, at any rate,
enable me to begin my store for buying the chimney
ornaments I do so long to possess. You would scarcely
believe how silly I am; but I almost dream of a beautiful
clock, such a one as I showed you just now, and two
lovely vases, one on each side."</p>

<p>"But, then, you should think a little of the future."</p>

<p>"What future?"</p>

<p>"Suppose you were to be ill, for instance."</p>

<p>"Me ill? Oh, the idea!" And the fresh, hearty
laugh of Rigolette resounded through the street.</p>

<p>"Well, why should you not be?"</p>

<p>"Do I look like a person likely to be sick?"</p>

<p>"Certainly I never saw a more bright or blooming
countenance."</p>

<p>"Well, then, what could possibly have put it into
your head to talk such nonsense as to suppose I
could ever be ill?"</p>

<p>"Nay, but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Why, I am only eighteen years of age, and, considering
the sort of life I lead, there is no chance of such a
thing. I rise at five o'clock, winter or summer; I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
never up after ten, or, at latest, eleven; I eat sufficient
to satisfy my appetite, which certainly is not a very
great one; I do not suffer from exposure to cold; I
work all day, singing as merrily as a lark; and at night
I sleep like a dormouse. My heart is free, light, and
happy. My employers are so well satisfied with what I
do for them, that I am quite sure not to want for work;
so what is there for me to be ill about? It really is too
amusing to hear you try to talk sense, and only utter
nonsense! Me ill!" And, at the very absurdity of the
idea, Rigolette again burst into an immoderate fit of
laughter, so loud and prolonged that a stout gentleman
who was walking before her, carrying a dog under his
arm, turned around quite angrily, believing all this
mirth was excited by his presence.</p>

<p>Resuming her composure, Rigolette slightly curtseyed
to the stout individual, and pointing to the animal under
his arm, said:</p>

<p>"Is your dog so very tired, sir?"</p>

<p>The fat man grumbled out some indistinct reply, and
continued on his way.</p>

<p>"My dear neighbour," said Rodolph, "are you losing
your senses?"</p>

<p>"It is your fault if I am."</p>

<p>"How so?"</p>

<p>"Because you talk such nonsense to me."</p>

<p>"Do you call my saying that perhaps you might be
ill, talking foolishly?"</p>

<p>And, once more overcome by the irresistible mirth
awakened by the absurdity of Rodolph's suggestion, Rigolette
again relapsed into long and hearty fits of laughter;
while Rodolph, deeply struck by this blind, yet
happy reliance upon the future, felt angry with himself
for having tried to shake it, though he almost shuddered
as he pictured to himself the havoc a single month's illness
would make in this peaceful mode of life. Then
the implicit reliance entertained by Rigolette on the stability<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
of her employ, and her youthful courage, her sole
treasures, struck Rodolph as breathing the very essence
of pure and contented innocence; for the confidence expressed
by the young dressmaker arose neither from
recklessness nor improvidence, but from an instinctive
dependence and belief in that divine justice which would
never forsake a virtuous and industrious creature,&mdash;a
simple girl, whose greatest crime was in relying too
confidently on the blessed gifts of youth and health, the
precious boon of a heavenly benefactor. Do the birds
of the air remember, as they flit on gay and agile wing
amidst the blue skies of summer, or skim lightly over
the sweet-smelling fields of blooming lucerne, that bleak,
cold winter must follow so much enjoyment?</p>

<p>"Then," said Rodolph to the grisette, "it seems you
have no wish for anything more than you already
possess?"</p>

<p>"No, really I have not."</p>

<p>"Positively, nothing you desire?"</p>

<p>"No, I tell you. Stay, yes, now I recollect, there are
those sweet pretty chimney ornaments; but I shall be
sure to have them some of these days, though I do not
know exactly when; but still, they do so run in my
head, that, sooner than be disappointed, I will sit up all
night to work."</p>

<p>"And besides these ornaments?"</p>

<p>"Oh, nothing more; no, I cannot recollect any one
other thing I care for more especially now."</p>

<p>"Why now, particularly?"</p>

<p>"Because, yesterday, if you had asked me the same
question, I should have replied, there was nothing I
wanted more than an agreeable neighbour in your apartments,
to give me an opportunity of showing all the
little acts of kindness I have been accustomed to perform,
and to receive nice little attentions in return."</p>

<p>"Well, but you know, my dear neighbour, we have
already entered into an agreement to be mutually serviceable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>
to each other; you will look after my linen for
me, and I shall clean up and polish your chamber for
you; and besides attending to my linen, you are to
wake me every morning early by tapping against the
wainscot."</p>

<p>"And do you think you have named all I shall expect
you to do?"</p>

<p>"What else can I do?"</p>

<p>"Oh, bless you, you have not yet come to the end of
your services! Why, do you not intend to take me out
every Sunday, either to the Boulevards or beyond the
barriers? You know that is the only day I can enjoy a
little pleasure."</p>

<p>"To be sure I do; and when summer comes we will
go into the country."</p>

<p>"No, no, I hate the country! I cannot bear to be anywhere
but in Paris. Yet I used, once upon a time, to
go, out of good nature, with a young friend of mine, who
was with me in prison, to visit Meudon and St. Germain.
My friend was a very nice, good girl, and because
she had such a sweet voice, and was always
singing, people used to call her the Goualeuse."</p>

<p>"And what has become of her?"</p>

<p>"I don't know. She spent all the money she brought
with her out of prison, without seeming to have much
pleasure for it; she was inclined to be mournful and
serious, though kind and sympathising to every one. At
the time we used to go out together I had not met with
any work to do, but directly I procured employment, I
never allowed myself a holiday. I gave her my address,
but, as she never came to see me, I suppose she, like myself,
was too busy to spare the time. But I dare say you
don't care to hear any more about her; I only mentioned
it because I wanted to show you that it is no use
asking me to go into the country with you, for I never
did, and never will go there, except with the young
friend I was telling you about; but whenever you can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>
afford to take me out to dinner or to the play, I shall be
quite ready to accompany you, and when it does not
suit you to spend the money, or when you have none to
spend, why then we will take a walk, and have a good
look at the shops, which is almost the nicest thing I
know, unless it is buying at them. And I promise you,
you shall have no reason to feel ashamed of my appearance,
let us go out among ever such company. Oh,
when I wear my dark blue levantine silk gown, I flatter
myself I <i>do</i> look like somebody! It is such a love of a
dress, and fits me so beautifully! I never wear it but
on Sundays, and then I put on such a love of a lace cap,
trimmed with shaded orange-colour riband, which looks
so well with dark hair like mine; then I have some such
elegant boots of satin hue, made for me, not bought at
the Temple! And last of all comes such a shawl! Oh,
neighbour, I doubt if you ever walked with any one in
such perfect beauty; it is a real <i>bourre-de-soie</i>, in imitation
of cashmere. I quite expect we shall be stared at
and admired by every one as we go along; the men will
look back as they pass me, and say, 'Upon my word
that's an uncommon pretty-looking girl,&mdash;she is, 'pon
honour!' Then the women will cry, 'What a stylish-looking
man! Do you see that tall, thin person? I
declare, he has such a fashionable appearance that he
might pass as somebody if he liked; what a becoming
and handsome moustachio he has!' And between ourselves,
neighbour, I quite agree with these remarks, and
especially about the moustachio, for I dearly love to see
a man wear them. Unfortunately M. Germain did not
wear a moustachio, on account of the situation he held;
I believe his employer did not permit his young men to
wear them. To be sure, M. Cabrion did wear moustachios,
but then, his were quite red, like his great
bushy beard, and I hate those huge beards; and besides,
I did not like Cabrion for two other reasons; one was,
he used to play all kinds of scampish tricks out in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>
street, and the other thing I disliked was his tormenting
poor old Pipelet as he did. Certainly, M. Giraudeau,
the person who lived next to me before M. Cabrion, was
rather a smart-looking man, and dressed very well; but
then he squinted, and at first that used to put me out
very much, because he always seemed to be looking past
me at some one by my side, and I always found myself,
without thinking of it, turning around to see who it
could be."</p>

<p>And here Rigolette indulged in another peal of merry
laughter.</p>

<p>As Rodolph listened to all this childish and voluble
talk, he felt almost at a loss how to estimate the pretensions
of the grisette to be considered of first-rate prudence
and virtue; sometimes the very absence of all
reserve in her communications, and the recollection of
the great bolt on her door, made him conclude that she
bore a general and platonic affection only for every
occupant of the chamber adjoining her own, and that
her interest in them was nothing more than that of a
sister; but again he smiled at the credulity which could
believe such a thing possible, when the unprotected condition
of the young dressmaker, and the fascinations of
Messrs. Giraudeau, Cabrion, and Germain were taken
into account. Still, the frankness and originality of
Rigolette made him pause in the midst of his doubts,
and refuse to allow him to judge harshly of the ingenuous
and light-hearted being who tripped beside him.</p>

<p>"I am delighted at the way you have disposed of my
Sundays," said Rodolph, gaily. "I see plainly we shall
have some capital treats."</p>

<p>"Stop a little, Mr. Extravagance, and let me tell you
how I mean to regulate our expenses; in the summer
we can dine beautifully, either at the Chartreuse or the
Montmartre hermitage, for three francs, then half a
dozen quadrilles or waltzes, and a ride upon the wooden
horses,&mdash;oh, I do so love riding on horseback!&mdash;well,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>
that will bring it altogether to about five francs, not a
farthing more, I assure you. Do you waltz?"</p>

<p>"Yes, very well."</p>

<p>"I am glad of that. M. Cabrion always trod on my
toes, so that he quite put me out; and then, too, by way
of a joke, he used to throw fulminating balls about on
the ground; so at last the people at the Chartreuse
would not allow us to be admitted there."</p>

<p>"Oh, I promise you to be very well behaved whenever
we are met together; and as for the fulminating balls,
I promise you never to have anything to do with
them; but when winter comes, how shall we manage
then?"</p>

<p>"Why, in the winter we shall be able to dine very
comfortably for forty sous. I think people never care so
much for eating in the winter as summer; so then we
shall have three francs left to pay for our going to the
play, for I shall not allow you to exceed a hundred sous
for the whole of our expenses, and that is a great deal of
money to spend in pleasure; but then, if you were out
alone, it would cost you much more at the tavern or
billiard-rooms, where you would only meet a parcel of
low, ignorant men, smelling of tobacco enough to choke
you. Is it not much better for you to pass a pleasant
day with a nice little, cheerful, good-tempered companion,
who, in return for the holiday you so agreeably
pass with her, will contrive to make up the extra expense
she costs you by hemming your handkerchiefs,
and looking after your domestic affairs?"</p>

<p>"Nothing can be more advantageous, as far as I am
concerned; but suppose any of my friends should meet
me walking with my pretty neighbour, what then?"</p>

<p>"What then! Why, they would just look at you, and
then at me; and then they would smile and say, 'That's
a lucky fellow, that Rodolph!'"</p>

<p>"You know my name, do you?"</p>

<p>"Why, of course, when I heard that the chamber adjoining<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>
mine was let, I inquired the name of the person
who had taken it."</p>

<p>"Yes, I dare say every one who met us out together
would remark, as you observe, what a lucky fellow I
was; then the next thing would be to envy me."</p>

<p>"So much the better."</p>

<p>"They would believe I was perfectly happy."</p>

<p>"Of course, of course they would."</p>

<p>"All the while I should only be so in appearance."</p>

<p>"Well, what does that signify? As long as people
think you happy, what does it matter whether you are
really so or not? Men neither require nor care for
more than outward show."</p>

<p>"But your reputation might suffer."</p>

<p>Rigolette burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.</p>

<p>"The reputation of a grisette!" said she. "Do you
suppose that any person believes in such a phenomenon?
Ah, if I had either father, mother, brother, or sister, for
their sakes I should fear what people might say of me,
and be anxious about the world's opinion; but I am
alone in the world, and have no person to consider but
myself, so, while I know myself to be free from blame
or reproach, I care not for what any one may say of
me, or think either."</p>

<p>"But still I should be very unhappy."</p>

<p>"What for?"</p>

<p>"To pass for being a happy as well as a lucky fellow,
when, after the fashion of Papa Crétu's dinner, I should
be expected to make a meal off a dry crust, while all the
tempting dishes contained in a cookery-book were being
read to me."</p>

<p>"Oh, nonsense! you will be quite contented to live as
I describe. You will find me so grateful for every little
act of kindness, so easily pleased, and so little troublesome,
that I know you will say, 'Why, after all, I may
as well spend my Sunday with her as with any one else.'
If you have any time in the evening, and have no objection<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>
to come and sit with me, you can have the use of
my fire and light. If it would not tire you to read
aloud, you would amuse me by reading some nice novel
or romance. Better do that than lose your money at
cards or billiards; otherwise, if you are occupied at your
office, or prefer going to a café, you can just bid me good
night when you come in, if I happen still to be up; but
should I have gone to bed, why then I will wish you
good morning at an early hour next day, by tapping
against your wainscot to awaken you. Why, M. Germain,
my last fellow lodger, used to pass all his evenings
with me in that manner, and never complained of their
being dull. He read me all Walter Scott's novels in the
course of the winter, which was really very amusing.
Sometimes, when it chanced to be a wet Sunday, he
would go and buy something at the pastry-cook's, and
we used to have a nice little dinner in my room; and
afterwards we amused ourselves with reading; and we
liked that almost as well as going to the theatre. You
see by this that I am not hard to please, but, on the contrary,
am always ready to do what I can to make things
pleasant and agreeable. And then you were talking
about illness. Oh, if ever you should be ill, then, indeed,
I should be a comfort to you, a real Sister of
Charity! Only ask the Morels what sort of a nurse I
am. You don't half know your own good fortune, M.
Rodolph; you have drawn a real prize in the lottery of
good luck to have me for a neighbour, I can assure you."</p>

<p>"I quite agree with you; but I always was lucky.
Apropos of your late fellow lodger, M. Germain, where
is he at present?"</p>

<p>"In Paris, I believe."</p>

<p>"Then you do not see much of him now?"</p>

<p>"No, he has never been to see me since he quitted
the house."</p>

<p>"But where is he living? And what is he doing at
present?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p>

<p>"Why do you want to know?"</p>

<p>"Because," said Rodolph, smiling, "I am jealous of
him, and I wish&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Jealous!" exclaimed Rigolette, bursting into a fit of
laughter. "La, bless you, there is no occasion for that,
poor fellow!"</p>

<p>"But, seriously, my good neighbour, I wish most particularly
to obtain M. Germain's address, or to be
enabled to meet him. You know where he lives; and
without any boast, I think I have good reason to expect
you would trust me with the secret of his residence, and
to believe me quite incapable of revealing again the information
I ask of you, assuring you most solemnly it is
for his own interest more than mine I am solicitous of
finding him."</p>

<p>"And seriously, my good neighbour, although it is
probable and possible your intentions towards M. Germain
are as you report them, I am not at liberty to give
you the address of M. Germain, he having strictly and
expressly forbidden my so doing to any person whatever;
therefore, when I refuse to tell <i>you</i>, you may be
quite sure it is because I really am not at liberty to do
so; and that ought not to make you feel offended with
me. If you had entrusted me with a secret, you would
be pleased, would you not, to have me as careful of it,
and determined not to reveal it, as I am about M. Germain's
affair?"</p>

<p>"Nay, but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Neighbour, once and for all, do not say anything
more on this subject. I have made a promise which I
will keep faithfully and honourably; so now you know
my mind, and if you ask me a hundred times, I shall
answer you just the same."</p>

<p>Spite of her thoughtlessness and frivolity, the young
dressmaker pronounced these last words with so much
firmness that, to his great regret, Rodolph perceived the
impossibility of gaining the desired information respecting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>
Germain through her means; and his mind revolted
at the idea of laying any snare to entrap her into a betrayal
of her secret; he therefore, after a slight pause,
gaily replied:</p>

<p>"Well, let us say no more about it, then; but, upon
my life, I don't wonder at you, who can so well keep the
secrets of others, guarding your own so closely."</p>

<p>"Me have secrets?" cried Rigolette. "I only wish I
had some more secrets of my own; it must be very
amusing to have secrets."</p>

<p>"Do you really mean to assert that you have not
a 'nice little secret' about some love-affair?"</p>

<p>"Love-affair!"</p>

<p>"Are you going to persuade me you have never been
in love?" said Rodolph, looking fixedly at Rigolette, the
better to read the truth in her telltale features.</p>

<p>"Been in love? Why, of course I have, with M.
Giraudeau, M. Cabrion, M. Germain, and you!"</p>

<p>"Are you sure you loved them just as you do me,
neither more nor less?"</p>

<p>"Oh, really, I cannot tell you so very exactly! If
anything, I should say less; because I had to become
accustomed to the squinting eyes of M. Giraudeau, the
disagreeable jokes and red beard of M. Cabrion, and
the low spirits and constant dejection of M. Germain,
for the poor young man was very sad, and always
seemed to have a heavy load on his mind, while you,
on the contrary, took my fancy directly I saw you."</p>

<p>"Come now, my pretty neighbour, you must not be
angry with me; I am going to speak candidly and
sincerely, like an old friend."</p>

<p>"Oh, don't be afraid to say anything to me; I am
very good-natured; and besides, I feel certain you are
too kind; you could never have the heart to say anything
to me that would give me pain."</p>

<p>"You are quite right; but do tell me truly, have you
never had any lovers?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p>

<p>"Lovers! I should think not! What time have I for
such things?"</p>

<p>"What has time got to do with it?"</p>

<p>"Why, everything, to be sure. In the first place, I
should be jealous as a tigress; and I should be continually
worrying myself with one idea or another; and let
me ask you whether you think it is likely I could afford
to lose two or three hours a day in fretting and grieving.
And then, suppose my lover were to turn out false! Oh,
what tears it would cost me; how wretched I should be!
All that sort of thing would put me sadly behindhand
with my work, I can tell you."</p>

<p>"Well, but all lovers are not faithless and a cause of
grief and sorrow to their mistress."</p>

<p>"Oh, bless you! It would be still worse for me, if he
were all goodness and truth. Why, then I should not
be able to live without him for a single hour; and as
most probably he would be obliged to remain all day in
his office, or shop, or manufactory, I should be like some
poor, restless spirit all the time of his absence. I should
imagine all sorts of things, picture to myself his being
at that moment pleasantly engaged in company with one
he loved better than myself. And then, if he forsook
me, oh, Heaven only knows what I might be tempted
to do in my despair, or what might become of me. One
thing is very certain, that my work would suffer for it;
and then what should I do? Why, quietly as I live at
present, it is much as I can manage to live by working
from twelve to fifteen hours a day. Where should I be,
if I were to lose three or four days a week by tormenting
myself? How could I ever catch up all that time? Oh,
I never could; it would be quite impossible! I should
be obliged, then, to take a situation, to live under the
control of a mistress; but no, no, I will never bring
myself to that,&mdash;I love my liberty too well."</p>

<p>"Your liberty?"</p>

<p>"Yes, I might go as forewoman to the person who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>
keeps the warehouse for which I work; she would give
me four hundred francs a year, with board and lodging."</p>

<p>"And you will not accept it?"</p>

<p>"No, indeed! I should then be the slave and servant
of another; whereas, however humble my home, at least
there is no one there to control me. I am free to come
and go as I please. I owe nothing to any one. I have
good health, good courage, good heart, and good spirits;
and now that I can say a good neighbour also, what is
there left to desire?"</p>

<p>"Then you have never thought of marriage?"</p>

<p>"Marriage, indeed! Why, what would be the use of
my thinking about it, when, poor as I am, I could not
expect to meet with a husband better off than myself?
Look at the poor Morels; just see the consequences of
burthening yourself with a family before you have the
means of providing for one; whilst, so long as there is
only oneself to provide for, one can always manage
somehow."</p>

<p>"And do you never build castles in the air?&mdash;never
dream?"</p>

<p>"Dream? Oh, yes!&mdash;of my chimney ornaments; but,
besides them, what can I have to wish for?"</p>

<p>"But, suppose now some relation you never heard of
in your life were to die, and leave you a nice little
fortune&mdash;twelve hundred francs a year, for instance&mdash;you
have made five hundred sufficient to supply all your
wants?"</p>

<p>"Perhaps it might prove a good thing; perhaps a bad
one."</p>

<p>"How could it be a bad one?"</p>

<p>"Because I am happy and contented as I am; but I
do not know what I might be if I came to be rich. I
can assure you that, when, after a hard day's work, I go
to bed in my own snug little room, when my lamp is extinguished,
and by the glimmer of the few cinders left
in my stove I see my neat, clean little apartment, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>
curtains, my chest of drawers, my chairs, my birds, my
watch, my table covered with the work confided to me,
left all ready to begin the first thing in the morning, and
I say to myself, all this is mine,&mdash;I have no one to thank
for it but myself,&mdash;oh, neighbour, the very thoughts lull
me into such a happy state of mind that I fall asleep
believing myself the most fortunate creature on earth to
be so surrounded with comforts. But, I declare, here
we are at the Temple! You must own it is a beautiful
object?"</p>

<p>Although not partaking of the profound admiration
expressed by Rigolette at the first glimpse of the Temple,
Rodolph was, nevertheless, much struck by the singular
appearance of this enormous bazar with its many
diverging passages and dependencies. Towards the middle
of the Rue du Temple, not far from the fountain
which stands in the corner of a large square, may be
seen an immense parallelogram, built of wood, and surmounted
with a slated roof. This building is the Temple,
bounded on the left by the Rue du Petit Thouars, and on
the right by the Rue Percée; it leads to a large circular
building,&mdash;a colossal rotunda, surrounded with a gallery,
forming a sort of arcade. A long opening, intersecting
this parallelogram in its length and breadth, divides it
into two equal parts, which are again divided and subdivided
into an infinity of small lateral and transverse
openings, crossing each other in all directions, and sheltered
by the roof of the building from all severity of
weather. In this bazar new merchandise is generally
prohibited; but the smallest fragment of any sort of
material, the merest morsel of iron, brass, lead, or
pewter, will here find both a buyer and a seller.</p>

<p>Here are to be found dealers in pieces of every coloured
cloth, of all ages, qualities, shades, and capabilities,
for the service of such as wish to repair or alter damaged
or ill-fitting garments. Some of the shops present
huge piles of old shoes, some trodden down of heel,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>
others twisted, torn, worn, split, and in holes, presenting
a mass of nameless, formless, colourless objects, among
which are grimly visible some species of fossil soles
about an inch thick, studded with thick nails, resembling
the door of a prison and hard as a horse's hoof,
the actual skeletons of shoes whose other component
parts have long since been consumed by the devouring
hand of Time. Yet all this mouldy, dried up accumulation
of decaying rubbish will find a willing purchaser, an
extensive body of merchants trading in this particular
line.</p>

<p>Then there are the vendors of gimps, fringes, bindings,
cords, tassels, and edgings of silk, cotton, or thread, arising
out of the demolition of curtains past all cure and
defying all reparation. Other enterprising individuals
devote themselves to the sale of females' hats and bonnets,
these articles only reaching their emporium by the
means of the dealers in old clothes, and after having performed
the strangest journeys and undergone the most
surprising transformations, the most singular changes of
colour.</p>

<p>In order that the article traded in may not take up too
much room in a warehouse ordinarily the size of a large
box, these bonnets are carefully folded in half, then flattened
and laid upon each other as closely as they can be
packed, with the exception of the brim. They are treated
in every respect the same as herrings, requiring to be
stowed in a cask. By these means it is almost incredible
what a quantity of these usually fragile articles may
be accommodated in a small space of about four feet
square.</p>

<p>Should a purchaser present himself, the various specimens
are removed from the high pressure to which they
have been exposed, the vendor, with a <i>dégagé</i> air, gives
the crown a dexterous blow with his fist, which makes
the centre rise to its accustomed situation, then presses
the front out upon his knee, concluding by holding up,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>
with an air of intense satisfaction at his own ingenuity,
an object so wild, so whimsical, and withal so irresistibly
striking, as to remind one of those traditional costumes
ascribed for ages past to fishwomen, apple-women, or any
whose avocation involves the necessity of carrying a
basket on the head.</p>

<p>Farther on, at the sign of the Goût du Jour, beneath
the arcades of the Rotunda, elevated at the end of the
large opening which intersects the Temple and divides it
into two parts, are suspended myriads of vestments of all
colours, forms, and fashions, even more various and extraordinary
in their respective styles than the bonnets
just described. There may be seen stylish coats of unbleached
linen, adorned with three rows of brass buttons
<i>à la hussarde</i>, and sprucely ornamented with a small fur
collar of fox-skin; great-coats, originally bottle-green,
but changed, by age and service, to the hue of the pistachio
nut, edged with black braid, and set off with a
bright flaming lining of blue and yellow plaid, giving
quite a fresh and youthful appearance, and producing
the most genteel and tasty effect; coats that, when new,
bore the appellation, as regards their cut, of being <i>à
queue de Morue</i>, of a dark drab colour, with velvet, shag,
or plush collar, and further decorated with buttons, once
silver-gilt, but now changed to a dull coppery hue. In
the same emporium may be observed sundry pelisses or
polonaises of maroon-coloured cloth, with cat-skin collar,
trimmed with braiding, and rich in brandenburgs, tassels,
and cords. Not far from these are displayed a great
choice of dressing-gowns most artistically constructed
out of old cloaks, whose triple collars and capes have
been removed, the inside lined with remnants of printed
cotton, the most in request being blue or dark green,
made up here and there with pieces of various distinct
shades, and embroidered with old braid, and lined with
red cotton, on which is traced a flowing design in vivid
orange, collar and cuffs similarly adorned; a cord for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>
the waist, made out of an old bell-rope, serves as a
finish to these elegant <i>déshabillés</i> so exultingly worn by
Robert Macaire. We shall briefly pass over a mass of
costumes more or less uncouth, in the midst of which
may be found some real and authentic relics of royalty
or greatness, dragged by the revolution of time from the
palaces of the rich and mighty to the dingy shelves of
the Rotunda of the Temple.</p>

<p>These displays of old shoes, hats, and coats are the
grotesque parts of the bazar,&mdash;the place where rags and
faded finery seek to set up their claim to notice. But it
must be allowed, or rather distinctly asserted, that the
vast establishment we are describing is of immense utility
to the poor or persons in mediocre circumstances. There
they may purchase, at an amazing decrease of price, most
excellent articles, nearly new, and whose wear has been
little or none. One side of the Temple was devoted to
articles of bedding, and contained piles of blankets,
sheets, mattresses, and pillows. Farther on were carpets,
curtains, every description of useful household
utensil. Close at hand were stores of wearing apparel,
shoes, stockings, caps, and bonnets, for all ages, as well
as all classes and conditions.</p>

<p>All these articles were scrupulously clean and devoid
of anything that could offend or shock the most fastidious
person. Those who have never visited this bazar
will scarcely credit in how short a space of time, and
with how little money, a cart may be filled with every
requisite for the complete fitting out of two or three
utterly destitute families.</p>

<p>Rodolph was particularly struck with the manner, at
once attentive, eager, and cheerful, of the various dealers,
as, standing at the door of their shops, they solicited the
patronage and custom of the passers-by. Their mode of
address, at once familiar and respectful, seemed altogether
unlike the tone of the present day. Scarcely had
Rigolette and her companion entered that part of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
place devoted to the sale of bedding, than they were surrounded
by the most seducing offers and solicitations.</p>

<p>"Walk in, sir, and look at my mattresses, if you
please," said one. "They are quite new. I will just
open a corner to show you how beautifully white and
soft the wool is,&mdash;more like the wool of a lamb than a
sheep."</p>

<p>"My pretty lady, step in and see my beautiful, fine
white sheets. They are better than new, for the first
stiffness has been taken out of them. They are soft as
a glove, and strong as iron."</p>

<p>"Come, my new-married couple, treat yourselves to
one of my handsome counterpanes. Only see how soft,
light, and warm it is,&mdash;quite as good as eider-down,&mdash;every
bit the same as new,&mdash;never been used twenty
times. Now, then, my good lady, persuade your husband
to treat you to one. Let me have the pleasure of
serving you, and I will fit you up for housekeeping as
cheaply as you can desire. Oh, you'll be pleased, I
know,&mdash;you'll come again to see Mother Bouvard!
You will find I keep everything. I bought a splendid
lot of second-hand goods yesterday. Pray walk in and
let me have the pleasure of showing them to you. Come,
you may as well see if you don't buy. I shall charge
you nothing for looking at them."</p>

<p>"I tell you what, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigolette,
"this fat old lady shall have the preference. She takes
us for husband and wife. I am so pleased with her for
the idea that I decide upon laying out my money at her
shop."</p>

<p>"Well, then, let it be the fat old lady," said Rigolette.
"I like her appearance, too."</p>

<p>Rigolette and her companion then went into Mother
Bouvard's. By a magnanimity, perhaps unexampled
before in the Temple, the rivals of Mother Bouvard
made no disturbance at the preference awarded to her.
One of her neighbours, indeed, went so far as to say:</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 322px;"><a name="image35" id="image35"></a>
<img src="images/i002.jpg" width="322" height="500" alt="Drew carefully out a sheet of paper.
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel." title="Drew carefully out a sheet of paper." />
<span class="caption"><i>Drew carefully out a sheet of paper.</i><br />
<span class="artist">Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.</span></span>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p>

<p>"So long as it is Mother Bouvard, and no one else,
that has this customer; she has a family, and is the
dowager and the honour of the Temple."</p>

<p>It was, indeed, impossible to have a face more prepossessing,
more open, and more frank than that of the
dowager of the Temple.</p>

<p>"Here, my pretty little woman," she said to Rigolette,
who was looking at sundry articles with the eye of a connoisseur,
"this is the second-hand bargain I told you of:
two bed furnitures and bedding complete, and as good as
new. If you would like a small old <i>secrétaire</i> very cheap,
here is one (and Mother Bouvard pointed to one). I had
it in the same lot. I do not usually buy furniture, but I
could not refuse this, for the poor people of whom I had
it appeared to be so very unhappy! Poor lady! it was
the sale of this piece of furniture which seemed to cut
her to the very heart. I dare say it was a family piece
of 'furniture.'"</p>

<p>At these words, and whilst the shopkeeper was settling
with Rigolette as to the prices of the various articles of
purchase, Rodolph was attentively looking at the <i>secrétaire</i>
which Mother Bouvard had pointed out. It was
one of those ancient pieces of rosewood furniture, almost
triangular in shape, closed by a front panel, which let
down, and, supported by two long brass hinges, served
for a writing-table. In the centre of this panel, which
was inlaid with ornaments of wood of different patterns,
Rodolph observed a cipher let in, of ebony, and which
consisted of an M. and an R., intertwined and surmounted
with a count's coronet. He conjectured, therefore, that
the last possessor of this piece of furniture was a person
in an elevated rank of society. His curiosity increased,
and he looked at the <i>secrétaire</i> with redoubled scrutiny;
he opened the drawers mechanically, one after the other,
when, having some difficulty in drawing out the last, and
trying to discover the obstacle, he perceived, and drew
carefully out, a sheet of paper, half shut up between the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>
drawer and the bottom of the opening. Whilst Rigolette
was concluding her bargain with Mother Bouvard, Rodolph
was engrossed in examining what he had found. From
the numerous erasures which covered this paper, he perceived
that it was the copy of an unfinished letter.
Rodolph, with considerable difficulty, made out what
follows:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"<span class="smcap">Sir</span>: Be assured that the most extreme misery alone could
compel me to the step which I now take. It is not mistaken
pride which causes my scruples, but the absolute want of any and
every claim on you for the service which I am about to ask. The
sight of my daughter, reduced, as well as myself, to the most
frightful destitution, has made me throw aside all hesitation. A
few words only as to the cause of the misfortunes which have
overwhelmed me. After the death of my husband, all my fortune
was three hundred thousand francs (12,000<i>l.</i>), which was
placed by my brother with M. Jacques Ferrand, the notary; I
received at Angers, whither I had settled with my daughter, the
interest of this sum, remitted to me by my brother. You know,
sir, the horrible event which put an end to his days. Ruined, as
it seems, by secret and unfortunate speculations, he put an end
to his existence eight months since. After this sad event, I
received a few lines, written by him in desperation before this
awful deed. 'When I should peruse them,' he wrote, 'he should
no longer exist.' He terminated this letter by informing me
that he had not any acknowledgment of the sum which he had
placed, in my name, with M. Jacques Ferrand, as that individual
never gave any receipt, but was honour and piety itself; that,
therefore, it would be sufficient for me to present myself to that
gentleman, and my business would be regularly and satisfactorily
adjusted. As soon as I was able to turn my attention to anything
besides the mournful end of my poor brother, I came to
Paris, where I knew no one, sir, but yourself, and you only by
the connection that had subsisted between yourself and my husband.
I have told you that the sum deposited with M. Jacques
Ferrand was my entire fortune, and that my brother forwarded
to me every six months the interest which arose from that sum.
More than a year had elapsed since the last payment, and, consequently,
I went to M. Jacques Ferrand to ask the amount of
him, as I was greatly in want of it. Scarcely was I in his presence,
than, without any consideration of my grief, he accused my
brother of having borrowed two thousand francs of him, which
he had lost by his death, adding, that not only was suicide a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>
crime before God and man, but, also, that it was an act of robbery,
of which he, M. Jacques Ferrand, was the victim. I was
indignant at such language, for the remarkable probity of my
poor brother was well known; he had, it is true, unknown to me
and his friends, lost his fortune in hazardous speculations, but he
had died with an unspotted reputation, deeply regretted by all,
and not leaving any debt except to his notary. I replied to M.
Ferrand, that I authorised him at once to take the two thousand
francs, which he claimed from my brother, from the three hundred
thousand francs of mine, which had been deposited with
him. At these words, he looked at me with an air of utter
astonishment, and asked me what three hundred thousand francs
I alluded to. 'To those which my brother placed in your hands
eighteen months ago, sir, and of which I have, till now, received
the interest paid by you through my brother,' I replied, not comprehending
his question. The notary shrugged his shoulders,
smiled disdainfully, as if my words were not serious, and replied
that, so far from depositing any money with him, my brother
had borrowed two thousand francs from him.</p>

<p>"It is impossible for me to express to you my horror at this
reply. 'What, then, has become of this sum?' I exclaimed. 'My
daughter and myself have no other resource, and, if we are
deprived of that, nothing remains for us but complete wretchedness.
What will become of us?' 'I really don't know,' replied
the notary, coldly. 'It is most probable that your brother,
instead of placing this sum with me, as you say, has used it in
those unfortunate speculations in which, unknown to any one, he
was engaged.' 'It is false, sir!' I exclaimed. 'My brother was
honour itself, and, so far from despoiling me and my daughter,
he would have sacrificed himself for us. He would never marry,
in order that he might leave all he had to my child.' 'Dare you
to assert, madame, that I am capable of denying a deposit confided
in me?' inquired the notary, with indignation, which
seemed so honourable and sincere that I replied, 'No, certainly
not, sir; your reputation for probity is well known; but yet I
can never accuse my brother of so cruel an abuse of confidence.'
'What are your proofs of this claim?' inquired M. Ferrand. 'I
have none, sir. Eighteen months since, my brother, who undertook
the management of my affairs, wrote to me, saying, "I have
an excellent opportunity of obtaining six per cent.; send me your
power of attorney to sell your stock, and I will deposit the three
hundred thousand francs, which I will make up, with M. Jacques
Ferrand, the notary." I sent the papers which he asked for to
my brother, and a few days afterwards he informed me that the
investment was made by you, and at the end of six months he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>
remitted to me the interest due.' 'At least, then, you have some
letters on this subject, madame?' 'No, sir; they were only on
family matters, and I did not preserve them.' 'Unfortunately,
madame, I cannot do anything in this matter,' replied the
notary. 'If my honesty was not beyond all suspicion, all attack,
I should say to you, the courts of law are open to you,&mdash;attack
me; the judges will have to choose between the word of an honourable
man, who for thirty years has had the esteem of worthy
men, and the posthumous declaration of a man who, after being
ruined in most foolish undertakings, has found refuge only in
suicide. I say to you now, attack me, madame, if you dare, and
your brother's memory will be dishonoured! But I believe you
will have the good sense to resign yourself to a misfortune which,
no doubt, is very severe, but to which I am an entire stranger.'
'But, sir, I am a mother! If my fortune is lost, my daughter and
I have nothing left but a small stock of furniture; if that is sold,
we have nothing left, sir,&mdash;nothing, but the most frightful destitution
staring us in the face.' 'You have been cheated,&mdash;it is
a misfortune, but I can do nothing in the matter,' answered the
notary. 'Once more, madame, your brother has deceived you.
If you doubt between his word and mine, attack me; go to
law, and the judges will decide.' I quitted the notary's in the
deepest despair. What could I do in this extremity? I had no
means of proving the validity of my claim; I was convinced of
the strict honour of my brother, and confounded at the assertion
of M. Ferrand, and having no person to whom I could turn
for advice (for you were travelling), and knowing that I must
have money to pay for legal opinions and advice, and desiring to
preserve the very little that I had left, I dared not commence a
suit at law. It was at this juncture&mdash;"</p></div>


<p>This sketch of the letter ended here, for what followed
was covered with ink erasures, which completely blotted
out the lines. At the bottom of the page, and in the
corner, Rodolph found this kind of memorandum:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"To write to the Duchesse de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy."</p></div>

<p>Rodolph remained deeply thoughtful after the perusal
of this fragment of a letter, in which he had found two
names whose connection struck him. Although the fresh
infamy which appeared to accuse Jacques Ferrand was
not proved, yet this man had proved himself so pitiless
towards the unhappy Morel, had behaved so shamefully<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>
to Louise, his daughter, that the denial of a deposit,
protected by certain impunity, on the part of such a
wretch, appeared to him by no means improbable. This
mother, who claimed a fortune which had disappeared so
strangely, was, doubtless, used to a life of ease and comfort.
Ruined by a sudden blow, and knowing no one
in Paris, as the letter said, what must have been the existence
of these two females, perhaps utterly destitute and
alone in the midst of this vast metropolis!</p>

<p>The prince had, as we know, promised sure occupation
to madame, by giving her accidentally, and to employ
her mind, a part to play in some future work of charity,
being certain to find sure misery for her to curtail before
his next meeting with that lady. He thought that,
perhaps, chance might bring before him some unfortunate
and worthy person, who would, as he trusted, interest the
heart and imagination of Madame d'Harville. The
sketch of the letter which he held in his hands, and
the copy of which had, doubtless, never been sent to the
person whose assistance was implored, evinced a high
and resigned mind, which would revolt from an offer of
alms. So, then, how many precautions, how many plans,
how much delicacy, must be employed to conceal the
source of such generous succour, or to make it accepted!
And, then, how much address to introduce oneself to
such a female, in order to judge if she really merited the
interest which she seemed capable of inspiring! Rodolph
foresaw in the development of this mysterious affair a
multitude of new and touching emotions, which would
singularly attract Madame d'Harville in the way he had
previously proposed to her.</p>

<p>"Well, husband," said Rigolette, gaily, to Rodolph,
"what is there so interesting in that piece of paper,
which you are reading there?"</p>

<p>"My little wife," replied Rodolph, "you are very
inquisitive; I will tell you by and by. Have you
bought all you want?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes; and your poor friends will be set up like
kings. There is nothing to do now but to pay; Madame
Bouvard has made every allowance, I must do
her that credit."</p>

<p>"My little wife, an idea occurs to me; whilst I am
paying, suppose you go and choose the clothes for
Madame Morel and her children? I confess my ignorance
on the subject of such purchases. You can tell
them to bring everything here, and then all the things
will be together, and the poor people will have everything
at once."</p>

<p>"You are right, husband. Wait here, and I shall not
be long; I know two shopkeepers here, where I am a
regular customer, and I shall find in their shops all I
require."</p>

<p>And Rigolette went out, saying:</p>

<p>"Madame Bouvard, take care of my husband, and do
not flirt with him, mind, whilst I am gone."</p>

<p>And then came the laugh, and away the merry maiden
ran.</p>

<p>"I must say, sir," said Mother Bouvard to Rodolph,
"that you have a capital little manager there. <i>Peste!</i>
she knows how to make a bargain! And then she is so
prettily behaved and pretty-looking! red and white, with
those large, beautiful black eyes, and such hair!"</p>

<p>"Is she not charming? and ain't I a happy husband,
Madame Bouvard?"</p>

<p>"As happy a husband as she is a wife, I am sure of
that."</p>

<p>"You are not mistaken. But tell me how much I
owe you."</p>

<p>"Your little lady would only give me three hundred
and thirty francs for the whole; as true as heaven's
above us, I only make fifteen francs by the bargain, for
I did not try to get the things as cheaply as I might,
for I hadn't the heart to bate 'em down; the people who
sold 'em seemed so uncommon miserable!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p>

<p>"Really! Were they the same people that you bought
this little <i>secrétaire</i> of?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir; and it cuts my heart to think of it! Only
imagine, the day before yesterday there came here a
young and still pretty girl, but so pale and thin one
could almost see through her; and you know that pains
people that have any feeling at all. Although she was,
as they say, neat as a new-made pin, her old threadbare
black worsted shawl, her black stuff gown, which was
also worn bare, her straw bonnet, in the month of January,
for she was in mourning, all showed what we call
great distress, for I am sure she was a real lady. At
last, blushing up to the very eyes, she asked me if I
would buy two beds and bedding complete, and a little
old <i>secrétaire</i>. I said that, as I sold, of course I bought,
and that if they would suit me I would have them, but
that I must see the things. She then asked me to go
with her to her apartment, not far off, on the other side
of the Boulevards, in a house on the Quay of St. Martin's
Canal. I left my niece in the shop, and followed
the lady until we reached a smallish house at the bottom
of a court; we went up to the fourth floor, and, the lady
having knocked, the door was opened by a young girl
about fourteen years of age, who was also in mourning,
and equally pale and thin, but still very, very pretty, so
much so that I was quite astonished."</p>

<p>"Well, and this young girl?"</p>

<p>"Was the daughter of the lady in mourning. Though
it was very cold, yet a thin gown of black cotton with
white spots, and a small, shabby mourning shawl, that
was all she had on her."</p>

<p>"And their rooms were wretched?"</p>

<p>"Imagine, sir, two little rooms, very neat, but nearly
empty, and so cold that I was almost froze; there was
not a spark of fire in the grate, nor any appearance of
there having been any for a very long time. All the
furniture was two beds, two chairs, a chest of drawers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>
an old portmanteau, and the small <i>secrétaire</i>, and on the
chest was a parcel, wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief.
This small parcel was all the mother and child had left
when their furniture was once sold. The landlord had
taken the two bedsteads, the chairs, a trunk, and a table,
for what was due to him, as the porter said, who had
gone up-stairs with us. Then the lady begged me fairly
to estimate the mattresses, sheets, curtains, and quilts;
and, as I am an honest woman, sir, although it is my
business to buy cheap and sell dear, yet, when I saw the
poor young thing with her eyes full of tears, and her
mother, who, in spite of her affected calmness, seemed to
be weeping in her heart, I offered for the things fifteen
francs more than they were worth to sell again, I swear
I did; I agreed, too, just to oblige them, to take this
small <i>secrétaire</i>, although it is not a sort of thing I ever
deal in."</p>

<p>"I will buy it of you, Madame Bouvard."</p>

<p>"Will you though? So much the better, sir, for it is
else likely to stay with me for some time; I took it, as I
say, only to oblige the poor lady. I told her then what
I would give for the things, and I expected that she
would haggle a bit and ask me something more, I did.
Then it was that I saw she was not one of the common;
she was in downright misery, she was, and no mistake
about it, I am sure! I says to her, 'It's worth so much,'
She answers me, and says, 'Very well; let us go back to
your shop, and you can pay me there, for we shall not
return here again to this house.' Then she says to her
daughter, who was sitting on the trunk a-crying, 'Claire,
take this bundle.' I remember her name, and I'm sure
she called her Claire. Then the young lady got up, but,
as she was crossing the room, as she came to the little
<i>secrétaire</i> she went down on her knees before it, and,
dear heart! how the poor thing did sob! 'Courage, my
dear child; remember some one sees you,' said her
mother to her, in a low voice, but yet I heard her. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>
may tell, sir, they were poor, but very proud notwithstanding.
When the lady gave me the key of the little
<i>secrétaire</i>, I saw a tear in her red eyes, and it seemed as
if her very heart bled at parting with this old piece of
furniture; but she tried to keep up her courage, and not
seem downcast before strangers. Then she told the porter
that I should come and take away all that the landlord
did not keep, and after that we came back here.
The young lady gave her arm to her mother, and carried
in her hand the small bundle, which contained all they
possessed in the world. I handed them their three hundred
and fifteen francs, and then I never saw them again."</p>

<p>"But their name?"</p>

<p>"I don't know; the lady sold me the things in the
presence of the porter, and so I had no occasion to ask
her name, for what she sold belonged to her."</p>

<p>"But their new address?"</p>

<p>"I don't know that either."</p>

<p>"No doubt they know at their old lodging?"</p>

<p>"No, sir; for, when I went back to get the things,
the porter told me, speaking of the mother and daughter,
'that they were very quiet people, very respectable, and
very unfortunate,&mdash;I hope no misfortune has happened
to them! They appeared to be very calm and composed,
but I am sure they were quite in despair.' 'And where
are they gone now to lodge?' I asked. '<i>Ma foi</i>, I don't
know!' was the answer; 'they left without telling me,
and I am sure they will not return here.'"</p>

<p>The hopes which Rodolph had entertained for a
moment vanished; how could he go to work to discover
these two unfortunate females, when all the trace
he had of them was that the young daughter's name was
Claire, and the fragment of a letter, of which we have
already made mention, and at the bottom of which were
these words:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"To write to Madame de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy?"</p></div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p>

<p>The only, and very remote chance of discovering the
traces of these unfortunates was through Madame de
Lucenay, who, fortunately, was on intimate terms with
Madame d'Harville.</p>

<p>"Here, ma'am, be so good as to take your money,"
said Rodolph to the shopkeeper, handing her a note for
five hundred francs.</p>

<p>"I will give you the change, sir. What is your
address?"</p>

<p>"Rue du Temple, No. 17."</p>

<p>"Rue du Temple, No. 17; oh, very well, very well, I
know it."</p>

<p>"Have you ever been to that house?"</p>

<p>"Often. First I bought the furniture of a woman
there, who lent money on wages; it is not a very creditable
business, to be sure, but that's no affair of mine,&mdash;she
sells, I buy, and so that's settled. Another time, not
six weeks ago, I went there again for the furniture of a
young man, who lived on the fourth floor, and was
moving away."</p>

<p>"M. François Germain, perhaps?" said Rodolph.</p>

<p>"Just so. Did you know him?"</p>

<p>"Very well; and, unfortunately, he has not left his
present address in the Rue du Temple, so I do not know
where to find him. But where shall we find a cart to
take the goods?"</p>

<p>"As it is not far, a large truck will do, and old
Jérome is close by, my regular commissionaire. If you
wish to know the address of M. François Germain, I
can help you."</p>

<p>"What? Do you know where he lives?"</p>

<p>"Not exactly, but I know where you may be sure to
meet with him."</p>

<p>"Where?"</p>

<p>"At the notary's where he works."</p>

<p>"At a notary's?"</p>

<p>"Yes, who lives in the Rue du Sentier."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p>

<p>"M. Jacques Ferrand?" exclaimed Rodolph.</p>

<p>"Yes; and a very worthy man he is. There is a
crucifix and some holy boxwood in his study; it looks
just as if one was in a sacristy."</p>

<p>"But how did you know that M. Germain worked at
this notary's?"</p>

<p>"Why, this way: this young man came to me to ask
me to buy his little lot of furniture all of a lump. So
that time, too, though rather out of my line, I bought all
his kit, and brought it here, because he seemed a nice
young fellow, and I had a pleasure in obliging him.
Well, I bought him right clean out, and I paid him well;
he was, no doubt, very well satisfied, for, a fortnight
afterwards, he came again, to buy some bed furniture
from me. A commissionaire, with a truck, went with
him, everything was packed: well, but, at the moment
he was going to pay me, lo and behold! he had forgotten
his purse; but he looked so like an honest man that I
said to him, 'Take the things with you,&mdash;never mind,
I shall be passing your way, and will call for the money.'
'Very good,' says he; 'but I am never at home, so
call to-morrow in the Rue du Sentier, at M. Jacques
Ferrand's, the notary, where I am employed, and I will
pay you.' I went next day, and he paid me; only, what
was very odd to me was that he sold his things, and
then, a fortnight afterwards, he buys others."</p>

<p>Rodolph thought that he was able to account for this
singular fact. Germain was desirous of destroying every
trace from the wretches who were pursuing him: fearing,
no doubt, that his removal might put them on the scent of
his fresh abode, he had preferred, in order to avoid this
danger, selling his goods, and afterwards buying others.</p>

<p>The prince was overjoyed to think of the happiness in
store for Madame Georges, who would thus, at length,
see again that son so long and vainly sought.</p>

<p>Rigolette now returned, with a joyful eye and smiling
lips.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p>

<p>"Well, did not I tell you so?" she exclaimed. "I am
not deceived: we shall have spent six hundred and forty
francs all together, and the Morels will be set up like
princes. Here come the shopkeepers; are they not
loaded? Nothing will now be wanting for the family;
they will have everything requisite, even to a gridiron,
two newly tinned saucepans, and a coffee-pot. I said to
myself, since they are to have things done so grandly,
let them be grand; and, with all that, I shall not have
lost more than three hours. But come, neighbour, pay
as quickly as you can, and let us be gone. It will soon
be noon, and my needle must go at a famous rate to
make up for this morning."</p>

<p>Rodolph paid, and quitted the Temple with Rigolette.</p>

<p>At the moment when the grisette and her companion
were entering the passage, they were almost knocked
over by Madame Pipelet, who was running out, frightened,
troubled, and aghast.</p>

<p>"Mercy on us!" said Rigolette, "what ails you,
Madame Pipelet? Where are you running to in that
manner?"</p>

<p>"Is it you, Mlle. Rigolette?" exclaimed Anastasie;
"it is Providence that sends you; help me to save
the life of Alfred."</p>

<p>"What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"The darling old duck has fainted. Have mercy
on us! Run for me, and get me two sous' worth of
absinthe at the dram-shop,&mdash;the strongest, mind; it is
his remedy when he is indisposed in the pylorus,&mdash;that
generally sets him up again. Be kind, and do not refuse
me, I can then return to Alfred; I am all over in such
a fluster."</p>

<p>Rigolette let go Rodolph's arm, and ran quickly to
the dram-shop.</p>

<p>"But what has happened, Madame Pipelet?" inquired
Rodolph, following the porteress into the lodge.</p>

<p>"How can I tell, my worthy sir? I had gone out to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>
the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop, to save Alfred
so much trotting about; I returned, and what should I
see but the dear old cosset with his legs and arms all in
the air! There, M. Rodolph," said Anastasie, opening
the door of her dog-hole, "say if that is not enough to
break one's heart!"</p>

<p>Lamentable spectacle! With his bell-crowned hat
still on his head, even further on than usual, for the
ambiguous castor, pushed down, no doubt, by violence,
to judge by a transverse gap, covered M. Pipelet's eyes,
who was on his back on the ground at the foot of his
bed. The fainting was over, and Alfred was beginning
to make some slight gesticulations with his hands, as
if he sought to repulse somebody or something, and
then he tried to push off this troublesome visor, with
which he had been bonneted.</p>

<p>"He kicks,&mdash;that's a beautiful symptom! He comes
to!" exclaimed the porteress, who, stooping down,
bawled in his ears, "What's the matter with my Alfred?
It's his 'Stasie who is with him. How goes it now?
There's some absinthe coming, that will set you up."
Then, assuming a falsetto voice of much endearment,
she added: "What, did they abuse and assassinate him,&mdash;the
dear old darling, the delight of his 'Stasie, eh?"</p>

<p>Alfred heaved an immense sigh, and, with a mighty
groan, uttered the fatal word:</p>

<p>"Cabrion!"</p>

<p>And his tremulous hands again seemed desirous of
repulsing the fearful vision.</p>

<p>"Cabrion! What, that cussed painter again?" exclaimed
Madame Pipelet. "Alfred dreamed of him
all night long, so that he kicked me almost to death.
This monster is his nightmare; not only does he
poison his days, but he poisons his nights also,&mdash;he
pursues him in his very sleep; yes, sir, as though
Alfred was a malefactor, and this Cabrion, whom may
Heaven confound! was his unceasing remorse."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p>

<p>Rodolph smiled, discreetly detecting some new freak
of Rigolette's former neighbour.</p>

<p>"Alfred! answer me; don't remain mute, you frighten
me," said Madame Pipelet; "let's try and get you up.
Why, lovey, do you keep thinking of that vagabond fellow?
You know that, when you think of that fellow, it
has the same effect on you that cabbage has,&mdash;it fills up
your pylorus and stifles you."</p>

<p>"Cabrion!" repeated M. Pipelet, pushing up, with an
effort, the hat which had fallen so low over his eyes,
which he rolled around him with an affrighted air.</p>

<p>Rigolette entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe.</p>

<p>"Thankee, ma'amselle, you are so kind!" said the old
body; and then she added, "Come, deary, suck this
down, that will make you all right."</p>

<p>And Anastasie, presenting the phial quickly to M.
Pipelet's lips, contrived to make him swallow the absinthe.
In vain did Alfred struggle vigorously. His
wife, taking advantage of the victim's weakness, held up
his head firmly with one hand, whilst with the other she
introduced the neck of the little bottle between his
teeth, and compelled him to swallow the absinthe, after
which she exclaimed, triumphantly:</p>

<p>"Ther-r-r-r-e, now-w-w! you're on your pins again,
my ducky!"</p>

<p>And Alfred, having wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand, opened his eyes, rose, and inquired, in accents
of alarm:</p>

<p>"Have you seen him?"</p>

<p>"Who?"</p>

<p>"Is he gone?"</p>

<p>"Who, Alfred?"</p>

<p>"<i>Cabrion!</i>"</p>

<p>"Has he dared&mdash;" asked the porteress.</p>

<p>M. Pipelet, as mute as the statue of the commandant,
like that redoubtable spectre, bowed his head twice with
an affirmative air.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p>

<p>"What! has M. Cabrion been here?" inquired Rigolette,
repressing a violent desire to laugh.</p>

<p>"What! has the monster been unchained on Alfred?"
said Madame Pipelet. "Oh, if I had been there with
my broom, he should have swallowed it, handle and all!
But tell us, Alfred, all about this horrid affair."</p>

<p>M. Pipelet made signs with his hand that he was about
to speak, and they listened to the man with the bell-crowned
hat in religious silence, whilst he expressed
himself in these terms, and in a voice of deep emotion:</p>

<p>"My wife had left me, to save me the trouble of going
out, according to the request of monsieur," bowing to
Rodolph, "to the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop."</p>

<p>"The dear old darling had had the nightmare all
night, and I wished to save him the journey," said
Anastasie.</p>

<p>"This nightmare was sent me as a warning from
on high," responded the porter, religiously. "I had
dreamed of Cabrion, and I was to suffer from Cabrion.
Here was I sitting quietly in front of my table, reflecting
on an alteration which I wished to make in the upper
leather of this boot confided to my hands, when I heard
a noise, a rustling, at the window of my lodge,&mdash;was
it a presentiment, a warning from on high? My heart
beat, I lifted up my head, and, through the pane of glass,
I saw&mdash;I saw&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Cabrion!" exclaimed Anastasie, clasping her hands.</p>

<p>"Cabrion!" replied M. Pipelet, gloomily. "His hideous
face was there, pressed close against the window,
and he was looking at me with eyes like a cat's&mdash;what
do I say?&mdash;a tiger's! just as in my dream. I tried to
speak, but my tongue clave to my mouth; I tried to rise,
I was nailed to my seat. My boot fell from my hands,
and, as in all the critical and important events of my
life, I remained perfectly motionless. Then the key
turned in the lock, the door opened,&mdash;Cabrion entered!"</p>

<p>"He entered? Owdacious monster!" replied Madame<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
Pipelet, as much astonished as her spouse at such
audacity.</p>

<p>"He entered slowly," resumed Alfred, "stopped a
moment at the threshold, as if to fascinate me with his
look, atrocious as it was, then he advanced towards
me, pausing at each step, and piercing me through with
his eye, but not uttering a word,&mdash;straight, mute, and
threatening as a phantom!"</p>

<p>"I declare, my very heart aches to hear him," said
Anastasie.</p>

<p>"I remained still more motionless, and glued to my
chair; Cabrion still advanced slowly towards me, fixing
his eye as the serpent glares at the bird; he so frightened
me that, in spite of myself, I kept my eye on him; he
came close to me, and then I could no longer endure his
revolting aspect, it was too much, and I could not. I
shut my eyes, and then I felt that he dared to place his
hands upon my hat, which he took by the crown and
lifted gently off my head, leaving it bare. I began to be
seized with vertigo, my breathing was suspended, there
was a singing in my ears, and I was completely fastened
to my seat, and I closed my eyes still closer and closer.
Then Cabrion stooped, took my head between his hands,
which were as cold as death, and on my forehead, covered
with an icy damp, he deposited a brazen kiss, indecent
wretch!"</p>

<p>Anastasie lifted her hands towards heaven.</p>

<p>"My enemy, the most deadly, imprinted a kiss on my
forehead; such a monstrosity overcame and paralysed
me. Cabrion profited by my stupor to place my hat on
my head, and then, with a blow of his fist, drove it down
over my eyes, as you saw. This last outrage destroyed
me; the measure was full, all about me was turning
around, and I fainted at the moment when I saw him,
from under the rim of my hat, leave the lodge as quietly
and slowly as he had entered."</p>

<p>Then, as if the recital had exhausted all his strength,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>
M. Pipelet fell back in his chair, raising his hands to
heaven in a manner of mute imprecation. Rigolette
went out quickly; she could not restrain herself any
longer; her desire to laugh almost stifled her. Rodolph
had the greatest difficulty to keep his countenance.</p>

<p>Suddenly there was a confused murmur, such as
announces the arrival of a mob, heard from the street,
and a great noise came from the door at the top of the
entrance, and then butts of grounded muskets were heard
on the steps of the door.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3>

<h5>THE ARREST.</h5>


<p>"Good gracious! M. Rodolph," exclaimed Rigolette,
running in, pale and trembling, "a commissary of police
and the guard have come here."</p>

<p>"Divine justice watches over me," said M. Pipelet, in
a transport of pious gratitude. "They have come to
arrest Cabrion; unfortunately it is too late."</p>

<p>A commissary of police, wearing his tricoloured scarf
around his waist underneath his black coat, entered the
lodge. His countenance was impressive, magisterial, and
serious.</p>

<p>"M. le Commissaire is too late; the malefactor has
escaped," said M. Pipelet, in a sorrowful voice; "but I
will give you his description,&mdash;villainous smile, impudent
look, insulting&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Of whom do you speak?" inquired the magistrate.</p>

<p>"Of Cabrion, M. le Commissaire; but, perhaps, if you
make all haste, it is not yet too late to catch him," added
M. Pipelet.</p>

<p>"I know nothing about any Cabrion," said the magistrate,
impatiently. "Does one Jérome Morel, a working
lapidary, live in this house?"</p>

<p>"Yes, mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet, putting
herself into a military attitude.</p>

<p>"Conduct me to his apartment."</p>

<p>"Morel, the lapidary!" said the porteress, excessively
surprised; "why, he is the mildest lambkin in the world.
He is incapable of&mdash;"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p>

<p>"Does Jérome Morel live here or not?"</p>

<p>"He lives here, sir, with his family, in one of the
attics."</p>

<p>"Lead me to his attic."</p>

<p>Then, addressing himself to a man who accompanied
him, the magistrate said:</p>

<p>"Let two of the municipal guard wait below, and not
leave the entrance. Send Justing for a hackney-coach."</p>

<p>The man left the lodge to put these orders in execution.</p>

<p>"Now," continued the magistrate, addressing himself
to M. Pipelet, "lead me to Morel."</p>

<p>"If it is all the same to you, mon commissaire, I will
do that for Alfred; he is indisposed from Cabrion's
behaviour, which, just as the cabbage does, troubles his
pylorus."</p>

<p>"You or your husband, it is no matter which. Go
forward."</p>

<p>And, preceded by Madame Pipelet, he ascended the
staircase, but soon stopped when he saw Rodolph and
Rigolette following him.</p>

<p>"Who are you, and what do you want?" he inquired.</p>

<p>"They are two lodgers in the fourth story," said
Madame Pipelet.</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know that you
belonged to the house," said he to Rodolph.</p>

<p>The latter, auguring well from the polite behaviour of
the magistrate, said to him:</p>

<p>"You are going to see a family in a state of deep
misery, sir. I do not know what fresh stroke of ill fortune
threatens this unhappy artisan, but he has been
cruelly tried last night,&mdash;one of his daughters, worn
down by illness, is dead before his eyes,&mdash;dead from
cold and misery."</p>

<p>"Is it possible?"</p>

<p>"It is, indeed, the fact, mon commissaire," said
Madame Pipelet. "But for this gentleman who speaks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>
to you, and who is a king of lodgers, for he has saved
poor Morel from prison by his generosity, the whole
family of the lapidary must have died of hunger."</p>

<p>The commissary looked at Rodolph with equal surprise
and interest.</p>

<p>"Nothing is more easily explained, sir," said Rodolph.
"A person who is very charitable, learning that Morel,
whose honour and honesty I will guarantee to you, was
in a most deplorable and unmerited state of distress,
authorised me to pay a bill of exchange for which the
bailiffs were about to drag off to prison this poor workman,
the sole support of his numerous family."</p>

<p>The magistrate, in his turn, struck by the noble
physiognomy of Rodolph, as well as the dignity of his
manners, replied:</p>

<p>"I have no doubt of Morel's probity. I only regret I
have to fulfil a painful duty in your presence, sir, who
have so deeply interested yourself in this family."</p>

<p>"What do you mean, sir?"</p>

<p>"From the services you have rendered to the Morels,
and your language, I see, sir, that you are a worthy person.
Having, besides, no reason for concealing the object
of the warrant which I have to execute, I will confess
to you that I am about to apprehend Louise Morel, the
lapidary's daughter."</p>

<p>The recollection of the rouleau of gold, offered to the
bailiffs by the young girl, occurred to Rodolph.</p>

<p>"Of what is she then accused?"</p>

<p>"She lies under a charge of child-murder."</p>

<p>"She! she! Oh, her poor father!"</p>

<p>"From what you have told me, sir, I imagine that,
under the miserable circumstances in which this artisan
is, this fresh blow will be terrible for him. Unfortunately,
I must carry out the full instructions with which
I am charged."</p>

<p>"But it is at present only an accusation?" asked
Rodolph. "Proofs, no doubt, are still wanting?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p>

<p>"I cannot tell you more on that point. Justice has
been informed of this crime, or rather the presumptive
crime, by the statement of an individual most respectable
in every particular, Louise Morel's master."</p>

<p>"Jacques Ferrand, the notary?" said Rodolph, with
indignation.</p>

<p>"Yes, sir&mdash;"</p>

<p>"M. Jacques Ferrand is a wretch, sir!"</p>

<p>"I am pained to see that you do not know the person
of whom you speak, sir. M. Jacques Ferrand is one of
the most honourable men in the world; his rectitude is
universally recognised."</p>

<p>"I repeat to you, sir, that this notary is a wretch. It
was he who sought to send Morel to prison because his
daughter repulsed his libidinous proposals. If Louise is
only accused on the denunciation of such a man, you
must own, sir, that the charge deserves but very little
credit."</p>

<p>"It is not my affair, sir, and I am very glad of it, to
discuss the depositions of M. Ferrand," said the magistrate,
coldly. "Justice is informed in this matter, and
it is for a court of law to decide. As for me, I have
a warrant to apprehend Louise Morel, and that warrant
I must put into execution."</p>

<p>"You are quite right, sir, and I regret that an impulse
of feeling, however just, should have made me forget for
a moment that this was neither the time nor the place
for such a discussion. One word only: the corpse of
the child which Morel has lost is still in the attic, and I
have offered my apartments to the family to spare them
the sad spectacle of the dead body. You will, therefore,
find the lapidary, and possibly his daughter, in my rooms.
I entreat you, sir, in the name of humanity, do not apprehend
Louise abruptly in the midst of the unhappy family
only a short time since snatched from their state of utter
wretchedness. Morel has had so many shocks during
this night that it is really to be feared his reason may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
sink under it; already his wife is dangerously ill, and
such a blow would kill him."</p>

<p>"Sir, I have always executed my orders with
every possible consideration, and I shall act similarly
now."</p>

<p>"Will you allow me, sir, to ask you one favour? It
is this: the young female who is following us occupies
an apartment close to mine, which, I have no doubt, she
would place at your disposal. You could, in the first
instance, send for Louise, and, if necessary, for Morel
afterwards, that his daughter may take leave of him.
You will thus save a poor sick and infirm mother from
a very distressing scene."</p>

<p>"Most willingly, sir, if it can be so arranged."</p>

<p>The conversation we have just described was carried
on in an undertone, whilst Rigolette and Madame Pipelet
kept away discreetly a few steps' distance from the
commissary and Rodolph. The latter then went to
the grisette, whom the presence of the commissary had
greatly affrighted, and said to her:</p>

<p>"My good little neighbour, I want another service
from you,&mdash;I want you to leave your room at my
disposal for the next hour."</p>

<p>"As long as you please, M. Rodolph. You have the
key. But, oh, say what is the matter?"</p>

<p>"I will tell you all by and by. But I want something
more; you must return to the Temple, and tell them not
to bring our purchases here for the next hour."</p>

<p>"To be sure I will, M. Rodolph; but has any fresh
misfortune befallen the Morels?"</p>

<p>"Alas! yes, something very sad indeed, which you
will learn but too soon."</p>

<p>"Well, then, neighbour, I will run to the Temple.
Alas, alas! I was thinking that, thanks to your kindness,
these poor people had been quite relieved from
their trouble!" said the grisette, who then descended
the staircase very quickly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p>

<p>Rodolph had been very desirous of sparing Rigolette
the distressing scene of Louise Morel's arrest.</p>

<p>"Mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet, "since my
king of lodgers will direct you, I may return to my
Alfred. I am uneasy about him, for when I left him
he had hardly recovered from his indisposition which
Cabrion had caused."</p>

<p>"Go, go," said the magistrate, who was thus left
alone with Rodolph.</p>

<p>They both ascended to the landing-place on the fourth
story, at the door of the chamber in which the lapidary
and his family had been temporarily established.</p>

<p>Suddenly the door opened. Louise, pale and in tears,
came out quickly.</p>

<p>"Adieu, adieu, father!" she exclaimed. "I will come
back again, but I must go now."</p>

<p>"Louise, my child, listen to me a moment," said
Morel, following his daughter, and endeavouring to
detain her.</p>

<p>At the sight of Rodolph and the magistrate, Louise
and the lapidary remained motionless.</p>

<p>"Ah, sir, you, our kind benefactor!" said the artisan,
recognising Rodolph, "assist me in preventing Louise
from leaving us. I do not know what is the matter
with her, but she quite frightens me, she is so determined
to go. Now there is no occasion for her to return
to her master, is there, sir? Did you not say to me,
'Louise shall not again leave you, and that will recompense
you for much that you have suffered?' Ah! at
that kind promise, I confess that for a moment I had
forgot the death of my poor little Adèle; but I must not
again be separated from thee, Louise, oh, never, never!"</p>

<p>Rodolph was wounded to the heart, and was unable to
utter a word in reply.</p>

<p>The commissary said sternly to Louise:</p>

<p>"Is your name Louise Morel?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir," replied the young girl, quite overcome.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p>

<p>"You are Jérome Morel, her father?" added the
magistrate, addressing the lapidary.</p>

<p>Rodolph had opened the door of Rigolette's apartment.</p>

<p>"Yes, sir; but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Go in there with your daughter."</p>

<p>And the magistrate pointed to Rigolette's chamber,
into which Rodolph had already entered.</p>

<p>Reassured by his preserver, the lapidary and Louise,
astonished and uneasy, did as the commissary desired
them.</p>

<p>The commissary shut the door, and said with much
feeling to Morel:</p>

<p>"I know that you are honest and unfortunate, and it
is, therefore, with regret that I tell you that I am here
in the name of the law to apprehend your daughter."</p>

<p>"All is discovered,&mdash;I am lost!" cried Louise, in
agony, and throwing herself into her father's arms.</p>

<p>"What do you say? What do you say?" inquired
Morel, stupefied. "You are mad! What do you mean
by lost? Apprehend you! Why apprehend you? Who
has come to apprehend you?"</p>

<p>"I, and in the name of the law;" and the commissary
showed his scarf.</p>

<p>"Oh, wretched, wretched girl!" exclaimed Louise,
falling on her knees.</p>

<p>"What! in the name of the law?" said the artisan,
whose reason, severely shaken by this fresh blow, began
to totter. "Why apprehend my daughter in the name
of the law? I will answer for Louise, I will,&mdash;this my
child, my good child, ain't you, Louise? What! apprehend
you, when our good angel has restored you to us to
console us for the death of our poor, dear little Adèle?
Come, come, this can't be. And then, to speak respectfully,
M. le Commissaire, they apprehend none but the
bad, you know; and my Louise is not bad. So you see,
my dear, the good gentleman is mistaken. My name
is Morel, but there are other Morels; you are Louise, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
there are other Louises; so you see, M. le Commissaire,
there is a mistake, certainly some mistake!"</p>

<p>"Unhappily there is no mistake. Louise Morel, take
leave of your father!"</p>

<p>"What! are you going to take my daughter away?"
exclaimed the workman, furious with grief, and advancing
towards the magistrate with a menacing air.</p>

<p>Rodolph seized the lapidary by the arm, and said to
him:</p>

<p>"Be calm, and hope for the best; your daughter will
be restored to you; her innocence must be proved; she
cannot be guilty."</p>

<p>"Guilty of what? She is not guilty of anything. I
will put my hand in the fire if&mdash;" Then, remembering
the gold which Louise had brought to pay the bill with,
Morel cried, "But the money&mdash;that money you had this
morning, Louise!" And he gave his daughter a terrible
look.</p>

<p>Louise understood it.</p>

<p>"I rob!" she exclaimed; and her cheeks suffused
with generous indignation, her tone and gesture, reassured
her father.</p>

<p>"I knew it well enough!" he exclaimed. "You see,
M. le Commissaire, she denies it; and I swear to you,
that she never told me a lie in her life; and everybody
that knows her will say the same thing as I do.
She lie! Oh, no, she is too proud to do that! And, then,
the bill has been paid by our benefactor. The gold she
does not wish to keep, but will return it to the person
who lent it to her, desiring him not to tell any one;
won't you, Louise?"</p>

<p>"Your daughter is not accused of theft," said the
magistrate.</p>

<p>"Well, then, what is the charge against her? I, her
father, swear to you that she is innocent of whatever
crime they may accuse her of, and I never told a lie in
my life either."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p>

<p>"Why should you know what she is charged with?"
said Rodolph, moved by his distress. "Louise's innocence
will be proved; the person who takes so great an
interest in you will protect your daughter. Come, come!
Courage, courage! This time Providence will not forsake
you. Embrace your daughter, and you will soon see her
again."</p>

<p>"M. le Commissaire," cried Morel, not attending to
Rodolph, "you are going to deprive a father of his
daughter without even naming the crime of which she
is accused! Let me know all! Louise, why don't you
speak?"</p>

<p>"Your daughter is accused of child-murder," said the
magistrate.</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I&mdash;I&mdash;child-mur&mdash;I don't&mdash;you&mdash;"</p>

<p>And Morel, aghast, stammered incoherently.</p>

<p>"Your daughter is accused of having killed her child,"
said the commissary, deeply touched at this scene; "but
it is not yet proved that she has committed this crime."</p>

<p>"Oh, no, I have not, sir! I have not!" exclaimed
Louise, energetically, and rising; "I swear to you that
it was dead. It never breathed,&mdash;it was cold. I lost
my senses,&mdash;this is my crime. But kill my child! Oh,
never, never!"</p>

<p>"Your child, abandoned girl!" cried Morel, raising
his hands towards Louise, as if he would annihilate her
by this gesture and imprecation.</p>

<p>"Pardon, father, pardon!" she exclaimed.</p>

<p>After a moment's fearful silence, Morel resumed, with
a calm that was even more frightful:</p>

<p>"M. le Commissaire, take away that creature; she is
not my child!"</p>

<p>The lapidary turned to leave the room; but Louise
threw herself at his knees, around which she clung with
both arms; and, with her head thrown back, distracted
and supplicating, she exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Father, hear me! Only hear me!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p>

<p>"M. le Commissaire, away with her, I beseech you! I
leave her to you," said the lapidary, struggling to free
himself from Louise's embrace.</p>

<p>"Listen to her," said Rodolph, holding him; "do not
be so pitiless."</p>

<p>"To her! To her!" repeated Morel, lifting his two
hands to his forehead, "to a dishonoured wretch! A
wanton! Oh, a wanton!"</p>

<p>"But, if she were dishonoured through her efforts to
save you?" said Rodolph to him in a low voice.</p>

<p>These words made a sudden and painful impression
on Morel, and he cast his eyes on his weeping child still
on her knees before him; then, with a searching look,
impossible to describe, he cried in a hollow voice,
clenching his teeth with rage:</p>

<p>"The notary?"</p>

<p>An answer came to Louise's lips. She was about to
speak, but paused,&mdash;no doubt a reflection,&mdash;and, bending
down her head, remained silent.</p>

<p>"No, no; he sought to imprison me this morning!"
continued Morel, with a violent burst. "Can it be he?
Ah, so much the better, so much the better! She has
not even an excuse for her crime; she never thought
of me in her dishonour, and I may curse her without
remorse."</p>

<p>"No, no; do not curse me, my father! I will tell you
all,&mdash;to you alone, and you will see&mdash;you will see
whether or not I deserve your forgiveness."</p>

<p>"For pity's sake, hear her!" said Rodolph to him.</p>

<p>"What will she tell me,&mdash;her infamy? That will
soon be public, and I can wait till then."</p>

<p>"Sir," said Louise, addressing the magistrate, "for
pity's sake, leave me alone with my father, that I may
say a few words to him before I leave him, perhaps for
ever; and before you, also, our benefactor, I will speak;
but only before you and my father."</p>

<p>"Be it so," said the magistrate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p>

<p>"Will you be pitiless, and refuse this last consolation
to your child?" asked Rodolph of Morel. "If you think
you owe me any gratitude for the kindness which I have
been enabled to show you, consent to your daughter's
entreaties."</p>

<p>After a moment's sad and angry silence, Morel
replied:</p>

<p>"I will."</p>

<p>"But where shall we go!" inquired Rodolph; "your
family are in the other room."</p>

<p>"Where shall we go," exclaimed the lapidary, with a
bitter irony, "where shall we go? Up above,&mdash;up above,
into the garret, by the side of the body of my dead
daughter; that spot will well suit a confession, will it
not? Come along, come, and we will see if Louise will
dare to tell a lie in the presence of her sister's corpse.
Come! Come along!"</p>

<p>And Morel went out hastily with a wild air, and
turning his face from Louise.</p>

<p>"Sir," said the commissary to Rodolph, in an undertone,
"I beg you for this poor man's sake not to protract
this conversation. You were right when you said his
reason was touched; just now his look was that of a
madman."</p>

<p>"Alas, sir, I am equally fearful with yourself of some
fresh and terrible disaster! I will abridge as much as
I can this most painful farewell."</p>

<p>And Rodolph rejoined the lapidary and his daughter.</p>

<p>However strange and painful Morel's determination
might appear, it was really the only thing that, under
the circumstances, could be done. The magistrate
consented to await the issue of this conversation in
Rigolette's chamber; the Morel family were occupying
Rodolph's apartment, and there was only the garret at
liberty; and it was into this horrid retreat that Louise,
her father, and Rodolph betook themselves. Sad and
affecting sight!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p>

<p>In the middle of the attic which we have already
described, there lay, stretched on the idiot's mattress,
the body of the little girl who had died in the morning,
now covered by a ragged cloth. The unusual and clear
light, reflected through the narrow skylight, threw the
figures of the three actors in this scene into bold relief.
Rodolph, standing up, was leaning with his back against
the wall, deeply moved. Morel, seated at the edge of
his working-bench, with his head bent, his hands hanging
listless by his sides, whilst his gaze, fixed and fierce,
rested on, and did not quit, the mattress on which the
remains of his poor little Adèle were deposited. At this
spectacle, the anger and indignation of the lapidary subsided,
and were changed to inexpressible bitterness; his
energy left him, and he was utterly prostrated beneath
this fresh blow. Louise, who was ghastly pale, felt her
strength forsake her. The revelation she was about to
make terrified her. Still she ventured, tremblingly, to
take her father's hand,&mdash;that miserable and shrivelled
hand, withered and wasted by excess of toil. The lapidary
did not withdraw it, and then his daughter, sobbing
as if her heart would burst, covered it with kisses, and
felt it slightly pressed against her lips. Morel's wrath
had ended, and then his tears, long repressed, flowed
freely and bitterly.</p>

<p>"Oh, father, if you only knew!" exclaimed Louise;
"if you only knew how much I am to be pitied!"</p>

<p>"Oh, Louise, this, this will be the heaviest bitter in
my cup for the rest of my life,&mdash;all my life long,"
replied the lapidary, weeping terribly. "You, you in
prison,&mdash;in the same bench with criminals; you so
proud when you had a right to be proud! No," he
resumed in a fresh burst of grief and despair, "no; I
would rather have seen you in your shroud beside your
poor little sister!"</p>

<p>"And I, I would sooner be there!" replied Louise.</p>

<p>"Be silent, unhappy girl, you pain me. I was wrong<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>
to say so; I have been too harsh. Come, speak; but in
the name of Heaven, do not lie. However frightful the
truth may be, yet tell it me all; let me learn it from
your lips, and it will be less cruel. Speak, for, alas!
our moments are counted, they are waiting for you down
below. Ah, just Heaven, what a sad, sad parting!"</p>

<p>"My father, I will tell you all,&mdash;everything," replied
Louise, taking courage; "but promise me&mdash;and our kind
benefactor must promise me also&mdash;not to repeat this to
any person,&mdash;to any person. If he knew that I had
told!&mdash;oh," and she shuddered as she spoke, "you
would be destroyed, destroyed as I am; for you know
not the power and ferocity of this man."</p>

<p>"What man?"</p>

<p>"My master!"</p>

<p>"The notary?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said Louise in a whisper, and looking around
her as if she feared to be overheard.</p>

<p>"Take courage," said Rodolph; "no matter how cruel
and powerful this man may be, we will defeat him!
Besides, if I reveal what you are about to tell us, it
would only be in the interest of yourself or your father."</p>

<p>"And me too, Louise, if I speak, it would be in
endeavouring to save you. But what has this villain
done?"</p>

<p>"This is not all," said Louise, after a moment's
reflection; "in this recital there will be a person
implicated who has rendered me a great service, who
has shown the utmost kindness to my father and family;
this person was in the employ of M. Ferrand when I
entered his service, and he made me take an oath not to
disclose his name."</p>

<p>Rodolph, believing that she referred to Germain, said
to Louise:</p>

<p>"If you mean François Germain, make your mind
tranquil, his secret shall be kept by your father and
myself."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p>

<p>Louise looked at Rodolph with surprise.</p>

<p>"Do you know him?" said she.</p>

<p>"What! was the good, excellent young man, who
lived here for three months, employed at the notary's
when you went to his service?" said Morel. "The first
time you met him here, you appeared as if you had
never seen him before."</p>

<p>"It was agreed between us, father; he had serious
reasons why he did not wish it known that he was
working at M. Ferrand's. It was I who told him of
the room to let on the fourth story here, knowing that
he would be a good neighbour for you."</p>

<p>"But," inquired Rodolph, "who, then, placed your
daughter at the notary's?"</p>

<p>"During the illness of my wife, I said to Madame
Burette&mdash;the woman who advanced money on pledges,
who lived in this house&mdash;that Louise wished to get into
service in order to assist us. Madame Burette knew the
notary's housekeeper, and gave me a letter to her, in
which she recommended Louise as a very good girl.
Cursed letter! it was the cause of all our misfortune.
This was the way, sir, that my daughter got into the
notary's service."</p>

<p>"Although I know some of the causes which excited
M. Ferrand's hatred against your father," said Rodolph
to Louise, "I beg you to tell me as shortly as possible
what passed between you and the notary after your
entering into his service; it may, perhaps, be useful for
your defence."</p>

<p>"When I first went into M. Ferrand's house," said
Louise, "I had nothing to complain of with respect to
him. I had a great deal to do, and the housekeeper
often scolded me, and the house was very dull; but I
endured everything very patiently. Service is service,
and, perhaps, elsewhere I should have other disagreeables.
M. Ferrand was a very stern-looking person; he
went to mass, and frequently had priests in his house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>
I did not at all distrust him; for at first he hardly ever
looked at me, spoke short and cross, especially when
there were any strangers. Except the porter who lived
at the entrance, in the same part of the house as the
office is in, I was the only servant, with Madame
Séraphin, the housekeeper. The pavilion that we
occupied was isolated between the court and the garden.
My bedroom was high up. I was often afraid,
being, as I was, always alone, either in the kitchen,
which is underground, or in my bedroom. One day I
had worked very late mending some things that were
required in a hurry, and then I was going to bed, when
I heard footsteps moving quietly in the little passage at
the end of which my room was situated; some one
stopped at my door. At first I supposed it was the
housekeeper; but, as no one entered, I began to be
alarmed. I dared not move, but I listened; however,
I heard no one; yet I was sure that there was some one
behind my door. I asked twice who was there, but no
one answered; I then pushed my chest of drawers against
the door, which had neither lock nor bolt. I still listened,
but nothing stirred; so at the end of half an hour, which
seemed very long to me, I threw myself on my bed, and
the night passed quietly. The next morning I asked
the housekeeper's leave to have a bolt put on my door,
which had no fastening, telling her of my fright on the
previous night, and she told me I had been dreaming,
and that, if I wanted a bolt, I must ask M. Ferrand
for it. When I asked him, he shrugged up his shoulders,
and said I was crazy; so I did not dare say any more
about it. Some time after this, the misfortune about
the diamond happened. My father in his despair did
not know what to do. I told Madame Séraphin of his
distress, and she replied; 'Monsieur is so charitable,
perhaps he will do something for your father.' The
same afternoon, when I was waiting at table, M. Ferrand
said to me, suddenly, 'Your father is in want of thirteen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>
hundred francs; go and tell him to come to my
office this evening, and he shall have the money.' At
this mark of kindness I burst into tears, and did not
know how to thank him, when he said, with his usual
bluntness, 'Very good, very good; oh, what I do is
nothing!' The same evening, after my work, I came to
my father to tell him the good news; the next day&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I had the thirteen hundred francs, giving him my
acceptance in blank at three months' date," said Morel.
"I did like Louise, and wept with gratitude, called this
man my benefactor. Oh, what a wretch must he be thus
to destroy the gratitude and veneration I entertained for
him!"</p>

<p>"This precaution of making you give him a blank
acceptance, at a date falling due so soon that you could not
meet it, must have raised your suspicion?" said Rodolph.</p>

<p>"No, sir, I only thought the notary took it for security,
that was all; besides, he told me that I need not think
about repaying this sum in less than two years; but that,
every three months, the bill should be renewed for the
sake of greater regularity. It was, however, duly presented
here on the day it became due, but, as you may
suppose, was not paid. The usual course of law was followed
up, and judgment was obtained against me in the
name of a third party. All this I was desired not to
feel any uneasiness respecting, as it had been caused by
an error on the part of the officer in whose hands the
bill had been placed."</p>

<p>"His motive is very evident," said Rodolph; "he
wished to have you entirely in his power."</p>

<p>"Alas, sir, it was from the very day in which he
obtained judgment that he commenced! But, go on,
Louise, go on. I scarcely know where I am. My head
seems giddy and bewildered, and at times my memory
entirely fails me. I fear my senses are leaving me, and
that I shall become mad. Oh, this is too much&mdash;too
hard to bear!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p>

<p>Rodolph having succeeded in tranquillising the lapidary,
Louise thus proceeded:</p>

<p>"With a view to prove my gratitude to M. Ferrand
for all his kindness towards my family, I redoubled my
endeavours to serve him well and faithfully. From that
time the housekeeper appeared to take an utter aversion
to me, and to embrace every opportunity of rendering
me uncomfortable, continually exposing me to anger
by withholding from me the various orders given by
M. Ferrand. All this made me extremely miserable, and
I would gladly have sought another place; but the
knowledge of my father's pecuniary obligation to my
master prevented my following my inclinations.</p>

<p>"The money had now been lent about three months,
and, though M. Ferrand still continued harsh and unkind
to me in the presence of Madame Séraphin, he began
casting looks of a peculiar and embarrassing description
at me whenever he could do so unobserved, and would
smile and seem amused when he perceived the confusion
it occasioned me."</p>

<p>"Take notice, I beg, sir, that it was at this very time
the necessary legal proceedings, for enabling him at any
moment to deprive me of my liberty, were going on."</p>

<p>"One day," said Louise, in continuation, "the housekeeper
went out directly after dinner, contrary to her
usual custom; the clerks, none of whom lived in the
house, were dismissed from further duty for the day,
and retired to their respective homes; the porter was
sent out on a message, leaving M. Ferrand and myself
alone in the house. I was doing some needlework
Madame Séraphin had given me, and by her orders
was sitting in a small antechamber, from whence I
could hear if I was wanted. After some time the
bell of my master's bedroom rang; I went there immediately,
and upon entering found him standing before
the fire. As I approached he turned around suddenly
and caught me in his arms. Alarm and surprise at first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>
deprived me of power to move; but, spite of his great
strength, I at last struggled so successfully, that I
managed to free myself from his grasp, and, running
back with all speed to the room I had just quitted, I
hastily shut the door, and held it with all my force.
Unfortunately, the key was on the other side."</p>

<p>"You hear, sir,&mdash;you hear," said Morel to Rodolph,
"the manner in which this generous benefactor behaved
to the daughter of the man he affected to serve!"</p>

<p>"At the end of a few minutes," continued Louise,
"the door yielded to the efforts of M. Ferrand. Fortunately,
the lamp by which I had been working was
within my reach, and I precipitately extinguished it.
The antechamber was at some distance from his bedchamber,
and we were, therefore, left in utter darkness.
At first he called me by name; but, finding that I did
not reply, he exclaimed, in a voice trembling with rage
and passion, 'If you try to escape from me, your father
shall go to prison for the thirteen hundred francs he
owes, and is unable to pay.' I besought him to have
pity on me, promised to do all in my power to serve
him faithfully, and with gratitude for all his goodness
to my family, but declared that no consideration on
earth should induce me to disgrace myself or those I
belonged to."</p>

<p>"There spoke my Louise," said Morel, "or, rather, as
she would have spoken in her days of proud innocence.
How, then, if such were your sentiments&mdash;But go on,
go on."</p>

<p>"I was still concealed by the darkness, which I
trusted would preserve me, when I heard the door
closed which led from the antechamber, and which
my master had contrived to find by groping along
the wall. Thus, having me wholly in his power, he
returned to his chamber for a light, with which he
quickly returned, and then commenced a fresh attack,
the particulars of which, my dearest father, I will not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
venture to describe; suffice it, that promises, threats,
violence, all were tried; but anger, fear, and despair
armed me with fresh strength, and, while I continually
eluded his grasp, and fled for safety from room to room,
his rage at my determined resistance knew no bounds.
In his fury he even struck me with such frenzied violence
as to leave my features streaming with blood."</p>

<p>"You hear! you hear!" exclaimed the lapidary,
raising his clasped hands towards heaven, "and are
crimes like this to go unpunished? Shall such a
monster escape and not pay a heavy penalty for his
wickedness?"</p>

<p>"Trust me," said Rodolph, who seemed profoundly
meditating on what he heard, "trust me, this man's
time and hour will come. But continue your painful
narration, my poor girl, and shrink not from telling us
even its blackest details."</p>

<p>"The struggle between us had now gone on so long
that my strength began to fail me. I was conscious of
my own inability to resist further, when the porter, who
had returned home, rang the bell twice,&mdash;the usual signal
when letters arrived and required to be fetched from
his hands. Fearing that, if I did not obey the summons,
the porter would bring the letters himself, M. Ferrand
said, 'Go; utter but one word, and to-morrow sees your
father in prison. If you endeavour to quit this house,
the consequences will fall on him; and, as for you, I
will take care no one shall take you into their house,
for, without exactly affirming it, I will contrive to make
every one think you have robbed me. Then, should any
person refer to me for your character, I shall speak of
you as an idle, unworthy girl whom I could keep no
longer.'</p>

<p>"The following day after this scene, spite of the
menaces of my master, I ran home to complain to my
father of the unkind usage I received, without daring,
however, to tell him all. His first desire was for me to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>
quit the house of M. Ferrand without delay. But, then,
a prison would close upon my poor parent; added to
which, my small earnings had become indispensably
necessary to our family since the illness of my mother,
and the bad character promised me by M. Ferrand
might possibly have prevented me from finding another
service for a very long time."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Morel, with gloomy bitterness, "we were
selfish and cowardly enough to allow our poor child to
return to that accursed roof. Oh, I spoke truly when I
said, 'Want, want, what mean, what degrading acts do
you not force us to commit!'"</p>

<p>"Alas, dear father, did you not try by every possible
means to procure these thirteen hundred francs? And,
that being impossible, there was nothing left but to
submit ourselves to our fate."</p>

<p>"Go on, go on; your parents have been your executioners,
and we are far more guilty than yourself of all
the fearful consequences!" exclaimed the lapidary, concealing
his face with his hands.</p>

<p>"When I next saw my master," said Louise, "he had
resumed the harsh and severe manner with which he ordinarily
treated me. He made not the slightest reference
to the scene I have just related, while his housekeeper
persisted in her accustomed tormenting and unkind behaviour
towards me, giving me scarcely sufficient food
to maintain my strength, and even locking the bread up
so that I could not help myself to a morsel; she would
even carry her cruelty so far as to wilfully spoil and
damage the morsels left by herself and M. Ferrand for
my repasts, I always taking my meals after my master
and the housekeeper, who invariably sat down to table together.
My nights were as painful as my days. I durst
not indulge in sleep, lest I should be surprised by the entrance
of the notary. I had no means of securing my
chamber door, and the chest of drawers with which I
used to fasten myself in had been taken away, leaving<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>
me only a small table, a chair, and my box. With these
articles I barricaded the door as well as I could, and
merely lay down in my clothes, ready to start up at the
least noise. Some time elapsed, however, without my
having any further alarm as regarded M. Ferrand, who
seemed to have altogether forgotten me, and seldom bestowed
even a look on me. By degrees my fears died
away, and I became almost persuaded I had nothing
more to dread from the persecutions of my master. One
Sunday I had permission to visit my home, and with
extreme delight hastened to announce the happy change
that had taken place to my parents. Oh, how we all
rejoiced to think so! Up to that moment, my dear
father, you know all that occurred. What I have still
to tell you," murmured Louise, as her voice sunk into
an inarticulate whisper, "is so dreadful that I have never
dared reveal it."</p>

<p>"I was sure, ah, too sure," cried Morel, with a wildness
of manner and rapidity of utterance which startled
and alarmed Rodolph, "that you were hiding something
from me. Too plainly did I perceive, by your pale and
altered countenance, that your mind was burthened with
some heavy secret. Many a time have I said so to your
mother; but she, poor thing! would not listen to me,
and even blamed me for making myself unnecessarily
miserable. So you see, that weakly, and selfish to escape
from trouble ourselves, we allowed our poor, helpless
child to remain under this monster's roof. And to what
have we reduced our poor girl? Why, to be classed with
the felons and criminals of a prison! See, see what
comes of parents sacrificing their children. And, then,
too, be it remembered&mdash;after all&mdash;who knows? True,
we are poor&mdash;very poor, and may be guilty&mdash;yes, yes,
quite right, guilty of throwing our daughter into shame
and disgrace. But, then, see how wretched and distressed
we were! Besides, such as we&mdash;" Then, as if suddenly
striving to collect his bewildered ideas, Morel struck his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>
forehead, exclaiming, "Alas! I know not what I say.
My brain burns and my senses seem deserting me. A
sort of bewilderment seems to come over me as though I
were stupefied with drink. Alas, alas! I am going mad!"
So saying, the unhappy man buried his face between his
hands.</p>

<p>Unwilling that Louise should perceive the extent of
his apprehensions as regarded the agitated state of the
lapidary, and how much alarm he felt at his wild, incoherent
language, Rodolph gravely replied:</p>

<p>"You are unjust, Morel; it was not for herself alone,
but for her aged and afflicted parent, her children, and
you, that your poor wife dreaded the consequences of
Louise's quitting the notary's house. Accuse no one;
but let all your just anger, your bitter curses, fall on the
head that alone deserves it,&mdash;on that hypocritical monster
who offered a weak and helpless girl the alternative
of infamy or ruin; perhaps destruction; perhaps death
to those she most tenderly loved,&mdash;on the fiend who
could thus abuse the power he held, thus prey upon the
tenderest, holiest feelings of a loving daughter, thus
shamelessly outrage every moral and religious duty.
But patience; as I before remarked, Providence frequently
reserves for crimes so black as this a fearful and
astounding retribution."</p>

<p>As Rodolph uttered these words, he spoke with a tone
so expressive of his own conviction of the certain vengeance
of Heaven, that Louise gazed at her preserver
with a surprise not unmingled with fear.</p>

<p>"Go on, my poor girl," resumed Rodolph, addressing
Louise; "conceal nothing from us: it is more important
than you can be aware that you should relate the most
minute details of your sad story."</p>

<p>Thus encouraged, Louise proceeded:</p>

<p>"I began, therefore, as I told you, to regain my tranquillity,
when one evening both M. Ferrand and his
housekeeper went out. They did not dine at home. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>
was quite alone in the house. As usual, my allowance of
bread, wine, and water was left for me, and every place
carefully locked. When I had finished my work, I took
the food placed for me, and, having made my meal, I
retired to my bedroom, thinking it less dull than remaining
down-stairs by myself. I took care to leave a light
in the hall for my master, as when he dined out no one
ever sat up for him. Once in my chamber, I seated
myself and commenced my sewing; but, contrary to my
usual custom, I found the greatest difficulty in keeping
myself awake. A heavy drowsiness seemed to steal
over, and a weight like lead seemed to press on my eyelids.
Alas, dear father!" cried Louise, interrupting
herself as though frightened at her own recital, "I feel
sure you will not credit what I am about to say, you will
believe I am uttering falsehoods; and yet, here, over the
lifeless body of my poor little sister, I swear to the truth
of each word I speak."</p>

<p>"Explain yourself, my good girl," said Rodolph.</p>

<p>"Indeed, sir," answered Louise, "you ask me to do
that I have been vainly trying to accomplish during the
last seven months. In vain have I racked my brains to
endeavour to account for the events of that fatal night.
Sometimes I have almost grown distracted while trying
to clear up this fearful and mysterious occurrence."</p>

<p>"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed the lapidary, suddenly
rousing from one of those fits of almost apathetic stupor
into which he had occasionally fallen from the very commencement
of this narration, "what dreadful thing is
she going to tell us?"</p>

<p>"This lethargic feeling," continued Louise, "so completely
overpowered me, that, unable any longer to resist
it, I at length, contrary to my usual custom, fell
asleep upon my chair. This is all I recollect before&mdash;before&mdash;Oh,
forgive me, father, forgive me! indeed,
indeed, I am not guilty; yet&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I believe you&mdash;I believe you; but proceed."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p>

<p>"I know not how long I slept; but when I awoke it
was to shame and dishonour, for I found M. Ferrand
beside me."</p>

<p>"'Tis false! 'tis false!" screamed the lapidary, in a
tone of frenzied violence. "Confess that you yielded
to violence or to the dread of seeing me dragged to
prison, but do not seek to impose on me by falsehoods
such as this."</p>

<p>"Father! father! I call Heaven to witness I am telling
you the truth only."</p>

<p>"I tell you 'tis a base falsehood. Why should the
notary have wished to throw me in prison, since you had
freely yielded to his wishes?"</p>

<p>"Yielded! Oh, no, dear father, I would have died
first! So deep was my sleep that it resembled that of
death. It may seem to you both extraordinary and
impossible, and I assure you that, up to the present
hour, I myself have never been able to understand it or
account for it&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But I can do so at once," said Rodolph, interrupting
Louise. "This crime alone was wanting to complete
the heavy calendar of that man's offences. Accuse not
your daughter, Morel, of seeking to deceive you. Tell
me, Louise, when you made your meal, before ascending
to your chamber, did you not remark something peculiar
in the taste of the wine given you to drink? Try and
recollect this circumstance."</p>

<p>After reflecting a short time, Louise replied:</p>

<p>"Yes, I do indeed remember," answered she, "that
the wine and water left for me as usual had a somewhat
bitter taste; but I did not pay much attention to it,
because the housekeeper would frequently, when spitefully
inclined, amuse herself with throwing salt or
pepper into what I drank."</p>

<p>"But, on the day you were describing, your wine had
a bitter taste?"</p>

<p>"It had, sir, but not sufficiently so to prevent my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>
drinking it; and I attributed it to the wine being
turned."</p>

<p>Morel, with fixed eye and haggard look, listened both
to the questions of Rodolph and the answers of Louise
without appearing to understand to what they tended.</p>

<p>"And before falling asleep on your chair, did not your
head seem unusually heavy, and your limbs weary?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, sir, I felt a fullness and throbbing in my
temples, an icy coldness seemed to fill my veins, and a
feeling of unusual discomfort oppressed me."</p>

<p>"Wretch, villainous wretch!" exclaimed Rodolph.
"Are you aware, Morel, what this man made your poor
child take in her wine?"</p>

<p>The artisan gazed at Rodolph without replying to his
question.</p>

<p>"His accomplice, the housekeeper, had mingled in
Louise's drink some sort of stupefying drug, most probably
opium, by which means both the bodily and mental
powers of your unfortunate daughter were completely
paralysed for several hours; and when she awoke from
this lethargic state it was to find herself dishonoured
and disgraced."</p>

<p>"Ah, now," exclaimed Louise, "my misfortune is
explained. You see, dear father, I am less guilty than
you thought me. Father! dear, dear father! look upon
me, bestow one little look of pity and of pardon on your
poor Louise!"</p>

<p>But the glance of the lapidary was fixed and vacant;
his honest mind could not comprehend the idea of so
black, so monstrous a crime as that ascribed to the
notary, and he gazed with blank wonder at the words he
heard, as though quite unable to affix any meaning to
them. And besides, during the latter part of the discourse,
his intellect became evidently shaken, his ideas
became a shapeless, confused mass of wandering recollections;
a mere chaotic mass of griefs and sorrows
possessed his brain, and he sank into a state of mental<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>
prostration, which is to intellect what darkness is to the
sight,&mdash;the formidable symptoms of a weakened brain.
After a pause of some length, Morel replied, in a low,
hasty tone:</p>

<p>"Yes, yes; it is bad, very, very bad; cannot be
worse!" and then relapsed into his former apathy;
while Rodolph, watching him with pained attention,
perceived that the energy, even of indignation, was
becoming exhausted within the mind of the miserable
father, in the same manner as excess of grief will frequently
dry up the relief of tears. Anxious to put an
end as quickly as possible to the present trying scene,
Rodolph said to Louise:</p>

<p>"Proceed, my poor child, and let us have the
remainder of this tissue of horrors."</p>

<p>"Alas, sir! what you have heard is as nothing to
that which follows. When I perceived M. Ferrand by
my side I uttered a cry of terror. My first impulse was
to rush from the room, but M. Ferrand forcibly detained
me; and I still felt so weak, so stupefied with the medicine
you speak of as having been mingled in my drink,
that I was powerless as an infant. 'Why do you wish
to escape from me now?' inquired M. Ferrand, with an
air of surprise which filled me with dread. 'What fresh
caprice is this? Am I not here by your own free will
and consent?' 'Oh, sir!' exclaimed I, 'this is most
shameful and unworthy, to take advantage of my sleep
to work my ruin; but my father shall know all!' Here
my master interrupted me by bursting into loud laughter.
'Upon my word, young lady,' said he, 'you are very
amusing. So you are going to say that I availed myself
of your being asleep to effect your undoing. But who
do you suppose will credit such a falsehood? It is now
four in the morning, and since ten o'clock last night I
have been here. You must have slept long and soundly
not to have discovered my presence sooner. Come, come,
no more attempts at shyness, but confess the truth, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>
I came hither with your perfect good-will and consent.
You must be less capricious or we shall not keep good
friends, I fear. Your father is in my power. You have
no longer any cause to fly me. Be obedient to my wishes
and we shall do very well together; but resist me, and
the consequences shall fall heavily on you, and your
family likewise.' 'I will tell my dear father of your conduct,'
sobbed I; 'he will avenge me, and the laws will
punish you.' M. Ferrand looked at me as though at a
loss to comprehend me. 'Why, you have lost your
senses,' cried he; 'what, in Heaven's name, can you tell
your father? That you thought proper to invite me to
your bedroom? But, invent any tale you please, you
will soon find what sort of a reception it will meet with.
Why, your father will not look at you, much more
believe you.' 'But you know,' cried I, 'you well know,
sir, I gave no permission for your being here. You are
well aware you entered my chamber without my knowledge,
and are now here against my will.' 'Against your
will! And is it possible you have the effrontery to utter
such a falsehood, to dare insinuate that I have employed
force to gain my ends? Do you wish to be convinced of
the folly of such an imputation? Why, by my orders,
Germain, my cashier, returned here last night at ten
o'clock to complete some very important papers, and
until one o'clock this morning he was writing in the
chamber directly under yours; would he not then have
been sure to have heard the slightest sound, much less
the repetition of such a struggle as we had together a
little while ago, my saucy little beauty, when you were
not quite in as complying a humour as I found you in
last evening? Germain must have heard you during
the stillness of the night had you but called for assistance.
Ask him, when you see him, whether any such
sound occurred; he will tell you no, and that he worked
on uninterruptedly during the very hours you are accusing
me of forcibly entering your bedchamber.'"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p>

<p>"Ah!" cried Rodolph, "the villain had evidently
taken every precaution to prevent detection."</p>

<p>"He had, indeed. As for me, sir," continued Louise,
"I was so thunderstruck with horror at these assertions
of M. Ferrand, that I knew not what to reply. Ignorant
of my having taken anything to induce sleep, I felt
wholly unable to account for my having slept so unusually
heavy and long. Appearances were strongly
against me; what would it avail for me to publish the
dreadful story? No one would believe me innocent.
How, indeed, could I hope or expect they should, when
even to myself the events of that fatal night continued
an impenetrable mystery?"</p>

<p>Even Rodolph remained speechless with horror at
this fearful revelation of the diabolical hypocrisy of M.
Ferrand.</p>

<p>"Then," said he, after a pause of some minutes, "you
never ventured to inform your father of the infamous
treatment you had received?"</p>

<p>"No," answered she, "for I dreaded lest he might
suppose I had willingly listened to the persuasions of my
master; and I also feared that, in the first burst of his
indignation, my poor father would forget that not only
his own freedom, but the very existence of his family,
depended upon the pleasure of M. Ferrand."</p>

<p>"And probably," continued Rodolph, desirous if possible
to save Louise the painful confession, "probably,
yielding to constraint, and the dread of endangering the
safety of your father and family by a refusal, you continued
to be the victim of this monster's brutality?"</p>

<p>Louise spoke not, but her cast-down eyes, and the deep
blushes which dyed her pale cheek, answered most painfully
in the affirmative.</p>

<p>"And was his conduct afterwards less barbarous and
unfeeling than before?"</p>

<p>"Not in the least. And when, by chance, my master
had the curé and vicaire of Bonne Nouvelle to dine with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>
him, the better to avert all suspicion from himself, he
would scold me severely in their presence, and even beg
M. le Curé to admonish me, assuring him that some day
or other I should fall into ruin; that I was a girl of free
and bold manners, and that he could not make me keep
my distance with the young men in his office; that I
was an idle, unworthy person, whom he only kept out of
charity and pity for my father, who was an honest man
with a large family, whom he had greatly served and
obliged. With the exception of that part of the statement
which referred to my father, the rest was utterly
false. I never, by any chance, saw the clerks belonging
to his office, as it was situated in a building entirely
detached from the house."</p>

<p>"And, when alone with M. Ferrand, how did he
account for his treatment of you before the curé?"</p>

<p>"He assured me he was only jesting. However, the
curé believed him, and reprehended me very severely,
saying that a person must be vicious indeed to go astray
in so godly a household, where I had none but the most
holy and religious examples before my eyes. I knew not
what answer to make to this address; I felt my cheeks burn
and my eyes involuntarily cast down. All these indications
of shame and confusion were construed to my disadvantage,
until, at length, sick at heart, and weary, and
disgusted, my very life seemed a burden to me, and many
times I felt tempted to destroy myself; but the thoughts
of my parents, my poor brothers and sisters, that my
small earnings helped to maintain, deterred me from
ending my sorrows by death. I therefore resigned myself
to my wretched fate, finding one consolation, amidst
the degradation of my lot, in the thought that, at least,
I had preserved my father from the horrors of a prison.
But a fresh misfortune overwhelmed me; I became
<i>enceinte</i>. I now felt myself lost indeed. A secret presentiment
assured me that, when M. Ferrand became
aware of a circumstance which ought, at least, to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>
rendered him less harsh and cruel, he would treat me
even more unkindly than before. I was still, however,
far from expecting what afterwards occurred."</p>

<p>At this moment, Morel, recovering from his temporary
abstraction, gazed around him, as though trying to collect
his ideas, then, pressing his hand upon his forehead,
looked at his daughter with an inquiring glance, and
said:</p>

<p>"I fancy I have been ill, or something is wrong with
my head&mdash;grief&mdash;fatigue&mdash;tell me, my child&mdash;what
were you saying just now? I seem almost unable to
recollect."</p>

<p>"When," continued Louise, unheeding her father's
look, "when M. Ferrand discovered that I was likely to
become a mother&mdash;"</p>

<p>Here the lapidary waved his hand in despairing agony,
but Rodolph calmed him by an imploring look.</p>

<p>"Yes, yes," said Morel, "let me hear all; 'tis fit and
right the tale should be told. Go on, go on, my girl, and
I will listen from beginning to end."</p>

<p>Louise went on. "I besought M. Ferrand to tell me
by what means I should conceal my shame, and the consequence
of a crime of which he was the author. Alas,
dear father, I can scarcely hope or believe you will credit
what I am about to tell you."</p>

<p>"What did he say? Speak."</p>

<p>"Interrupting me with much indignation and well-feigned
surprise, he affected not to understand my meaning,
and even inquired whether I had not lost my senses.
Terrified, I exclaimed, 'Oh, sir, what is to become of
me? Alas, if you have no pity on me, pity at least the
poor infant that must soon see the light!'</p>

<p>"'What a lost, depraved character!' cried M. Ferrand,
raising his clasped hands towards heaven. 'Horrible,
indeed! Why, you poor, wretched girl, is it possible
that you have the audacity to accuse me of disgracing
myself by any illicit acquaintance with a person of your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>
infamous description? Can it be that you have the
hardihood to lay the fruits of your immoral conduct and
gross irregularity at my door,&mdash;I, who have repeated
a hundred times, in the presence of respectable witnesses,
that you would come to ruin some day, vile profligate
that you are? Quit my house this instant, or I
will drive you out!'"</p>

<p>Rodolph and Morel were struck with horror; a
system of wickedness like this seemed to freeze their
blood.</p>

<p>"By Heaven!" said Rodolph, "this surpasses any
horrors that imagination could have conceived."</p>

<p>Morel did not speak, but his eyes expanded fearfully,
whilst a convulsive spasm contracted his features. He
quitted the stool on which he was sitting, opened a
drawer suddenly, and, taking out a long and very sharp
file, fixed in a wooden handle, he rushed towards the
door. Rodolph, guessing his thoughts, seized his arm,
and stopped his progress.</p>

<p>"Morel, where are you going? You will do a mischief,
unhappy man!"</p>

<p>"Take care," exclaimed the infuriated artisan, struggling,
"or I shall commit two crimes instead of one!"
and the madman threatened Rodolph.</p>

<p>"Father, it is our benefactor!" exclaimed Louise.</p>

<p>"He is jesting at us; he wants to save the notary,"
replied Morel, quite crazed, and struggling with Rodolph.
At the end of a second, the latter disarmed him, carefully
opened the door, and threw the file out on the
staircase. Louise ran to the lapidary, embraced him,
and said:</p>

<p>"Father, it is our benefactor! You have raised your
hand against him,&mdash;recover yourself."</p>

<p>These words recalled Morel to himself, and hiding
his face in his hands, he fell mutely on his knees before
Rodolph.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 322px;"><a name="image83" id="image83"></a>
<img src="images/i003.jpg" width="322" height="500" alt="Morel fell back on the stool.
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel." title="Morel fell back on the stool." />
<span class="caption"><i>Morel fell back on the stool.</i><br />
<span class="artist">Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.</span></span>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p>

<p>"Rise, rise, unhappy father," said Rodolph, in accents
of great kindness; "be patient, be patient, I understand
your wrath and share your hatred; but, in the name of
your vengeance, do not compromise your daughter!"</p>

<p>"Louise!&mdash;my daughter!" cried the lapidary, rising,
"but what can justice&mdash;the law&mdash;do against that? We
are but poor wretches, and were we to accuse this rich,
powerful, and respected man, we should be laughed to
scorn. Ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed convulsively,
"and they would be right. Where would be our
proofs?&mdash;yes, our proofs? No one would believe us.
So, I tell you&mdash;I tell you," he added, with increased
fury, "I tell you that I have no confidence but in the
impartiality of my knife."</p>

<p>"Silence, Morel! your grief distracts you," said
Rodolph to him sorrowfully; "let your daughter
speak; the moments are precious; the magistrate
waits; I must know all,&mdash;all, I tell you; go on, my
child."</p>

<p>Morel fell back on the stool, overwhelmed with his
anguish.</p>

<p>"It is useless, sir," continued Louise, "to tell you of
my tears, my prayers. I was thunderstruck. This took
place at ten o'clock in the morning in M. Ferrand's
private room. The curate was coming to breakfast
with him, and entered at the moment when my master
was assailing me with reproach and accusations. He
appeared much put out at the sight of the priest."</p>

<p>"What occurred then?"</p>

<p>"Oh, he soon recovered himself, and exclaimed, call him
by name, 'Well, Monsieur l'Abbé, I said so, I said
this unhappy girl would be undone. She is ruined,
ruined for ever; she has just confessed to me her fault
and her shame, and entreated me to save her. Only
think that, from commiseration, I have received such a
wanton into my house!' 'How,' said the abbé to me
with indignation, 'in spite of the excellent counsels
which your master has given you a hundred times in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>
my presence, have you really sunk so low? Oh, it is
unpardonable! My friend, my friend, after the kindness
you have evinced towards this wretched girl and her
family, any pity would be weakness. Be inexorable,'
said the abbé, the dupe, like the rest of the world, of
M. Ferrand's hypocrisy."</p>

<p>"And you did not unmask the scoundrel on the
spot?" asked Rodolph.</p>

<p>"Ah, no! monsieur, I was terrified, my head was in
a whirl, I did not dare, I could not pronounce a word,&mdash;yet
I was anxious to speak and defend myself. 'But
sir&mdash;' I cried. 'Not one word more, unworthy creature,'
said M. Ferrand, interrupting me. 'You heard M.
l'Abbé. Pity would be weakness. In an hour you
leave my house!' Then, without allowing me time to
reply, he led the abbé into another room. After the
departure of M. Ferrand," resumed Louise, "I was
almost bereft of my senses for a moment. I was
driven from his house, and unable to find any home
elsewhere, in consequence of my condition, and the
bad character which my master would give with me.
I felt sure, too, that in his rage he would send my
father to prison; and I did not know what to do. I
went to my room, and there I wept bitterly. At the
end of two hours M. Ferrand appeared. 'Is your bundle
made up?' said he. 'Pardon,' I exclaimed, falling at
his feet, 'do not turn me from your house in my present
condition. What will become of me? I have no place
to turn to.' 'So much the better; this is the way that
God punishes loose behaviour and falsehood.' 'Dare you
say that I tell falsehood?' I asked, indignantly, 'dare
you say that it is not you who have caused my ruin?'
'Leave my house this moment, you wretch, since you
persist in your calumnies!' he replied in a terrible
voice; 'and to punish you I will to-morrow send your
father to the gaol.' 'Well, no, no!' said I, terrified; 'I
will not again accuse you, sir; that I promise you; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>
do not drive me away from the house. Have pity on
my father. The little I earn here helps to support my
family. Keep me here; I will say nothing. I will
endeavour to hide every thing; and when I can no
longer do so, oh, then, but not till then, send me away!'
After fresh entreaties on my part, M. Ferrand consented
to keep me with him; and I considered that a great
favour in my wretched condition. During the time that
followed this cruel scene, I was most wretched, and
miserably treated; only sometimes M. Germain, whom I
seldom saw, kindly asked me what made me unhappy;
but shame prevented me from confessing anything to
him."</p>

<p>"Was not that about the time when he came to
reside here?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir, he was looking out for an apartment near
the Rue du Temple or de l'Arsenal. There was one to
let here, and I told him of that one which you now
occupy, sir, and it suited him exactly. When he quitted
it, about two months ago, he begged me not to mention
his new address here, but that they knew it at M.
Ferrand's."</p>

<p>The necessity under which Germain was to conceal
himself from those who were trying to find him explained
all these precautions to Rodolph.</p>

<p>"And it never occurred to you to make a confidant of
Germain?" he said to Louise.</p>

<p>"No, sir, he was also a dupe to the hypocrisy of M.
Ferrand; he called him harsh and exacting; but he
thought him the honestest man on the face of the earth."</p>

<p>"When Germain was lodging here, did he never hear
your father at times accuse the notary of desiring to
seduce you?"</p>

<p>"My father never expressed his fears before strangers;
and besides, at this period, I deceived his uneasiness, and
comforted him by the assurances that M. Ferrand no
longer thought of me. Alas! my poor father will now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>
forgive me those falsehoods? I only employed them to
tranquillise your mind, father dear, that was all."</p>

<p>Morel made no reply; he only leaned his forehead on
his two arms, crossed on his working-board, and sobbed
bitterly.</p>

<p>Rodolph made a sign to Louise not to address herself
to her father, and she continued thus:</p>

<p>"I led from this time a life of tears and perpetual
anguish. By using every precaution, I had contrived to
conceal my condition from all eyes; but I could not hope
thus to hide it during the last two months. The future
became more and more alarming to me, as M. Ferrand
had declared that he would not keep me any longer in
the house; and therefore I should be deprived of the
small resources which assisted our family to live.
Cursed and driven from my home by my father, for,
after the falsehoods I had told him to set his mind at
ease, he would believe me the accomplice, and not the
victim of M. Ferrand, what was to become of me? where
could I find refuge or place myself in my condition? I
then had a criminal idea; but, fortunately, I recoiled
from putting it into execution. I confess this to you,
sir, because I will not keep any thing concealed, not even
that which may tell against myself; and thus I may
show you the extremities to which I was reduced by the
cruelty of M. Ferrand. If I had given way to such a
thought, would he not have been the accomplice of my
crime?"</p>

<p>After a moment's silence, Louise resumed with great
effort, and in a trembling voice:</p>

<p>"I had heard say by the porteress that a quack doctor
lived in the house,&mdash;and,&mdash;"</p>

<p>She could not finish.</p>

<p>Rodolph recollected that, at his first interview with
Madame Pipelet, he had received from the postman, in
her absence, a letter written on coarse paper, in a feigned
hand, and on which he had remarked the traces of tears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p>

<p>"And you wrote to him, unhappy girl, three days
since? You wept over your letter; and the handwriting
was disguised."</p>

<p>Louise looked at Rodolph in great consternation.</p>

<p>"How did you know that, sir?"</p>

<p>"Do not alarm yourself; I was alone in Madame
Pipelet's lodge when they brought in the letter; and I
remarked it quite accidentally."</p>

<p>"Yes, sir, it was mine. In this letter, which bore no
signature, I wrote to M. Bradamanti, saying that, as I
did not dare to go to him, I would beg him to be in the
evening near the Château d'Eau. I had lost my senses.
I sought fearful advice from him; and I left my master's
house with the intention of following them; but, at the
end of a minute, my reason returned to me, and I saw
what a crime I was about to commit. I returned to the
house, and did not attend the appointment I had written
for. That evening an event occurred, the consequences
of which caused the misfortune which has overwhelmed
me. M. Ferrand thought I had gone out for a couple of
hours, whilst, in reality, I had been gone but a very
short time. As I passed before the small garden gate,
to my great surprise I saw it half open. I entered by it,
and took the key into M. Ferrand's private room, where
it was usually kept. This apartment was next to his
bedroom, the most retired place in the house; and it was
there he had his private meetings with clients and others,
transacting his every-day business in the office. You
will see, sir, why I give you these particulars. As I very
well knew the ways of the apartments, after having
crossed the dining-room, which was lighted up, I entered
into the salon without any candle, and then into the
little closet, which was on this side of his sleeping-room.
The door of this latter opened at the moment when I was
putting the key on a table; and the moment my master
saw me by the light of the lamp, which was burning in
his chamber, then he suddenly shut the door on some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>
person whom I could not see, and then, in spite of the
darkness, rushed towards me and, seizing me by the
throat as if he would strangle me, said, in a low voice,
and in a tone at once savage and alarmed, 'What! listening!&mdash;spying
at the door! What did you hear?
Answer me,&mdash;answer directly, or I'll strangle you.'
But, suddenly changing his idea, and not giving me time
to say a word, he drove me back into the dining-room;
the office door was open, and he brutally thrust me in
and shut the door."</p>

<p>"And you did not hear the conversation?"</p>

<p>"Not a word, sir; if I had known that there was any
one in his room with him, I should have been careful not
to have gone there. He even forbade Madame Séraphin
from doing so."</p>

<p>"And, when you left the office, what did he say to you?"</p>

<p>"It was the housekeeper who let me out, and I did not
see M. Ferrand again that night. His violence to me,
and the fright I had undergone, made me very ill indeed.
The next day, at the moment when I went down-stairs,
I met M. Ferrand, and I shuddered when I remembered
his threats of the night before; what then was my surprise
when he said to me calmly, 'You knew that I forbid
any one to enter my private room when I have any
person there; but, for the short time longer you will
stay here, it is useless to scold you any more.' And
then he went into his study. This mildness astonished
me after his violence of the previous evening. I went on
with my work as usual, and was going to put his bedchamber
to rights. I had suffered a great deal all night,
and was weak and exhausted. Whilst I was hanging up
some clothes in a dark closet at the end of the room
near the bed, I was suddenly seized with a painful giddiness,
and felt as if I should lose my senses; as I fell, I
tried to support myself by grasping at a large cloak
which hung against the wainscot; but in my fall I drew
this cloak down on me, and was almost entirely covered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>
by it. When I came to myself, the glass door of the
above closet was shut. I heard M. Ferrand's voice,&mdash;he
was speaking aloud. Remembering the scene of the
previous evening, I thought I should be killed if I stirred.
I suppose that, hidden by the cloak which had fallen on
me, my master did not perceive me when he shut the
door of this dark wardrobe. If he found me, how could
I account for, and make him believe, this singular accident?
I, therefore, held my breath, and in spite of myself,
overheard the conclusion of this conversation which,
no doubt had begun some time."</p>

<p>"And who was the person who was talking with the
notary and shut up in this room with him?" inquired
Rodolph of Louise.</p>

<p>"I do not know, sir; I did not recognise the voice."</p>

<p>"And what were they saying?"</p>

<p>"No doubt they had been conversing some time; but
all I heard was this: 'Nothing more easy,' said the unknown
voice; 'a fellow named Bras Rouge has put me,
for the affair I mentioned to you just now, in connection
with a family of "fresh-water pirates,"<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> established on the
point of a small islet near Asnières. They are the greatest
scoundrels on earth; the father and grandfather were
guillotined; two of the sons were condemned to the galleys
for life; but there are still left a mother, three sons,
and two daughters, all as infamous as they can possibly
be. They say that at night, in order to plunder on both
sides of the Seine, they sometimes come down in their
boats as low as Bercy. They are ruffians, who will kill
any one for a crown-piece; but we shall not want their
aid further than their hospitality for your lady from the
country. The Martials&mdash;that is the name of these
pirates&mdash;will pass in her eyes for an honest family of
fishers. I will go, as if from you, to pay two or three
visits to your young lady. I will order her a few comforting
draughts; and at the end of a week or ten days,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>
she will form an acquaintance with the burial-ground of
Asnières. In villages, deaths are looked on as nothing
more than a letter by the post, whilst in Paris they are
a little more curious in such matters. But when do you
send your young lady from the provinces to the isle of
Asnières, for I must give the Martials notice of the part
they have to play?' 'She will arrive here to-morrow,
and next day I shall send her to them,' replied M.
Ferrand; 'and I shall tell her that Doctor Vincent will
pay her a visit at my request.' 'Ah, Vincent will do as
well as any other name,' said the voice."</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> We shall hear more particulars of these worthies in another chapter.</p></div>
</div>

<p>"What new mystery of crime and infamy?" said
Rodolph, with increased astonishment.</p>

<p>"New? No, sir, you will see that it is in connection
with another crime that you know of," resumed Louise,
who thus continued: "I heard a movement of chairs,&mdash;the
interview had ended. 'I do not ask the secret of
you,' said M. Ferrand, 'you behave to me as I behave
to you.' 'Thus we may mutually serve without any
power mutually to injure each other,' answered the
voice. 'Observe my zeal! I received your letter at ten
o'clock last night, and here I am this morning. Good-by,
accomplice; do not forget the isle of Asnières, the
fisher Martial, and Doctor Vincent. Thanks to these
three magic words, your country damsel has only eight
days to look forward to.' 'Wait,' said M. Ferrand,
'whilst I go and undo the safety-bolt, which I have
drawn to in my closet, and let me look out and see that
there is no one in the antechamber, in order that you
may go out by the side path in the garden by which
you entered.' M. Ferrand went out for a moment, and
then returned; and I heard him go away with the person
whose voice I did not know. You may imagine my fright,
sir, during this conversation, and my despair at having
unintentionally discovered such a secret. Two hours after
this conversation, Madame Séraphin came to me in my
room, whither I had gone, trembling all over, and worse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>
than I had been yet. 'My master is inquiring for you,'
said she to me; 'you are better off than you deserve to
be. Come, go down-stairs. You are very pale; but what
you are going to hear will give you a colour.' I followed
Madame Séraphin, and found M. Ferrand in his private
study. When I saw him, I shuddered in spite of myself,
and yet he did not look so disagreeable as usual. He
looked at me steadfastly for some time, as if he would
read the bottom of my thoughts. I lowered my eyes.
'You seem very ill?' he said. 'Yes, sir,' I replied,
much surprised at being thus addressed. 'It is easily
accounted for,' added he; 'it is the result of your condition
and the efforts you make to conceal it; but, in spite
of your falsehoods, your bad conduct, and your indiscretion
yesterday,' he added, in a milder tone, 'I feel pity
for you. A few days more, and it will be impossible to
conceal your situation. Although I have treated you
as you deserve before the curate of the parish, such an
event in the eyes of the world will be the disgrace of
a house like mine; and, moreover, your family will
be deeply distressed. Under these circumstances I will
come to your aid.' 'Ah! sir,' I cried, 'such kind words
from you make me forget everything.' 'Forget what?'
asked he, hastily. 'Nothing,&mdash;nothing,&mdash;forgive me,
sir!' I replied, fearful of irritating him, and believing
him kindly disposed towards me. 'Then attend to me,'
said he; 'you will go to see your father to-day, and tell
him that I am going to send you into the country for
two or three months, to take care of a house which
I have just bought. During your absence I will send
your wages to him. To-morrow you will leave Paris.
I will give you a letter of introduction to Madame Martial,
the mother of an honest family of fishers, who live
near Asnières. You will say you came from the country
and nothing more. You will learn hereafter my motive
for this introduction, which is for your good. Madame
Martial will treat you as one of the family, and a medical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>
man of my acquaintance, Dr. Vincent, will give you
all you require in your situation. You see how kind I
am to you!'"</p>

<p>"What a horrible snare!" exclaimed Rodolph; "I see
it all now. Believing that overnight you had listened
to some secret, no doubt very important for him, he
desired to get rid of you. He had probably an interest
in deceiving his accomplice by describing you as a female
from the country. What must have been your alarm at
this proposal?"</p>

<p>"It was like a violent blow; it quite bereft me of
sense. I could not reply, but looked at M. Ferrand
aghast; my head began to wander. I should, perhaps,
have risked my life by telling him that I had overheard
his projects in the morning, when fortunately I recollected
the fresh perils to which such an avowal would
expose me. 'You do not understand me, then?' he
said, impatiently. 'Yes, sir,&mdash;but,' I added, all trembling,
'I should prefer not going into the country.'
'Why not? You will be taken every care of where
I send you.' 'No, no, I will not go; I would rather
remain in Paris, and not go away from my family; I
would rather confess all to them, and die with them,
if it must be so.' 'You refuse me, then?' said M.
Ferrand, repressing his rage, and looking fixedly at me.
'Why have you so suddenly changed your mind? Not
a minute ago you accepted my offer.' I saw that if he
guessed my motive I was lost, so I replied that I did not
then think that he desired me to leave Paris and my
family. 'But you dishonour your family, you wretched
girl!' he exclaimed, and unable any longer to restrain
himself, he seized me by the arms, and shook me so
violently that I fell. 'I will give you until the day after
to-morrow,' he cried, 'and then you shall go from here
to the Martials, or go and inform your father that I have
turned you out of my house, and will send him to gaol
to-morrow.' He then left me, stretched on the floor,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>
whence I had not the power to rise. Madame Séraphin
had run in when she heard her master raise his voice
so loud, and with her assistance, and staggering at every
step, I regained my chamber, where I threw myself on
my bed, and remained until night, so entirely was I prostrated
by all that had happened. By the pains that came
on about one o'clock in the morning, I felt assured that
I should be prematurely a mother."</p>

<p>"Why did you not summon assistance?"</p>

<p>"Oh, I did not dare. M. Ferrand was anxious to get
rid of me, and he would certainly have sent for Dr.
Vincent, who would have killed me at my master's
instead of killing me at the Martials, or else M. Ferrand
would have stifled me, and said that I had died in my
confinement. Alas, sir, perhaps these were vain terrors,
but they came over me at this moment and caused my
suffering; otherwise I would have endured the shame,
and should never have been accused of killing my child.
Instead of calling for help, and for fear my cries should
be heard, I stuffed my mouth full with the bedclothes.
At length, after dreadful anguish, alone, in the midst
of darkness, the child was born, and,&mdash;dead,&mdash;I did not
kill it!&mdash;indeed, I did not kill it,&mdash;ah, no! In the
midst of this fearful night I had one moment of bitter
joy, and that was when I pressed my child in my arms."</p>

<p>And the voice of Louise was stifled with sobs.</p>

<p>Morel had listened to his daughter's recital with a
mournful apathy and indifference which alarmed Rodolph.
However, seeing her burst into tears, the
lapidary, who was still leaning on his work-board
with his two hands pressed against his temples,
looked at Louise steadfastly, and said:</p>

<p>"She weeps,&mdash;she weeps,&mdash;why is she weeping?"
Then, after a moment's hesitation, "Ah, yes,&mdash;I know,
I know,&mdash;the notary,&mdash;isn't it? Go on my poor
Louise,&mdash;you are my daughter,&mdash;I love you still,&mdash;just
now I did not recognise you,&mdash;my eyes were darkened<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>
with my tears,&mdash;oh, my head,&mdash;how badly it
aches,&mdash;my head, my head!"</p>

<p>"You do not believe me guilty, do you, father, do
you?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no, no!"</p>

<p>"It is a terrible misfortune; but I was so fearful of
the notary."</p>

<p>"The notary? Ah, yes, and well you might be; he
is so wicked, so very wicked!"</p>

<p>"But you will forgive me now?"</p>

<p>"Yes, yes."</p>

<p>"Really and truly?"</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;ah, yes! Ah! I love you the same as ever,&mdash;although
I cannot&mdash;not say&mdash;you see&mdash;because&mdash;oh,
my head, my head!"</p>

<p>Louise looked at Rodolph in extreme alarm.</p>

<p>"He is suffering deeply; but let him calm himself.
Go on."</p>

<p>Louise, after looking twice or thrice at Morel with
great disquietude, thus resumed:</p>

<p>"I clasped my infant to my breast, and was astonished
at not hearing it breathe. I said to myself, 'The
breathing of a baby is so faint that it is difficult to hear
it.' But then it was so cold. I had no light, for they
never would leave one with me. I waited until the
dawn came, trying to keep it warm as well as I could;
but it seemed to me colder and colder. I said to myself
then; 'It freezes so hard that it must be the
cold that chills it so.' At daybreak I carried my child
to the window and looked at it; it was stiff and cold. I
placed my mouth to its mouth, to try and feel its breath.
I put my hand on its heart; but it did not beat; it was
dead."</p>

<p>And Louise burst into tears.</p>

<p>"Oh! at this moment," she continued, "something
passed within me which it is impossible to describe.
I only remember confusedly what followed,&mdash;it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>
like a dream,&mdash;it was at once despair, terror, rage,
and above all, I was seized with another fear; I no
longer feared M. Ferrand would strangle me, but I
feared that, if they found my child dead by my side,
I should be accused of having killed it. Then I had but
one thought, and that was to conceal the corpse from
everybody's sight; and then my dishonour would not be
known, and I should no longer have to dread my father's
anger. I should escape from M. Ferrand's vengeance,
because I could now leave his house, obtain another
situation, and gain something to help and support my
family. Alas! sir, such were the reasons which induced
me not to say any thing, but try and hide my child's
remains from all eyes. I was wrong, I know; but, in
the situation in which I was, oppressed on all sides,
worn out by suffering, and almost mad, I did not consider
to what I exposed myself if I should be discovered."</p>

<p>"What torture! what torture!" said Rodolph with
deep sympathy.</p>

<p>"The day was advancing," continued Louise, "and I
had but a few moments before me until the household
would be stirring. I hesitated no longer, but, wrapping
up the unhappy babe as well as I could, I descended the
staircase silently, and went to the bottom of the garden
to try and make a hole in the ground to bury it; but it
had frozen so hard in the night that I could not dig up
the earth. So I concealed the body in the bottom of a
sort of cellar, into which no one entered during the
winter, and then I covered it up with an empty box
which had held flowers, and returned to my apartment,
without any person having seen me. Of all I tell you,
sir, I have but a very confused recollection. Weak as I
was, it is inexplicable to me how I had strength and
courage to do all I did. At nine o'clock Madame
Séraphin came to inquire why I had not risen. I told
her that I was so very ill, and prayed of her to allow me
to remain in bed during the day, and that on the following<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>
day I should quit the house, as M. Ferrand had dismissed
me. At the end of an hour's time, he came
himself. 'You are worse to-day. Ah! that is the consequence
of your obstinacy,' said he; 'if you had taken
advantage of my kind offer, you would to-day have been
comfortably settled with some worthy people, who would
have taken every care of you; but I will not be so cruel
as to leave you without help in your present situation;
and this evening Doctor Vincent shall come and see
you.' At this threat I shuddered; but I replied to M.
Ferrand that I was wrong to refuse his offers the evening
before, and that I would now accept them; but that,
being too ill to move then, I could not go until the day
after the next to the Martials, and that it was useless to
send for Doctor Vincent. I only sought to gain time, for
I had made up my mind to leave the house, and go the
next day to my father, whom I hoped to keep in ignorance
of all. Relying on my promise, M. Ferrand was almost
kind to me, and, for the first time in his life, recommended
Madame Séraphin to take care of me. I passed
the day in mental agony, trembling every instant lest
the body of my child should be accidentally discovered.
I was only anxious that the frost should break up, so
that, the ground not being so hard, I might be able to
dig it up. The snow began to fall, and that gave me
some hopes. I remained all day in bed, and when the
night came, I waited until every one should be asleep,
and then I summoned strength enough to rise and go to
the wood-closet, where I found a chopper, with which I
hoped to dig a hole in the ground which was covered
with snow. After immense trouble I succeeded, and
then, taking the body, I wept bitterly over it, and
buried it as well as I could in the little box that
had held flowers. I did not know the prayer for the
dead; but I said a Pater and an Ave, and prayed to
the good God to receive it into Paradise. I thought my
courage would fail me when I was covering the mould<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span>
over the sort of bier I had made. A mother burying
her own child! At length I completed my task, and ah,
what it cost me! I covered the place all over with
snow, that it might conceal every trace of what I had
done. The moon had lighted me; yet, when all was
done, I could hardly resolve to go away. Poor little
innocent!&mdash;in the icy ground,&mdash;beneath the snow!
Although it was dead, yet I still seemed to fear that it
must feel the cold. At length I returned to my chamber;
and when I got into bed I was in a violent fever.
In the morning M. Ferrand sent to know how I found
myself. I replied that I was a little better, and that I
felt sure I should be strong enough to go next day into
the country. I remained the whole of the day in bed,
hoping to acquire a little strength, and in the evening I
arose and went down into the kitchen to warm myself. I
was then quite alone, and then went out into the garden to
to say a last prayer. As I went up to my room I met M.
Germain on the landing-place of the study in which he
wrote sometimes, looking very pale. He said to me
hastily, placing a rouleau of money in my hand, 'They
are going to arrest your father to-morrow morning for
an over-due bill of thirteen hundred francs; he is unable
to pay it; but here is the money. As soon as it is light,
run to him. It was only to-day that I found out what
sort of a man M. Ferrand is; and he is a villain. I
will unmask him. Above all, do not say that you have
the money from me.'</p>

<p>"M. Germain did not even give me time to thank
him, but ran quickly down-stairs. This morning," continued
Louise, "before any one had risen at M. Ferrand's,
I came here with the money which M. Germain had given
me to save my father; but it was not enough, and but
for your generosity, I could not have rescued him from
the bailiff's hands. Probably, after I had left, they went
into my room and, having suspicions, have now sent
to arrest me. One last service, sir," said Louise, taking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>
the rouleau of gold from her pocket, "will you give back
this money to M. Germain; I had promised him not to
say to any one that he was employed at M. Ferrand's;
but, since you know it, I have not broken my confidence.
Now, sir, I repeat to you before God, who hears me, that
I have not said a word that is not quite true; I have not
tried to hide my faults, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>But, suddenly interrupting herself, Louise exclaimed
with alarm:</p>

<p>"Sir, sir, look at my father! what can be the matter
with him?"</p>

<p>Morel had heard the latter part of this narration with
a dull indifference, which Rodolph had accounted for by
attributing it to the heavy additional misfortune which
had occurred to him. After such violent and repeated
shocks, his tears must have dried up, his sensibility have
become lost; he had not even the strength left to feel
anger, as Rodolph thought; but Rodolph was mistaken.
As the flame of a candle which is nearly extinguished
dies away and recovers, so Morel's reason, already much
shaken, wavered for some time, throwing out now and
then some small rays of intelligence, and then suddenly
all was darkness.</p>

<p>Absolutely unconscious of what was said or passing
around him, for some time the lapidary had become
quite insane. Although his hand-wheel was placed on
the other side of his working-table, and he had not in
his hands either stones or tools, yet the occupied artisan
was feigning the operations of his daily labour, and
affecting to use his implements. He accompanied
this pantomime with a sort of noise with his tongue
against the roof of his mouth, in imitation of the noise
of his lathe in its rotatory motions.</p>

<p>"But, sir," said Louise again, with increasing fright,
"look, pray look at my father!"</p>

<p>Then, approaching the artisan, she said to him:</p>

<p>"Father! father!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p>

<p>Morel gazed on his daughter with that troubled, vague,
distracted, wandering look which characterises the insane,
and without discontinuing his assumed labour, he replied,
in a low and melancholy tone:</p>

<p>"I owe the notary thirteen hundred francs; it is the
price of Louise's blood,&mdash;so I must work, work, work!&mdash;oh,
I'll pay, I'll pay, I'll pay!"</p>

<p>"Can it be possible? This cannot be,&mdash;he is not
mad,&mdash;no, no!" exclaimed Louise, in a heart-rending
voice. "He will recover,&mdash;it is but a momentary fit of
absence!"</p>

<p>"Morel, my good fellow," said Rodolph to him, "we
are here. Your daughter is near you,&mdash;she is innocent."</p>

<p>"Thirteen hundred francs!" said the lapidary, not
attending to Rodolph, but going on with his sham
employment.</p>

<p>"My father!" exclaimed Louise, throwing herself at
his feet, and clasping his hands in her own, in spite of
his resistance, "it is I&mdash;it is your Louise!"</p>

<p>"Thirteen hundred francs," he repeated, wresting his
hands from the grasp of his daughter. "Thirteen hundred
francs,&mdash;and if not," he added, in a low and as it
were, confidential tone, "and if not, Louise is to be
guillotined."</p>

<p>And again he imitated the turning of his lathe.</p>

<p>Louise gave a piercing shriek.</p>

<p>"He is mad!" she exclaimed, "he is mad! and it is
I&mdash;it is I who am the cause! Oh! Yet it is not
my fault,&mdash;I did not desire to do ill,&mdash;it was that
monster."</p>

<p>"Courage, courage, my poor girl," said Rodolph, "let
us hope that this attack is but momentary. Your father
has suffered so much; so many troubles, all at once,
were more than he could bear. His reason wanders for
a moment; it will soon be restored."</p>

<p>"But my mother, my grandmother, my sisters, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>
brothers, what will become of them all?" exclaimed
Louise, "Now they are deprived of my father and myself,
they must die of hunger, misery and despair!"</p>

<p>"Am I not here?&mdash;make your mind, easy; they shall
want for nothing. Courage, I say to you. Your disclosure
will bring about the punishment of a great criminal.
You have convinced me of your innocence, and I
have no doubt but that it will be discovered and proclaimed."</p>

<p>"Ah, sir, you see,&mdash;dishonour, madness, death,&mdash;see
the miseries which that man causes, and yet no one can
do any thing against him! Nothing! The very thought
completes all my wretchedness."</p>

<p>"So far from that, let the contrary thought help to
support you."</p>

<p>"What mean you, sir?"</p>

<p>"Take with you the assurance that your father, yourself,
and your family shall be avenged."</p>

<p>"Avenged!"</p>

<p>"Yes, that I swear to you," replied Rodolph, solemnly;
"I swear to you that his crimes shall be exposed, and this
man shall bitterly expiate the dishonour, madness, and
death which he has caused. If the laws are powerless
to reach him, if his cunning and skill equal his misdeeds,
then his cunning must be met by cunning, his skill must
be counteracted by skill, his misdeeds faced by other
misdeeds, but which shall be to his but a just and
avenging retribution, inflicted on a guilty wretch by an
inexorable hand, when compared to a cowardly and base
murder."</p>

<p>"Ah, sir, may Heaven hear you! It is no longer
myself whom I seek to avenge, but a poor, distracted
father,&mdash;my child killed in its birth&mdash;"</p>

<p>Then, trying another effort to turn Morel from his
insanity, Louise again exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Adieu, father! They are going to lead me to prison,
and I shall never see you again. It is your poor Louise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>
who bids you adieu. My father! my father! my
father!"</p>

<p>To this distressing appeal there was no response. In
that poor, destroyed mind there was no echo,&mdash;none.
The paternal cords, always the last broken, no longer
vibrated.</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>The door of the garret opened; the commissary
entered.</p>

<p>"My moments are numbered, sir," said he to Rodolph.
"I declare to you with much regret that I cannot allow
this conversation to be protracted any longer."</p>

<p>"This conversation is ended, sir," replied Rodolph,
bitterly, and pointing to the lapidary. "Louise has
nothing more to say to her father,&mdash;he has nothing
more to hear from his daughter,&mdash;he is a lunatic."</p>

<p>"I feared as much. It is really frightful!" exclaimed
the magistrate.</p>

<p>And approaching the workman hastily, after a
minute's scrutiny, he was convinced of the sad
reality.</p>

<p>"Ah, sir," said he sorrowfully to Rodolph, "I had
already expressed my sincerest wishes that the innocence
of this young girl might be discovered; but after
such a misfortune I will not confine myself to good
wishes,&mdash;no,&mdash;no! I will speak of this honest and
distressed family; I will speak of this fearful and last
blow which has overwhelmed it; and do not doubt but
that the judges will have an additional motive to find
the accused innocent."</p>

<p>"Thanks, thanks, sir!" said Rodolph; "by acting thus
it will not be a mere duty that you fulfil, but a holy
office which you undertake."</p>

<p>"Believe me, sir, our duty is always such a painful
one that it is most grateful to us to be interested in any
thing which is worthy and good."</p>

<p>"One word more, sir. The disclosures of Louise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>
Morel have fully convinced me of her innocence. Will
you be so kind as inform me how her pretended crime
was discovered, or rather denounced?"</p>

<p>"This morning," said the magistrate, "a housekeeper
in the service of M. Ferrand, the notary, came and
deposed before me that, after the hasty departure of
Louise Morel, whom she knew to be seven months
advanced in the family way, she went into the young
girl's apartment, and was convinced that she had been
prematurely confined; footsteps had been traced in the
snow, which had led to the detection of the body of a
new-born child buried in the garden. After this declaration
I went myself to the Rue du Sentier, and found M.
Jacques Ferrand most indignant that such a scandalous
affair should have happened in his house. The curé of
the church Bonne Nouvelle, whom he had sent for, also
declared to me that Louise Morel had owned her fault
in his presence one day, when, on this account, she was
imploring the indulgence and pity of her master; that,
besides, he had often heard M. Ferrand give Louise
Morel the most serious warnings, telling her that, sooner
or later, she would be lost,&mdash;'a prediction,' added the
abbé, 'which has been unfortunately fulfilled.' The
indignation of M. Ferrand," continued the magistrate,
"seemed to me so just and natural, that I shared in it.
He told me that, no doubt, Louise Morel had taken
refuge with her father. I came hither instantly, for
the crime being flagrant, I was empowered to proceed
by immediate apprehension."</p>

<p>Rodolph with difficulty restrained himself when he
heard of the indignation of M. Ferrand, and said to
the magistrate:</p>

<p>"I thank you a thousand times, sir, for your kindness,
and the support you promise Louise. I will take care
that this poor man, as well as his wife's mother, are
sent to a lunatic asylum."</p>

<p>Then, addressing Louise, who was still kneeling close<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>
to her father, endeavouring, but vainly, to recall him to
his senses:</p>

<p>"Make up your mind, my poor girl, to go without
taking leave of your mother,&mdash;spare her the pain of
such a parting. Be assured that she shall be taken care
of, and nothing shall in future be wanting to your family,
for a woman shall be found who will take care of your
mother and occupy herself with your brothers, and sisters,
under the superintendence of your kind neighbour,
Mlle. Rigolette. As for your father, nothing shall be
spared to make his return to reason as rapid as it is
complete. Courage! Believe me, honest people are often
severely tried by misfortune, but they always come out
of these struggles more pure, more strong, and more
respected."</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>Two hours after the apprehension of Louise, the lapidary
and the old idiot mother were, by Rodolph's orders,
taken to the Bicêtre by David, where they were to be
kept in private rooms and to receive particular care.
Morel left the house in the Rue du Temple without
resistance; indifferent as he was, he went wherever they
led him,&mdash;his lunacy was gentle, inoffensive, and melancholy.
The grandmother was hungry, and when they
showed her bread and meat she followed the bread and
meat. The jewels of the lapidary, entrusted to his wife,
were the same day given to Madame Mathieu (the jewel-matcher),
who fetched them. Unfortunately she was
watched and followed by Tortillard, who knew the
value of the pretended false stones in consequence of
the conversation he had overheard during the time
Morel was arrested by the bailiffs. The son of Bras
Rouge discovered that she lived, Boulevard Saint-Denis,
No. 11.</p>

<p>Rigolette apprised Madeleine Morel, with considerable
delicacy, of the fit of lunacy which had attacked the
lapidary, and of Louise's imprisonment. At first, Madeleine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>
wept bitterly, and uttered terrible shrieks; then,
the first burst of her grief over, the poor creature, weak
and overcome, consoled herself as well as she could by
seeing that she and her children were surrounded by the
many comforts which she owed to the generosity of their
benefactor.</p>

<p>As to Rodolph, his thoughts were very poignant when
he considered the disclosures of Louise. "Nothing is
more common," he said, "than this corrupting of the
female servant by the master, either by consent or
against it; sometimes by terror and surprise, sometimes
by the imperious nature of those relations which create
servitude. This depravity, descending from the rich to
the poor, despising (in its selfish desire) the sanctity of
the domestic hearth,&mdash;this depravity, still most deplorable
when it is voluntarily submitted to, becomes hideous,
frightful, when it is satisfied with violence. It is
an impure and brutal slavery, an ignoble and barbarous
tyranny over a fellow-creature, who in her fright replies
to the solicitations of her master by her tears, and to
his declarations with a shudder of fear and disgust.
And then," continued Rodolph, "what is the consequence
to the female? Almost invariably there follow degradation,
misery, prostitution, theft, and sometimes infanticide!
And yet the laws are, as yet, strangers to this
crime! Every accomplice of a crime has the punishment
of that crime; every receiver is considered as
guilty as the thief. That is justice. But when a man
wantonly seduces a young, innocent, and pure girl, renders
her a mother, abandons her, leaving her but shame,
disgrace, despair, and driving her, perchance, to infanticide,
a crime for which she forfeits her life, is this man
considered as her accomplice? Pooh! What, then, follows?
Oh, 'tis nothing,&mdash;nothing but a little love-affair!
the whim of the day for a pair of bright eyes. Then
she is left, and he looks out for the next. Still more, it
is just possible that the man may be of an original, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>
inquisitive turn, perhaps, at the same time, an excellent
brother and son, and may go to the bar of the criminal
court and see his paramour tried for her life! If by
chance he should be subp&oelig;naed as a witness, he may
amuse himself by saying to the persons desirous of having
the poor girl executed as soon as possible, for the
greater edification of the public morals, 'I have something
important to disclose to justice.' 'Speak!' 'Gentlemen
of the jury,&mdash;This unhappy female was pure and
virtuous, it is true. I seduced her,&mdash;that is equally true;
she bore me a child,&mdash;that is also true. After that, as
she has a light complexion, I completely forsook her for
a pretty brunette,&mdash;that is still more true; but, in doing
so, I have only followed out an imprescriptible right, a
sacred right which society recognizes and accords to me.'
'The truth is, this young man is perfectly in the right,'
the jury would say one to another; 'there is no law
which prevents a young man from seducing a fair girl,
and then forsaking her for a brunette; he is a gay young
chap, and that's all.' 'Now, gentlemen of the jury, this
unhappy girl is said to have killed her child,&mdash;I will say
our child,&mdash;because I abandoned her; because, finding
herself alone and in the deepest misery, she became
frightened, and lost her senses! And wherefore? Because
having, as she says, to bring up and feed her child,
it was impossible that she could continue to work regularly
at her occupation, and gain a livelihood for herself
and this pledge of our love! But I think these reasons
quite unworthy of consideration, allow me to say, gentlemen
of the jury. Could she not have gone to the Lying-in
Hospital, if there was room for her? Could she not,
at the critical moment, have gone to the magistrate of
her district and made a declaration of her shame, so that
she might have had authority for placing her child in the
Enfants Trouvés? In fact, could she not, whilst I was
playing billiards at the coffee-house, whilst awaiting my
other mistress, could she not have extricated herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
from this affair by some genteeler mode than this? For,
gentlemen of the jury, I will admit that I consider this
way of disposing of the pledge of our loves as rather too
unceremonious and rude, under the idea of thus quietly
escaping all future care and trouble. What, is it enough
for a young girl to lose her character, brave contempt,
infamy, and have an illegitimate child? No; but she
must also educate the child, take care of it, bring it up,
give it a business, and make an honest man of it, if it
be a boy, like its father; or an honest girl, who does not
turn wanton like her mother. For, really, maternity has
its sacred duties, and the wretches who trample them
under foot are unnatural mothers, who deserve an exemplary
and notable punishment; as a proof of which,
gentlemen of the jury, I beg you will unhesitatingly
hand over this miserable woman to the executioner, and
you will thus do your duty like independent, firm, and
enlightened citizens. <i>Dixi!</i>' 'This gentleman looks
at the question in a very moral point of view,' will say
some hatmaker or retired furrier, who is foreman of the
jury; 'he has done, i'faith, what we should all have done
in his place; for the girl is very pretty, though rather
pallid in complexion. This gay spark, as the song says:</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"'"Has kissed and has prattled with fifty fair maids,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And changed them as oft, do you see;"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>and there is no law against that. As to this unfortunate
girl, after all, it is her own fault! Why did she not repulse
him? Then she would not have committed a
crime,&mdash;a monstrous crime! which really puts all society
to the blush.' And the hatter or the furrier would
be right,&mdash;perfectly right. What is there to criminate
this gentleman? Of what complicity, direct or indirect,
moral or material, can he be charged? This lucky rogue
has seduced a pretty girl, and he it is who has brought
her there; he does not deny it; where is the law that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>
prevents or punishes him? Society merely says: There
are gay young fellows abroad,&mdash;let the pretty girls beware!
But if a poor wretch, through want or stupidity,
constraint, or ignorance of the laws which he cannot
read, buys knowingly a rag which has been stolen, he
will be sent to the galleys for twenty years as a receiver,
if such be the punishment for the theft itself. This is
logical, powerful reasoning,&mdash;'Without receivers there
would be no thieves, without thieves there would be no
receivers.' No, no more pity, then&mdash;even less pity&mdash;for
him who excites to the evil than he who perpetrates
it. Let the smallest degree of complicity be visited with
terrible punishment! Good; there is in that a serious
and fertile thought, high and moral. We should bow before
Society which had dictated such a law; but we remember
that this Society, so inexorable towards the smallest
complicity of crime against things, is so framed that a
simple and ingenuous man, who should try to prove that
there is at least moral similarity, material complicity,
between the fickle seducer and the seduced and forsaken
girl, would be laughed at as a visionary. And if this
simple man were to assert that without a father there
would, in all probability, not be offspring, Society would
exclaim against the atrocity,&mdash;the folly! And it would
be right,&mdash;quite right; for, after all, this gay youth who
might say these fine things to the jury, however little he
might like tragic emotions, might yet go tranquilly to see
his mistress executed,&mdash;executed for child-murder, a
crime to which he was an accessory; nay more, the
author, in consequence of his shameless abandonment!
Does not this charming protection, granted to the male
portion of society for certain gay doings suggested by
the god of Love, show plainly that France still sacrifices
to the Graces, and is still the most gallant nation
in the world?"</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3>

<h5>JACQUES FERRAND.</h5>


<p>At the period when the events were passing which
we are now relating, at one end of the Rue du Sentier
a long old wall extended, covered with a coat of whitewash,
and the top garnished with a row of broken flint-glass
bottles; this wall, bounding on one side the garden
of Jacques Ferrand, the notary, terminated with a <i>corps
de logis</i> facing the street, only one story high, with
garrets. Two large escutcheons of gilt copper, emblems
of the notarial residence, flanked the worm-eaten <i>porte
cochère</i>, of which the primitive colour was no longer to
be distinguished under the mud which covered it. This
entrance led to an open passage; on the right was the
lodge of an old porter, almost deaf, who was to the body
of tailors what M. Pipelet was to the body of boot-makers;
on the left a stable, used as a cellar, washhouse,
woodhouse, and the establishment of a rising
colony of rabbits belonging to the porter, who was
dissipating the sorrows of a recent widowhood by bringing
up these domestic animals. Beside the lodge was
the opening of a twisting staircase, narrow and dark,
leading to the office, as was announced to the clients by
a hand painted black, whose forefinger was directed
towards these words, also painted in black upon the
wall, "The Office on the first floor."</p>

<p>On one side of a large paved court, overgrown with
grass, were empty stables; on the other side, a rusty
iron gate, which shut in the garden; at the bottom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>
the pavilion, inhabited only by the notary. A flight of
eight or ten steps of disjointed stones, which were moss-grown
and time-worn, led to this square pavilion, consisting
of a kitchen and other underground offices, a
ground floor, a first floor, and the top rooms, in one of
which Louise had slept. The pavilion also appeared in
a state of great dilapidation. There were deep chinks
in the walls; the window-frames and outside blinds,
once painted gray, had become almost black by time;
the six windows on the first floor, looking out into the
courtyard, had no curtains; a sort of greasy and opaque
deposit covered the glass; on the ground floor there
were visible through the window-panes more transparent,
faded yellow cotton curtains, with red bindings.</p>

<p>On the garden side the pavilion had only four windows.
The garden, overgrown with parasitical plants,
seemed wholly neglected. There was no flower border,
not a bush; a clump of elms; five or six large green
trees; some acacias and elder-trees; a yellowish grass-plat,
half destroyed by moss and the scorch of the sun;
muddy paths, choked up with weeds; at the bottom, a
sort of half cellar; for horizon, the high, naked, gray
walls of the adjacent houses, having here and there
skylights barred like prison windows,&mdash;such was the
miserable appearance of the garden and dwelling of
the notary.</p>

<p>To this appearance, or rather reality, M. Ferrand
attached great importance. In the eyes of the vulgar,
carelessness about comfort almost always passes for
disinterestedness; dirt, for austerity. Comparing the
vast financial luxury of some notaries, or the costly
toilets of their wives, to the dull abode of M. Ferrand,
so opposed to elegance, expense, or splendour, clients
felt a sort of respect for, or rather blind confidence in, a
man who, according to his large practice and the fortune
attributed to him, could say, like many of his professional
brethren, my carriage, my evening party, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>
country-house, my box at the opera, etc. But, far
from this, Jacques Ferrand lived with rigid economy;
and thus deposits, investments, powers of attorney, in
fact, all matters of trust and business requiring the most
scrupulous and recognised integrity, accumulated in his
hands.</p>

<p>Living thus meanly as he did, the notary lived in the
way he liked. He detested the world, show, dearly
purchased pleasures; and, even had it been otherwise,
he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed his dearest
inclinations to the appearances which he found it so
profitable to assume.</p>

<p>A word or two on the character of the man. He
was one of the children of the large family of misers.
Misers are generally exhibited in a ridiculous and whimsical
light; the worst do not go beyond egotism or
harshness. The greater portion increase their fortune
by continually investing; some (they are but few) lend
at thirty per cent.; the most decided hardly venture any
risk with their means; but it is almost an unheard-of
thing for a miser to proceed to crime, even murder, in
the acquisition of fresh wealth.</p>

<p>That is easily accounted for; avarice is especially a
negative passion. The miser, in his incessant calculations,
thinks more of becoming richer by not disbursing;
in tightening around him, more and more, the limits of
strict necessity, than he does of enriching himself at the
cost of another; he is especially the martyr to preservation.
Weak, timid, cunning, distrustful, and, above all,
prudent and circumspect, never offensive, indifferent to
the ills of his neighbour,&mdash;the miser at least never
alludes to these ills,&mdash;he is, before all and above all, the
man of certainty and surety; or, rather, he is only a
miser because he believes only in the substantial, the
hard gold which he has locked up in his chest. Speculations
and loans, on even undoubted security, tempt him
but little, for, how improbable soever it may be, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>
always offer a chance of loss, and he prefers rather to
lose the interest of his money than expose his capital.
A man so timorous will, therefore, seldom have the
savage energy of the wretch who risks the galleys or
his neck to lay hands on the wealth of another.</p>

<p>Risk is a word erased from the vocabulary of the
miser. It is in this sense that Jacques Ferrand was, let
us say, a very singular exception, perhaps a new variety
of the genus Miser; for Jacques Ferrand did risk, and a
great deal. He relied on his craft, which was excessive;
on his hypocrisy, which was unbounded; on his intellect,
which was elastic and fertile; on his boldness, which
was devilish, in assuring him impunity for his crimes,
and they were already numerous.</p>

<p>Jacques Ferrand was a twofold exception. Usually
these adventurous, energetic spirits, which do not recoil
before any crime that will procure gold, are beset by
turbulent passions&mdash;gaming, dissipation, gluttony, or
other pleasures. Jacques Ferrand knew none of these
violent and stormy desires; cunning and patient as a
forger, cruel and resolute as an assassin, he was as sober
and regular as Harpagon. One passion alone was active
within him, and this we have seen too fatally exhibited
in his early conduct to Louise. The loan of thirteen
hundred francs to Morel at high interest was, in
Ferrand's hands, a snare&mdash;a means of oppression and
a source of profit. Sure of the lapidary's honesty, he
was certain of being repaid in full some day or other.
Still Louise's beauty must have made a deep impression
on him to have made him lay out of a sum of money
so advantageously placed.</p>

<p>Except this weakness, Jacques Ferrand loved gold
only. He loved gold for gold's sake; not for the enjoyments
it procured,&mdash;he was a stoic; not for the enjoyments
it might procure,&mdash;he was not sufficiently poetical
to enjoy speculatively, like some misers. With regard to
what belonged to himself, he loved possession for possession's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>
sake; with regard to what belonged to others, if
it concerned a large deposit, for instance, liberally confided
to his probity only, he experienced in returning
this deposit the same agony, the same despair, as the
goldsmith, Cardillac, did in separating himself from a
casket of jewels which his own exquisite taste had fashioned
into a <i>chef-d'&oelig;uvre</i> of art. With the notary, his
character for extreme probity was his <i>chef-d'&oelig;uvre</i> of
art; a deposit was to him a jewel, which he could not
surrender but with poignant regrets. What care, what
cunning, what stratagems, what skill, in a word, what
art, did he use to attract this sum into his own strong
box, still maintaining that extreme character for honour,
which was beset with the most precious marks of confidence,
like the pearls and diamonds in the golden
diadems of Cardillac. The more this celebrated goldsmith
approached perfection, they say, the more value
did he attach to his ornaments, always considering the
last as his <i>chef-d'&oelig;uvre</i>, and being utterly distressed at
giving it up. The more Jacques Ferrand grew perfect
in crime, the more he clung to the open and constant
marks of confidence which were showered upon him,
always considering his last deceit as his <i>chef-d'&oelig;uvre</i>.</p>

<p>We shall see in the sequel of this history that, by the
aid of certain means really prodigious in plan and carrying
out, he contrived to appropriate to himself, with
impunity, several very considerable sums. His secret
and mysterious life gave him incessant and terrible
emotions, such as gaming gives to the gambler. Against
all other men's fortunes Jacques Ferrand staked his
hypocrisy, his boldness, his head; and he played on
velvet, as it is called, far out of the reach of human
justice, which he vulgarly and energetically characterised
as a chimney which might fall on one's head; for him
to lose was only not to gain; and, moreover, he was
so criminally gifted that, in his bitter irony, he saw a
continued gain in boundless esteem, the unlimited confidence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>
which he inspired, not only in a multitude of
rich clients, but also in the smaller tradespeople and
workmen of his district. A great many of these placed
their money with him, saying, "He is not charitable, it
is true; he is a devotee, and that's a pity; but he is
much safer than the government or the savings-banks."
In spite of his uncommon ability, this man had committed
two of those mistakes from which the most
skilful rogues do not always escape; forced by circumstances,
it is true, he had associated with himself two
accomplices. This immense fault, as he called it, had
been in part repaired; neither of his two associates
could destroy him without destroying themselves, and
neither would have reaped from denunciation any other
profit but of drawing down justice on themselves as well
as on the notary; on this score he was quite easy.
Besides, he was not at the end of his crimes, and the
disadvantages of accompliceship were balanced by the
criminal aid which at times he still obtained.</p>

<p>A few words as to the personal appearance of M.
Ferrand, and we will introduce the reader into the
notary's study, where we shall encounter some of
the principal personages in this recital.</p>

<p>M. Ferrand was fifty years of age, but did not appear
forty; he was of middle height, with broad and stooping
shoulders, powerful, thickset, strong-limbed, red-haired,
and naturally as hirsute as a bear. His hair was flat
on his temples, his forehead bald, his eyebrows scarcely
perceptible; his bilious complexion was almost concealed
by innumerable red spots, and, when strong emotion
agitated him, his yellow and murky countenance was
injected with blood, and became a livid red. His face
was as flat as a death's head, as is vulgarly said; his
nose thick and flat; his lips so thin, so imperceptible,
that his mouth seemed incised in his face, and, when he
smiled with his villainous and revolting air, his teeth
seemed as though supplied by black and rotten fangs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>
His pallid face had an expression at once austere and
devout, impassible and inflexible, cold and reflective;
whilst his small, black, animated, peering, and restless
eyes were lost behind large green spectacles.</p>

<p>Jacques Ferrand saw admirably well; but, sheltered
by his glasses, he had an immense advantage; he could
observe without being observed; and well he knew how
often a glance is unwittingly full of meaning. In spite
of his imperturbable audacity, he had met twice or
thrice in his life certain potent and magnetic looks,
before which his own had compulsorily been lowered;
and in some important circumstances it is fatal to lower
the eyes before the man who interrogates, accuses, or
judges you. The large spectacles of M. Ferrand were
thus a kind of covert retrenchment, whence he could
reconnoitre and observe every movement of the enemy;
and all the world was the notary's enemy, because all
the world was, more or less, his dupe; and accusers are
but enlightened or disgusted dupes. He affected a negligence
in his dress almost amounting to dirtiness, or
rather, he was naturally so; his chin shaven only every
two or three days, his grimy and wrinkled head, his
broad nails encircled in black, his unpleasant odour,
his threadbare coat, his greasy hat, his coarse neckcloth,
his black-worsted stockings, his clumsy shoes, all curiously
betokened his worthiness with his clients, by
giving him an air of disregard of the world, and an
air of practical philosophy, which delighted them.</p>

<p>They said: "What tastes, what passions, what feelings,
what weaknesses, must the notary sacrifice to
obtain the confidence he inspires! He gains, perhaps,
sixty thousand francs (2,400<i>l.</i>) a year, and his household
consists of a servant and an old housekeeper. His only
pleasure is to go on Sundays to mass and vespers, and
he knows no opera comparable to the grave chanting of
the organ, no worldly society which is worth an evening
quietly passed at his fireside corner with the curé of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>
parish after a frugal dinner; in fine, he places his enjoyment
in probity, his pride in honour, his happiness in
religion."</p>

<p>Such was the opinion of the contemporaries of M.
Jacques Ferrand.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3>

<h5>THE OFFICE.</h5>


<p>The office of M. Ferrand resembled all other offices,
and his clerks all other clerks. It was approached
through an antechamber, furnished with four old chairs.
In the office, properly so-called, surrounded by rows of
shelves, ornamented with pasteboard boxes, containing
the papers of the clients of M. Ferrand, five young men,
stooping over black wooden desks, were laughing, gossiping,
or scribbling perpetually. A waiting-room, also
filled with pasteboard boxes, and in which the chief
clerk was constantly stationed, and another room, which,
for greater secrecy, was kept unoccupied, between the
notary's private room and the waiting-room, completed
the total of this laboratory of deeds of every description.</p>

<p>An old cuckoo-clock, placed between the two windows
of the office, had just struck two o'clock, and a certain
bustle prevailed amongst the clerks; a part of their conversation
will inform the reader as to the cause of this
excitement.</p>

<p>"Well, if any one had told me that François Germain
was a thief," said one of the young men, "I should have
said, 'That's a lie!'"</p>

<p>"So should I."</p>

<p>"And I."</p>

<p>"And I. It really quite affected me to see him arrested
and led away by the police. I could not eat any breakfast;
but I have been rewarded by not having to eat the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>
daily mess doled out by Mother Séraphin, for, as the
song goes:</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">'To eat the allowance of old Séraphin,<br /></span>
<span class="i1">One must have a twist indeed.'"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>"Capital! why, Chalamel, you are beginning your
poetry already."</p>

<p>"I demand Chalamel's head!"</p>

<p>"Folly apart, it is very terrible for poor Germain."</p>

<p>"Seventeen thousand francs (680<i>l.</i>) is a lump of
money!"</p>

<p>"I believe you!"</p>

<p>"And yet, for the fifteen months that Germain has
been cashier, he was never a farthing deficient in making
up his books."</p>

<p>"I think the governor was wrong to arrest Germain,
for the poor fellow swore that he had only taken thirteen
hundred francs (52<i>l.</i>) in gold, and that, moreover, he
brought back the thirteen hundred francs this morning,
to return them to the money-chest, at the very moment
when our master sent for the police."</p>

<p>"Ah, that's the bore of people of such ferocious
honesty as our governor, they have no pity!"</p>

<p>"But they ought to think twice before they ruin a
poor young fellow, who, up to this time, has behaved
with strict honesty."</p>

<p>"M. Ferrand said he did it for an example."</p>

<p>"Example? What? It is none to the honest, and
the dishonest know well enough what they expose themselves
to if they are found out in any delinquencies."</p>

<p>"Our house seems to produce lots of jobs for the
police officers."</p>

<p>"What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"Why, this morning there was poor little Louise, and
now poor Germain."</p>

<p>"I confess that Germain's affair was not quite clear
to me."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p>

<p>"But he confessed?"</p>

<p>"He confessed that he had taken thirteen hundred
francs, certainly; but he declared most vehemently that
he had not taken the other fifteen thousand francs in
bank-notes, and the other seven hundred francs which
are short in the strong box."</p>

<p>"True; and, if he confessed one thing, why shouldn't
he confess another?"</p>

<p>"Exactly so; for a man is as much punished for five
hundred francs as he is for fifteen thousand francs."</p>

<p>"Yes; only they retain the fifteen thousand francs,
and, when they leave prison, this forms a little fund to
start upon; and, as the swan of Cambrai sings:</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">'To get a jolly lot of "swag"<br /></span>
<span class="i0h">A cove must dip deep in the lucky-bag.'"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>"I demand Chalamel's head!"</p>

<p>"Can't you talk sense for five minutes?"</p>

<p>"Ah, here's Jabulot! won't he be astonished?"</p>

<p>"What at, my boys? what at? Anything fresh about
poor Louise?"</p>

<p>"You would have known, roving blade, if you had not
been so long in your rounds."</p>

<p>"What, you think it is but a step from here to the
Rue de Chaillot?"</p>

<p>"I never said so."</p>

<p>"Well, what about that gallant don, the famous
Viscount de Saint-Rémy?"</p>

<p>"Has he not been here yet?"</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>"Well, his horses were harnessed, and he sent me
word by his <i>valet de chambre</i>, that he would come here
directly. But he didn't seem best pleased, the servant
said. Oh, my boys! such a lovely little house, furnished
most magnificently, like one of the dwellings of the
olden time that Faublas writes about. Oh, Faublas! he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>
is my hero&mdash;my model!" said the clerk, putting down
his umbrella and taking off his clogs.</p>

<p>"You are right, Jabulot; for, as that sublime old blind
man, Homer, said:</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">'Faublas, that amorous hero, it is said,<br /></span>
<span class="i0h">Forsook the duchess for the waiting-maid.'"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>"Yes; but then, she was a theatrical 'waiting-maid,'
my lads."</p>

<p>"I demand Chalamel's head!"</p>

<p>"But about this Viscount de Saint-Rémy? Jabulot
says his mansion is superb."</p>

<p>"Pyramidic!"</p>

<p>"Then, I'll be bound, he has debts not a few, and
arrests to match, this viscount."</p>

<p>"A bill of thirty-four thousand francs (1,360<i>l.</i>) has
been sent here by the officer. It is made payable at the
office. This is his creditors' doing; I don't know why
or wherefore."</p>

<p>"Well, I should say that this dandy viscount would
pay now, because he came from the country last night,
where he has been concealed these three days, in order
to escape from the bailiffs."</p>

<p>"How is it, then, that they have not seized the furniture
already?"</p>

<p>"Why? oh, he's too cunning! The house is not his
own; all the furniture is in the name of his <i>valet de
chambre</i>, who is said to let it to him furnished; and, in the
same way, his horses and carriages are in his coachman's
name, who declares that he lets to the viscount his
splendid turn-out at so much a month. Ah, he's a
'downy' one, is M. de Saint-Rémy! But what were
you going to tell me? what has happened here fresh?"</p>

<p>"Why, imagine the governor coming in here two hours
ago in a most awful passion. 'Germain is not here?'
he exclaimed. 'No, sir.' 'Well, the rascal has robbed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>
me last night of seventeen thousand francs!' says the
governor."</p>

<p>"Germain&mdash;rob&mdash;ah, come, that's 'no go!'"</p>

<p>"You will hear. 'What, sir, are you sure? but it
cannot be,' we all cried out. 'I tell you, gentlemen,'
said the governor, 'that yesterday I put in the drawer
of the bureau at which he writes, fifteen notes of one
thousand francs each, and two thousand francs in gold,
in a little box, and it is all gone.' At this moment old
Marriton, the porter, came in, and he said, 'Sir, the
police are coming; where is Germain?' 'Wait a bit,'
said the governor to the porter; 'as soon as M. Germain
returns, send him into the office, without saying a word.
I will confront him before you all, gentlemen,' said the
governor. At the end of a quarter of an hour in comes
poor Germain, as if nothing had happened. Old Mother
Séraphin had brought in our morning mess. Germain
made his bow to the governor, and wished us all 'good
morning,' as usual. 'Germain, don't you take your
breakfast?' inquired M. Ferrand. 'No, thank you, sir,
I am not hungry.' 'You're very late this morning.'
'Yes, sir; I was obliged to go to Belleville this morning.'
'No doubt to hide the money you have stolen from me!'
M. Ferrand said, in a terrible voice."</p>

<p>"And Germain?"</p>

<p>"The poor fellow turned as pale as death, and stammered
out, 'Pray&mdash;pray, sir, do not ruin me&mdash;'"</p>

<p>"What! he had stolen&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Listen, Jabulot: 'Do not ruin me,' says he to the
governor. 'What! you confess it, then, you villain?'
'Yes, sir; but here is the money; I thought I could
replace it before you came into the office this morning;
but, unfortunately, a person who had a small sum of
mine, and whom I expected to find at home last night,
had been at Belleville these two days, and I was compelled
to go there this morning; that made me late.
Pray, sir, forgive me,&mdash;do not destroy me! When I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
took the money I knew I could return it this morning;
and here are the thirteen hundred francs in gold.'
'What do you mean by thirteen hundred francs?' exclaimed
M. Ferrand; 'what's the use of talking of
thirteen hundred francs? You have stolen, from the
bureau in my room, fifteen thousand francs that were in
a green pocket-book, and two thousand francs in gold.'
'I? Never!' cried poor Germain, quite aghast. 'I
took thirteen hundred francs in gold, but not a farthing
more. I did not even see the pocket-book in the drawer;
there were only two thousand francs, in gold, in a box.'
'Oh, shameless liar!' cried the governor; 'you confess
to having plundered thirteen hundred francs, and may
just as well have stolen more; that will be for the law
to decide. I shall be without mercy for such an infamous
breach of trust; you shall be an example.' In
fact, my dear Jabulot, the police came in at that
moment, with the commissary's chief clerk, to draw
up the depositions, and they laid hands on poor
Germain; and that's all about it."</p>

<p>"Really, you do surprise me! I feel as if some one
had given me a thump on the head. Germain&mdash;Germain,
who seemed such an honest fellow,&mdash;a chap
to whom one would have given absolution without
confession."</p>

<p>"I should say that he had some presentiment of his
misfortune."</p>

<p>"How?"</p>

<p>"For some days past he seemed to have something on
his mind."</p>

<p>"Perhaps about Louise."</p>

<p>"Louise?"</p>

<p>"Why, I only repeat what Mother Séraphin said this
morning."</p>

<p>"What did she say?"</p>

<p>"What? that he was Louise's lover, and the father of
her child."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p>

<p>"Sly dog! Do you think so?"</p>

<p>"Why&mdash;why&mdash;why&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Pooh! pooh!"</p>

<p>"That's not the case."</p>

<p>"How do you know, Master Jabulot?"</p>

<p>"Because it is not a fortnight ago that Germain told
me, in confidence, that he was over head and ears in
love with a little needle-woman, a very correct lass,
whom he had known in the house where he lived; and,
when he talked of her, the tears came in his eyes."</p>

<p>"Why, Jabulot, you are getting quite poetical."</p>

<p>"He says Faublas is his hero, and he is not 'wide
awake' enough to know that a man may be in love with
one woman and a lover of another at the same time;
for, as the tender Fénélon says, in his Instructions to
the Duke of Burgundy:</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">'A spicy blade, of the right cock-feather,<br /></span>
<span class="i0h">May love a blonde and brunette together.'"<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>"I demand Chalamel's head!"</p>

<p>"I tell you that Germain spoke in earnest."</p>

<p>At this moment the head clerk entered the office.</p>

<p>"Well, M. Jabulot," said he, "have you completed
your rounds?"</p>

<p>"Yes, M. Dubois; I have been to M. de Saint-Remy,
and he will come and pay immediately."</p>

<p>"And as to the Countess Macgregor?"</p>

<p>"Here is her answer."</p>

<p>"And the Countess d'Orbigny?"</p>

<p>"She returns her compliments to our employer. She
only arrived from Normandy yesterday morning, and did
not know that her reply was required so soon; here is
a note from her. I also called on the Marquis d'Harville's
steward, as he desired me to receive the money
for drawing up the contract which I witnessed at their
house the other day."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p>

<p>"You should have told him there was no hurry."</p>

<p>"I did, but the steward insisted on paying. Here is
the money. Oh! I had almost forgotten to say, M.
Badinot said that M. Ferrand had better do as they
had agreed; it was the best thing to do."</p>

<p>"He did not write an answer?"</p>

<p>"No, sir; he said he had not time."</p>

<p>"Very well."</p>

<p>"M. Charles Robert will come in the course of the
morning to speak to our master. It seems that he
fought a duel yesterday with the Duke de Lucenay."</p>

<p>"And is he wounded?"</p>

<p>"I think not, or else they would have told me so at
the house."</p>

<p>"Hark! there's a carriage stopping at the door."</p>

<p>"Oh, what fine horses! how full of spirits they
are!"</p>

<p>"And that fat English coachman, with his white wig,
and brown livery striped with silver, and his epaulettes
like a colonel!"</p>

<p>"It must be some ambassador's."</p>

<p>"And the <i>chasseur</i>, look how he is bedizened all over
with silver!"</p>

<p>"And what moustachios!"</p>

<p>"Oh," said Jabulot, "it is the Viscount de Saint-Remy's
carriage!"</p>

<p>"What! is that the way he does it? Oh, my!"</p>

<p>Soon after the Viscount de Saint-Remy entered the
office.</p>

<p>We have already described the handsome appearance,
elegance of style, and aristocratical demeanour of M. de
Saint-Remy, when he was on his way to the farm of
Arnouville (the estate of Madame de Lucenay), where
he had found a retreat from the pursuit of the bailiffs,
Malicorne and Bourdin. The viscount, who entered
unceremoniously into the office, with his hat on his
head, a haughty and disdainful look, and his eyes half<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>
closed, asked, with an air of extreme superciliousness,
and without looking at anybody:</p>

<p>"Where is the notary?"</p>

<p>"M. Ferrand is engaged in his private room," said the
chief clerk. "If you will please to wait a moment, sir, he
will see you."</p>

<p>"What do you mean by wait a moment?"</p>

<p>"Why, sir&mdash;"</p>

<p>"There is no why in the case, sir. Go and tell him
that M. de Saint-Remy is here; and I am much surprised
that this notary should make me dance attendance in his
waiting-room. It is really most annoying."</p>

<p>"Will you walk into this side room, sir?" said the
chief clerk, "and I will inform M. Ferrand this instant."</p>

<p>M. de Saint-Remy shrugged his shoulders, and followed
the head clerk. At the end of a quarter of an hour,
which seemed very tedious to him, and which converted
his spleen into anger, the viscount was introduced into
the notary's private apartment.</p>

<p>Nothing could be more striking than the contrast
between these two men, both of them profound physiognomists,
and habituated to judge at a glance of the persons
with whom they had business. M. de Saint-Remy
saw Jacques Ferrand for the first time, and was struck
with the expression of his pallid, harsh, and impassive
features,&mdash;the look concealed by the large green spectacles;
the skull half hid beneath an old black silk cap.
The notary was seated at his writing-desk, in a leathern
armchair, beside a low fireplace, almost choked up with
ashes, and in which were two black and smoking logs of
wood. Curtains of green cotton, almost in rags, hung
on small iron rings at the windows, and, concealing the
lower window-panes, threw over the room, which was
naturally dark, a livid and unpleasant hue. Shelves of
black wood were filled with deed-boxes, all duly labelled.
Some cherry-wood chairs, covered with threadbare Utrecht
velvet; a clock in a mahogany case; a floor yellow, damp,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>
and chilling; a ceiling full of cracks, and festooned with
spiders' webs,&mdash;such was the <i>sanctum sanctorum</i> of M.
Jacques Ferrand. Hardly had the viscount made two
steps into his cabinet, or spoken a word, than the notary,
who knew him by reputation, conceived an intense antipathy
towards him. In the first place, he saw in him, if
we may say so, a rival in rogueries; and then he hated
elegance, grace, and youth in other persons, and more
especially when these advantages were attended with an
air of insolent superiority. The notary usually assumed
a tone of rude and almost coarse abruptness with his
clients, who liked him the better for being in behaviour
like a boor of the Danube. He made up his mind to
double this brutality towards M. de Saint-Remy, who, only
knowing the notary by report also, expected to find an
attorney either familiar or a fool; for the viscount
always imagined men of such probity as M. Ferrand
had the reputation for, as having an exterior almost
ridiculous, but, so far from this, the countenance and
appearance of the attorney at law struck the viscount
with an undefinable feeling,&mdash;half fear, half aversion.
Consequently, his own resolute character made M. de
Saint-Remy increase his usual impertinence and effrontery.
The notary kept his cap on his head, and the viscount
did not doff his hat, but exclaimed, as he entered the
room, with a loud and imperative tone:</p>

<p>"<i>Pardieu</i>, sir! it is very strange that you should give
me the trouble to come here, instead of sending to my
house for the money for the bills I accepted from the man
Badinot, and for which the fellow has issued execution
against me. It is true you tell me that you have also
another very important communication to make to me;
but then, surely, that is no excuse for making me wait
for half an hour in your antechamber: it is really most
annoying, sir!"</p>

<p>M. Ferrand, quite unmoved, finished a calculation he
was engaged in, wiped his pen methodically in a moist<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>
sponge which encircled his inkstand of cracked earthenware,
and raised towards the viscount his icy, earthy,
flat face, shaded by his spectacles. He looked like a
death's head in which the eye-holes had been replaced
by large, fixed, staring green eyeballs. After having
looked at the viscount for a moment or two, the notary
said to him, in a harsh and abrupt tone:</p>

<p>"Where's the money?"</p>

<p>This coolness exasperated M. de Saint-Rémy.</p>

<p>He&mdash;he, the idol of the women, the envy of the men,
the model of the first society in Paris, the dreaded duellist&mdash;produced
no effect on a wretched attorney-at-law!
It was horrid; and, although he was only <i>tête-à-tête</i> with
Jacques Ferrand, his pride revolted.</p>

<p>"Where are the bills?" inquired the viscount, abruptly.</p>

<p>With the point of one of his fingers, as hard as iron,
and covered with red hair, the notary rapped on a large
leathern pocket-book which lay close beside him. Resolved
on being as laconic, although trembling with rage,
M. de Saint-Remy took from the pocket of his upper
coat a Russian leather pocket-book, with gold clasps, from
which he drew forth forty notes of a thousand francs
each, and showed them to the notary.</p>

<p>"How many are there?" he inquired.</p>

<p>"Forty thousand francs."</p>

<p>"Hand them to me!"</p>

<p>"Take them! and let this have a speedy termination.
Ply your trade, pay yourself, and give me the bills," said
the viscount, as he threw the notes on the table, with an
impatient air.</p>

<p>The notary took up the bank-notes, rose, went close
to the window to examine them, turning and re-turning
them over and over, one by one, with an attention so
scrupulous, and really so insulting for M. de Saint-Rémy,
that the viscount actually turned pale with rage. Jacques
Ferrand, as if he had guessed the thoughts which were
passing in the viscount's mind, shook his head, turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>
half towards him, and said to him, with an indefinable
accent:</p>

<p>"I have seen&mdash;"</p>

<p>M. de Saint-Remy, confused for a moment, said, drily:</p>

<p>"What?"</p>

<p>"Forged bank-notes," replied the notary, continuing
his scrutiny of a note, which he had not yet examined.</p>

<p>"What do you mean by that remark, sir?"</p>

<p>Jacques Ferrand paused for a moment, looked steadfastly
at the viscount through his glasses, then, shrugging
his shoulders slightly, he continued to investigate the
notes, without uttering a syllable.</p>

<p>"Monsieur Notary! I would wish you to learn that,
when I ask a question, I have an answer!" cried M. de
Saint-Remy, exasperated at the coolness of Jacques
Ferrand.</p>

<p>"These notes are good," said the notary, turning
towards his bureau, whence he took a small bundle of
stamped papers, to which were annexed two bills of exchange;
then, putting down one of the bank-notes for
one thousand francs and three rouleaus, of one hundred
francs each, on the table, he said to M. de Saint-Remy,
pointing to the money and the bills with his finger:</p>

<p>"Here's your change out of the forty thousand francs;
my client has desired me to deduct the expenses."</p>

<p>The viscount had contained himself with great difficulty
whilst Jacques Ferrand was making out the
account, and, instead of taking up the money, he exclaimed,
in a voice that literally shook with passion:</p>

<p>"I beg to know, sir, what you meant by saying, whilst
you looked at the bank-notes which I handed to you,
that you 'had seen forged notes?'"</p>

<p>"What I meant?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"Because I sent for you to come here on a matter of
forgery."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p>

<p>And the notary fixed his green spectacles on the
viscount.</p>

<p>"And how can this forgery in any way affect me?"</p>

<p>After a moment's silence, M. Ferrand said to the
viscount, with a stern air:</p>

<p>"Are you aware, sir, of the duties which a notary
fulfils?"</p>

<p>"Those duties appear to me, sir, very simple indeed;
just now I had forty thousand francs, now I have
thirteen hundred francs left."</p>

<p>"You are facetious, sir; I will tell you that a notary
is, in temporal matters, what a confessor is in spiritual
affairs; by virtue of his position, he often becomes
possessed of disgraceful secrets."</p>

<p>"Go on, I beg, sir."</p>

<p>"He is often brought into contact with rogues."</p>

<p>"Go on, sir."</p>

<p>"He ought, as well as he can, to prevent an honourable
name from being dragged through the mud."</p>

<p>"What is all this to me?"</p>

<p>"Your father's name is deservedly respected; you,
sir, dishonour it."</p>

<p>"How dare you, sir, to address such language
to me?"</p>

<p>"But for the interest which the gentleman, of whom
I speak, inspires in the minds of all honest men, instead
of being summoned before me, you would, at this
moment, be standing before a police-magistrate."</p>

<p>"I do not understand you."</p>

<p>"Two months since, you discounted, through an
agent, a bill for fifty-eight thousand francs (2,320<i>l.</i>),
accepted by the house of Meulaert &amp; Company, of
Hamburg, in favour of a certain William Smith, payable
in three months, at the bank of M. Grimaldi, of Paris."</p>

<p>"Well?"</p>

<p>"That bill was a forgery."</p>

<p>"Impossible!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p>

<p>"That bill was a forgery! the firm of Meulaert never
gave such a bill to William Smith, and never had such a
transaction with such an individual."</p>

<p>"Can this be true?" exclaimed M. de Saint-Rémy,
with equal surprise and indignation; "then I have been
most infamously deceived, sir, for I took the bill as
ready money."</p>

<p>"From whom?"</p>

<p>"From M. William Smith himself; the house of
Meulaert is so well known, and I was so firmly convinced
myself of the honour of M. William Smith, that
I took the bill in payment of a debt he owed me."</p>

<p>"William Smith never existed,&mdash;he is an imaginary
personage."</p>

<p>"Sir, you insult me!"</p>

<p>"His signature is forged and false, as well as all the
rest of the bill."</p>

<p>"I assert that M. William Smith is alive; but I must
have been the dupe of a horrible abuse of confidence."</p>

<p>"Poor young man!"</p>

<p>"Explain yourself, sir."</p>

<p>"The actual holder of the bill is convinced you
committed the forgery."</p>

<p>"Sir!"</p>

<p>"He declares that he has proof of this; and he came
to me the day before yesterday, requesting me to see
you, and offer to give up this forged document, under
certain conditions. Up to this point all was straightforward,
but what follows is not so, and I only speak to
you now according to my instructions. He requires one
hundred thousand francs (4,000<i>l.</i>) down this very day,
or else to-morrow, at twelve o'clock at noon, the forged
bill will be handed over to the king's attorney-general."</p>

<p>"This is infamous, sir!"</p>

<p>"It is more,&mdash;it is absurd. You are a ruined man;
you were all but arrested for the sum which you have
just paid me, and which you have scraped up I cannot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>
tell from where; and this I have told to the holder of
the bill, who replied, that a certain great and very
rich lady would not allow you to remain in this
embarrassment."</p>

<p>"Enough, sir! enough!"</p>

<p>"More infamous! more absurd! agreed."</p>

<p>"Well, sir, and what is required of me?"</p>

<p>"Why, to work out infamously an action infamously
commenced. I have consented to communicate this proposition
to you, although it disgusts me, as an honest man
ought to feel disgust on such an occasion; but now it
is your affair. If you are guilty, choose between a criminal
court and the means of ransom offered to you; my
duty is only an official one, and I will not dirty my
fingers any further in so foul a transaction. The third
party is called M. Petit-Jean, an oil merchant, who lives
on the banks of the Seine, Quai de Billy, No. 10. Make
your arrangements with him; you are fit to meet if you
are a forger, as he declares."</p>

<p>M. de Saint-Remy had entered Jacques Ferrand's
study with a lip all scorn, and a head all pride.
Although he had in his life committed some shameful
actions, he still retained a certain elevation of
race, and an instinctive courage, which had never forsaken
him. At the beginning of this conversation,
considering the notary as an adversary beneath him,
he had been content to treat him with disdain; but,
when Jacques Ferrand began to talk of forgery, he felt
annihilated; in his turn he felt himself rode over by
the notary. But for the entire command of self which
he possessed, he could not have concealed the terrible
impression which this unexpected revelation disclosed
to him, for it might have incalculable consequences to
him,&mdash;consequences unsuspected by the notary himself.
After a moment of silence and reflection, he resigned
himself,&mdash;he, so haughty, so irritable, so vain of his
self-possession!&mdash;to beg of this coarse man, who had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>
so roughly addressed to him the stern language of
probity:</p>

<p>"Sir, you give me a proof of your interest, for which
I thank you, and I regret that any hasty expressions
should have escaped me," said M. de Saint-Remy, with
a tone of cordiality.</p>

<p>"I do not take the slightest interest in or for you,"
replied the notary, brutally. "Your father is the soul
of honour, and I would not wish that in the depth of
that solitude in which he lives, as they tell me, at
Angers, he should learn that his name has been exposed,
tarnished, degraded, in a court of justice, that's all."</p>

<p>"I repeat to you, sir, that I am incapable of the
infamy which is attributed to me."</p>

<p>"You may tell that to M. Petit-Jean."</p>

<p>"But I confess that, in the absence of M. Smith, who
has so unworthily abused my confidence, that&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The scoundrel Smith!"</p>

<p>"The absence of M. Smith places me in a cruel embarrassment.
I am innocent,&mdash;let them accuse me, I
will prove myself guiltless; but such an accusation, even,
must always disgrace a gentleman."</p>

<p>"Well?"</p>

<p>"Be so good as to use the sum I have just handed
to you in part payment to the person who holds the
acceptance."</p>

<p>"That money belongs to a client and is sacred."</p>

<p>"In two or three days I will repay you."</p>

<p>"You will not be able."</p>

<p>"I have resources."</p>

<p>"You have none; not visible at least. Your household
furniture, your horses, do not belong to you, as you
declare; this has to me the appearance of a disgraceful
fraud."</p>

<p>"You are severe, sir; but, admitting what you say, do
you not suppose that I shall turn everything into money
in such a desperate extremity? Only, as it will be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>
impossible for me to procure, between this and noon to-morrow,
the one hundred thousand francs, I entreat you
to employ the money I have just handed to you in
procuring this unfortunate bill, or, at least, as you are
very rich, advance the money. Do not leave me in such
a position."</p>

<p>"Me? Why, is the man mad?"</p>

<p>"Sir, I beseech you, in my father's name, which you
have mentioned to me, be so kind as to&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I am kind to those who deserve it," said the notary,
harshly. "An honest man myself, I hate swindlers, and
should not be sorry to see one of those high-minded
gentlemen, without faith or honour, impious and reprobate,
put in the pillory, as an example to others; but I
hear your horses, who are impatient to depart, M. le
Vicomte," said the notary, with a smile that displayed
his black fangs.</p>

<p>At this moment some one knocked at the door of the
apartment.</p>

<p>"Who's there?" inquired Jacques Ferrand.</p>

<p>"Madame the Countess d'Orbigny," said the chief
clerk.</p>

<p>"Request her to wait a moment."</p>

<p>"The stepmother of the Marchioness d'Harville?"
exclaimed M. de Saint-Remy.</p>

<p>"Yes, sir; she has an appointment with me,&mdash;so,
your servant, sir."</p>

<p>"Not a word of this, sir!" cried M. de Saint-Remy,
in a menacing voice.</p>

<p>"I told you, sir, that a notary is as discreet as a
confessor."</p>

<p>Jacques Ferrand rang, and the clerk appeared.</p>

<p>"Show Madame d'Orbigny in." Then, addressing
the viscount, "Take these thirteen hundred francs, sir;
they will be something towards an arrangement with
M. Petit-Jean."</p>

<p>Madame d'Orbigny (formerly Madame Roland) entered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>
at the moment when M. de Saint-Remy went out,
his features convulsed with rage at having so uselessly
humiliated himself before the notary.</p>

<p>"Ah, good day, M. de Saint-Remy," said Madame
d'Orbigny; "what a time it is since I saw you!"</p>

<p>"Why, madame, since D'Harville's marriage, at which
I was present, I do not think I have had the pleasure of
meeting you," said M. de Saint-Remy, bowing, and
assuming an affable and smiling demeanour. "You
have remained in Normandy ever since, I think?"</p>

<p>"Why, yes! M. d'Orbigny will only live in the
country, and what he likes I like; so you see in me a
complete country wife. I have not been in Paris since
the marriage of my dear stepdaughter with that excellent
M. d'Harville. Do you see him frequently?"</p>

<p>"D'Harville has grown very sullen and morose; he is
seldom seen in the world," said M. de Saint-Remy, with
something like impatience, for the conversation was
most irksome to him, both because of its untimeliness
and that the notary seemed amused at it; but Madame
d'Harville's stepmother, enchanted at thus meeting with
a dandy of the first water, was not the woman to allow
her prey to escape her so easily.</p>

<p>"And my dear stepdaughter," she continued,&mdash;"she,
I hope, is not as morose as her husband?"</p>

<p>"Madame d'Harville is all the fashion, and has the
world at her feet, as a lovely woman should have. But
I take up your time, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Not at all, I assure you. It is quite agreeable to me
to meet the 'observed of all observers,'&mdash;the monarch
of fashion,&mdash;for, in ten minutes, I shall be as <i>au
fait</i> of Paris as if I had never left it. And your dear
M. de Lucenay, who was also present at M. d'Harville's
marriage?"</p>

<p>"A still greater oddity. He has been travelling in
the East, and returned in time to receive a sword-wound
yesterday,&mdash;nothing serious, though."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p>

<p>"Poor dear duke! And his wife, always lovely and
fascinating?"</p>

<p>"Madame, I have the honour to be one of her profoundest
admirers, and my testimony would, therefore,
be received with suspicion. I beg, on your return to
Aubiers, you will not forget my regards to M. d'Orbigny."</p>

<p>"He will, I am sure, be most sensible of your kindness;
he often talks of you, and says you remind him of
the Duke de Lauzun."</p>

<p>"His comparison is a eulogy in itself, but, unfortunately,
infinitely more flattering than true. Adieu,
madame, for I fear I must not ask to be allowed to pay
my respects to you before your departure."</p>

<p>"I should lament to give you the trouble of calling
on me, for I have pitched my tent for a few days in a
furnished hôtel; but if, in the summer or autumn, you
should be passing our way, <i>en route</i> to some of those
fashionable châteaus where the leaders of <i>ton</i> dispute
the pleasure of receiving you, pray give us a few days of
your society, if it be only by way of contrast, and to rest
yourself with us poor rustic folk from the whirl of your
high life of fashion and distinction; for where you are
it is always delightful to be."</p>

<p>"Madame!"</p>

<p>"I need not say how delighted M. d'Orbigny and
myself would be to receive you; but adieu, sir, I fear
the kind attorney (she pointed to Ferrand) will grow
impatient at our gossip."</p>

<p>"Quite the reverse, madame, quite the reverse," said
Ferrand, with an emphasis that redoubled the repressed
rage of M. de Saint-Remy.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 329px;"><a name="image134" id="image134"></a>
<img src="images/i004.jpg" width="329" height="500" alt="He will scold you awfully." title="He will scold you awfully." />
<span class="caption"><i>He will scold you awfully.</i><br />
<span class="artist">Original Etching by Adrian Marcel</span></span>
</div>

<p>"Is not M. Ferrand a terrible man?" said Madame
d'Orbigny, affectedly. "Mind now, I tell you, that, if
he has charge of your affairs, he will scold you awfully.
He is the most unpitying man&mdash;But that's my nonsense;
on the contrary, why, such an exquisite as you to
have M. Ferrand for his solicitor is a proof of reformation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
for we know very well that he never allows his
clients to do foolish things; if they do, he gives up
their business. Oh, he will not be everybody's lawyer!"
Then, turning to Jacques Ferrand: "Do you know, most
puritanical solicitor, that you have made a splendid conversion
there? If you reform the exquisite of exquisites,
the King of the Mode&mdash;"</p>

<p>"It is really a conversion, madame. The viscount left
my study a very different man from what he entered it."</p>

<p>"There, I tell you that you perform miracles!"</p>

<p>"Ah, madame, you flatter me," said Jacques Ferrand,
with emphasis.</p>

<p>M. de Saint-Remy made a low bow to Madame
d'Orbigny, and then, as he left the notary, desirous of
trying once more to excite his pity, he said to him, in a
careless tone, which, however, betrayed deep anxiety:</p>

<p>"Then, my dear M. Ferrand, you will not grant me
the favour I ask?"</p>

<p>"Some wild scheme, no doubt. Be inexorable, my
dear Puritan," cried Madame d'Orbigny, laughing.</p>

<p>"You hear, sir? I must not contradict such a handsome
lady."</p>

<p>"My dear M. Ferrand, let us speak seriously of serious
things, and, you know, this is a most serious matter.
Do you really refuse me?" inquired the viscount, with
an anxiety which he could not altogether dissemble.</p>

<p>The notary was cruel enough to appear to hesitate;
M. de Saint-Remy had an instant's hope.</p>

<p>"What, man of iron, do you yield?" said Madame
d'Harville's stepmother, laughing still. "Do you, too,
yield to the charm of the irresistible?"</p>

<p>"<i>Ma foi</i>, madame! I was on the point of yielding, as
you say; but you make me blush for my weakness,"
added M. Ferrand. And then, addressing himself to
the viscount, he said to him, with an accent of which
Saint-Remy felt all the meaning, "Well then, seriously,"
(and he dwelt on the word), "it is impossible."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p>

<p>"Ah, the Puritan! Hark to the Puritan!" said
Madame d'Orbigny.</p>

<p>"See M. Petit-Jean. He will think precisely as I do,
I am sure, and, like me, will say to you 'No!'"</p>

<p>M. de Saint-Remy rushed out in despair.</p>

<p>After a moment's reflection he said to himself, "It
must be so!" Then he added, addressing his chasseur,
who was standing with the door of his carriage opened,
"To the Hôtel de Lucenay."</p>

<p>Whilst M. de Saint-Remy is on his way to see the
duchess, we will present the reader at the interview between
M. Ferrand and the stepmother of Madame d'Harville.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3>

<h5>THE CLIENTS.</h5>


<p>The reader may have forgotten the portrait of the
stepmother of Madame d'Harville as drawn by the
latter. Let us then repeat, that Madame d'Orbigny was
a slight, fair, delicate woman, with eyelashes almost
white, round and palish blue eyes, with a soft voice, a
hypocritical air, insidious and insinuating manners. Any
one who studied her treacherous and perfidious countenance
would detect therein craft and cruelty.</p>

<p>"What a delightful young man M. de Saint-Remy is!"
said Madame d'Orbigny to Jacques Ferrand, when the
viscount had left them.</p>

<p>"Delightful! But, madame, let us now proceed to our
business. You wrote to me from Normandy that you
desired to consult me upon most serious matters."</p>

<p>"Have you not always been my adviser ever since the
worthy Doctor Polidori introduced me to you? By the
way, have you heard from him recently?" inquired
Madame d'Orbigny, with an air of complete carelessness.</p>

<p>"Since he left Paris he has not written me a single
line," replied the notary, with an air of similar indifference.</p>

<p>Let the reader understand that these two persons lied
most unequivocally to each other. The notary had seen
Polidori (one of his two accomplices) recently, and had
proposed to him to go to Asnières, to the Martials, the
fresh-water pirates, of whom we shall presently speak,&mdash;had
proposed to him, we say, to poison Louise Morel,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>
under the name of Doctor Vincent. Madame d'Harville's
stepmother, on her side, had come to Paris in
order to have a secret meeting with this scoundrel, who
had been for a long time concealed, as we have said,
under the name of César Bradamanti.</p>

<p>"But it is not the good doctor of whom we have to
discourse," continued Madame d'Harville's stepmother.
"You see me very uneasy. My husband is indisposed;
his health becomes weaker and weaker every day. Without
experiencing serious alarm, his condition gives me
much concern,&mdash;or rather, gives him much concern,"
said Madame d'Orbigny, drying her eyes, which were
slightly moistened.</p>

<p>"What is the business, madame?"</p>

<p>"He is constantly talking of making his last arrangements,&mdash;of
his will." Here Madame d'Orbigny concealed
her face in her pocket-handkerchief for some minutes.</p>

<p>"It is very afflicting, no doubt," said the notary; "but
the precaution has nothing terrible in itself. And what
may be M. d'Orbigny's intentions, madame?"</p>

<p>"Dear sir! How do I know? You may suppose that
when he commences the subject I do not allow him to
dwell on it long."</p>

<p>"Well, then, he has not up to this time told you
anything positive?"</p>

<p>"I think," replied Madame d'Orbigny, with a deep
sigh,&mdash;"I think that he wishes to leave me not only
all that the law will allow him to bequeath to me,
but&mdash;But, really, I pray of you, do not let us talk of
that."</p>

<p>"Of what, then, shall we talk?"</p>

<p>"Alas, you are right, pitiless man! I must, in spite
of myself, return to the sad subject that brings me here
to see you. Well, then, M. d'Orbigny's inclination extends
so far that he desires to sell a part of his estate
and present me with a large sum."</p>

<p>"But his daughter&mdash;his daughter?" exclaimed M.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>
Ferrand, harshly. "I must tell you that, during the
last year, M. d'Harville has placed his affairs in my
hands, and I have lately purchased a splendid estate for
him. You know my blunt way of doing business?
Whether M. d'Harville is my client or not is no matter.
I stand up only for justice. If your husband makes up
his mind to behave to his daughter in a way that I do
not approve, I tell you plainly he must not reckon on my
assistance. Upright and downright, such has always
been my line of conduct."</p>

<p>"And mine, also! Therefore it is that I am always
saying to my husband what you now say to me, 'Your
daughter has behaved very ill to you, that is but too
true; but that is no reason why you should disinherit
her.'"</p>

<p>"Very good,&mdash;quite right! And what answer does
he make to that?"</p>

<p>"He replies, 'I shall leave my daughter twenty-five
thousand livres of annual income (1,000<i>l.</i>); she had
more than a million (40,000<i>l.</i>) from her mother. Her
husband has an enormous fortune of his own; and,
therefore, why should I not leave you the residue of
my fortune,&mdash;you, my tender love, the sole support,
the only comfort of my declining years, my guardian
angel?' I repeat these very flattering words to you,"
said Madame d'Orbigny, with an air of modesty, "to
prove to you how kind M. d'Orbigny is to me. But, in
spite of that, I have always refused his offers; and, as
he perceives that, he has compelled me to come and seek
you."</p>

<p>"But I do not know M. d'Orbigny."</p>

<p>"But he, like all the world, knows your high character."</p>

<p>"But why should he send you to me?"</p>

<p>"To put an end to all my scruples and refusals, he
said to me, 'I will not ask you to consult my notary,
because you will think him too much devoted to my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>
service; but I will trust myself entirely to the decision
of a man of whose extreme probity of character I have
heard you so frequently speak in praise,&mdash;M. Jacques
Ferrand. If he considers your delicacy compromised
by your consent to my wishes, we will not say another
word on the subject; otherwise, you must comply without
a word.' 'I consent!' I replied to M. d'Orbigny.
And so now you are the arbitrator between us. 'If M.
Ferrand approves,' added my husband, 'I will send him
ample power to realise in my name my rents and investments,
and he shall keep the proceeds in his hands as
a deposit; and thus, after my decease, my tender love,
you will at least have an existence worthy of you.'"</p>

<p>Perhaps M. Ferrand never had greater need of his
spectacles than at this moment; for, had he not worn
them, Madame d'Orbigny would doubtless have been
struck with the sparkle of the notary's eyes, which
seemed to dart fire when the word deposit was pronounced.
However, he replied, in his usual coarse way:</p>

<p>"It is very tiresome. This is the tenth or twelfth
time that I have been made the arbitrator in a similar
matter, always under the pretence of my honesty,&mdash;that
is the only word in people's mouths. My honesty!&mdash;my
honesty! What a fine quality, forsooth!&mdash;which
only brings me in a great deal of tiresome
trouble."</p>

<p>"My good M. Ferrand! Come, do not repulse me.
You will write at once to M. d'Orbigny, who only
awaits your letter to send you full powers to act for
him, and to realise the sum required."</p>

<p>"Which amounts to how much?"</p>

<p>"Why, I think he said four or five hundred thousand
francs" (16,000<i>l.</i> or 20,000<i>l.</i>).</p>

<p>"The sum, after all, is not so much as I thought.
You are devoted to M. d'Orbigny. His daughter is
very rich; you have nothing. That is not just; and
I really think you should accept it."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p>

<p>"Really, do you think so, indeed?" said Madame
d'Orbigny, who was the dupe, like the rest of the world,
of the proverbial probity of the notary, and who had
not been enlightened by Polidori in this particular.</p>

<p>"You may accept," he repeated.</p>

<p>"I will accept, then," said Madame d'Orbigny, with
a sigh.</p>

<p>The chief clerk knocked at the door.</p>

<p>"Who is there?" inquired M. Ferrand.</p>

<p>"Madame the Countess Macgregor."</p>

<p>"Request her to wait a moment."</p>

<p>"I will go, then, my dear M. Ferrand," said Madame
d'Orbigny. "You will write to my husband, since he
wishes it, and he will send you the requisite authority
by return of post?"</p>

<p>"I will write."</p>

<p>"Adieu, my worthy and excellent counsellor!"</p>

<p>"Ah, you do not know, you people of the world, how
disagreeable it is to take charge of such deposits,&mdash;the
responsibility which we then assume. I tell you that
there is nothing more detestable in the world than this
fine character for probity, which brings down upon
one all these turmoils and troubles."</p>

<p>"And the admiration of all good people."</p>

<p>"Thank Heaven, I place otherwise than here below
the hopes of the reward at which I aim!" said M.
Ferrand, in a hypocritical tone.</p>

<p>To Madame d'Orbigny succeeded Sarah Macgregor.</p>

<p>Sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her
usual coolness and assurance. Jacques Ferrand did
not know her, nor the motives of her visit, and he
therefore scrutinised her carefully in the hope of
catching another dupe. He looked most attentively at
the countess; and, despite the imperturbability of this
marble-fronted woman, he observed a slight working of
the eyebrows, which betrayed a repressed embarrassment.
The notary rose from his seat, handed a chair,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>
and, motioning to Sarah to sit down, thus accosted
her:</p>

<p>"You have requested of me, madame, an interview for
to-day. I was very much engaged yesterday, and could
not reply until this morning. I beg you will accept my
apology for the delay."</p>

<p>"I was desirous of seeing you, sir, on a matter of the
greatest importance. Your reputation for honesty, kindness,
and complaisance has made me hope that the step
I have taken with you will be successful."</p>

<p>The notary bent forward slightly in his chair.</p>

<p>"I know, sir, that your discretion is perfect."</p>

<p>"It is my duty, madame."</p>

<p>"You are, sir, a man of rigid, moral, and incorruptible
character."</p>

<p>"Yes, madame."</p>

<p>"Yet, sir, if you were told that it depended on you to
restore life&mdash;more than life, reason&mdash;to an unhappy
mother, should you have the courage to refuse her?"</p>

<p>"If you will state the circumstances, madame, I shall
be better able to reply."</p>

<p>"It is fourteen years since, at the end of the month
of December, 1824, a man in the prime of life, and
dressed in deep mourning, came to ask you to take, by
way of life-annuity, the sum of a hundred and fifty
thousand francs (6,000<i>l.</i>), which it was desired should
be sunk in favour of a child of three years of age, whose
parents were desirous of remaining unknown."</p>

<p>"Well, madame?" said the notary, careful not to
reply in the affirmative.</p>

<p>"You assented, and took charge of this sum, agreeing
to insure the child a yearly pension of eight thousand
francs (320<i>l.</i>). Half this income was to accumulate for
the child's benefit until of age; the other half was to
be paid by you to the person who took care of this little
girl."</p>

<p>"Well, madame?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p>

<p>"At the end of two years," said Sarah, unable to
repress a slight emotion, "on the 28th of November,
1827, the child died."</p>

<p>"Before we proceed any farther, madame, with this
conversation, I must know what interest you take in
this matter?"</p>

<p>"The mother of this little girl, sir, was&mdash;my sister.<a name="FNanchor_1_2" id="FNanchor_1_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a>
I have here proofs of what I advance: the declaration
of the poor child's death, the letters of the person who
took charge of her, and the acknowledgment of one of
your clients with whom you have placed the hundred
and fifty thousand francs."</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_2" id="Footnote_1_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> It is, perhaps, unnecessary to remind the reader that the child in question
is Fleur-de-Marie, daughter of Rodolph and Sarah, and that the latter,
in speaking of a pretended sister, tells a falsehood necessary for her plans,
as will be seen. Sarah was convinced, as was Rodolph, also, of the death of
the little girl.</p></div></div>

<p>"Allow me to see those papers, madame."</p>

<p>Somewhat astonished at not being believed on her
word, Sarah drew from a pocket-book several papers,
which the notary examined with great attention.</p>

<p>"Well, madame, what do you desire? The declaration
of decease is perfectly in order. The hundred and
fifty thousand francs came to my client, M. Petit-Jean,
on the death of the child. It is one of the chances of
life-annuities, as I remarked to the person who placed
the affair in my hands. As to the pension, it was duly
paid by me up to the time of the child's decease."</p>

<p>"I am ready to declare, sir, that nothing could be
more satisfactory than your conduct throughout the
whole of the affair. The female who had charge of
the child is also entitled to our gratitude, for she
took the greatest care of my poor little niece."</p>

<p>"True, madame. And I was so much satisfied with
her conduct, that, seeing her out of place after the death
of the child, I took her into my employment; and, since
that time, she has remained with me."</p>

<p>"Is Madame Séraphin in your service, sir?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p>

<p>"She has been my housekeeper these fourteen years,
and I must ever speak in her praise."</p>

<p>"Since that is the case, sir, she may be of the greatest
use to us, if you will kindly grant me a request, which
may appear strange, perhaps even culpable, at first sight,
but when you know the motive&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A culpable request, madame, is what I cannot believe
you capable of addressing to me."</p>

<p>"Sir, I am acquainted with the rectitude of your principles;
but all my hope&mdash;my only hope&mdash;is in your
pity. Under any event, I may rely on your discretion?"</p>

<p>"Madame, you may."</p>

<p>"Well, then, I will proceed. The death of this poor
child was so great a shock to her mother, that her grief
is as great now as it was fourteen years since, and, having
then feared for her life, we are now in dread for her
reason."</p>

<p>"Poor mother!" said M. Ferrand, in a tone of sympathy.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, poor unhappy mother, indeed, sir! for she
could only blush at the birth of her child at the time
when she lost it; whilst now circumstances are such,
that, if the child were still alive, my sister could render
her legitimate, be proud of her, and never again allow
her to quit her. Thus this incessant regret, coming to
add to her other sorrows, we are afraid every hour lest
she should be bereft of her senses."</p>

<p>"It is unfortunate that nothing can be done in the
matter."</p>

<p>"Yes, sir&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What, madame?"</p>

<p>"Suppose some one told the poor mother, 'Your child
was reported to be dead, but she did not die: the woman
who had charge of her when she was little could vouch
for this.'"</p>

<p>"Such a falsehood, madame, would be cruel. Why
give so vain a hope to the poor mother?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p>

<p>"But, supposing it were not a falsehood, sir? or,
rather, if the supposition could be realised?"</p>

<p>"By a miracle? If it only required my prayers to be
united with your own to obtain this result, I would give
them to you from the bottom of my heart,&mdash;believe
me, madame. Unfortunately, the register of decease is
strictly regular."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, sir, I know well enough that the child is
dead; and yet, if you will agree, that misfortune need
not be irreparable."</p>

<p>"Is this some riddle, madame?"</p>

<p>"I will speak more clearly. If my sister were to-morrow
to recover her daughter, she would be certain
not only to be restored to health, but to be wedded to
the father of her child, who is now as free as herself.
My niece died at six years old. Separated from her
parents from a very tender age, they have not the slightest
recollection of her. Suppose a young girl of seventeen
was produced (my niece would be about that age),&mdash;a
young girl (such as there are many) forsaken by
her parents,&mdash;and it was said to my sister, 'Here's your
daughter, for you have been imposed upon. Important
interests have required that she should have been said
to be dead. The female who brought her up and a
respectable notary will confirm these facts, and prove
to you that it is really she&mdash;'"</p>

<p>Jacques Ferrand, after having allowed the countess
to speak on without interruption, rose abruptly, and
exclaimed, with an indignant air:</p>

<p>"Madame, this is infamous!"</p>

<p>"Sir!"</p>

<p>"To dare to propose such a thing to me&mdash;to me!
A supposititious child, the destruction of a registry of
decease; a criminal act, indeed! It is the first time in
my life that I was ever subjected to so outrageous a
proposal,&mdash;a proposal I have not merited, and you
know it!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p>

<p>"But, sir, what wrong does this do to any one? My
sister and the individual she desires to marry are widow
and widower, and childless, both bitterly lamenting the
child they have lost. To deceive them is to restore
them to happiness, to life, is to ensure a happy destiny
to some poor, forsaken girl; and it becomes, therefore,
a noble, a generous action, and not a crime!"</p>

<p>"Really, madame, I marvel to see how the most
execrable projects may be coloured, so as to pass for
beautiful pictures!"</p>

<p>"But, sir, reflect&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I repeat to you, madame, that it is infamous! And
it is shameful to see a lady of your rank lend herself to
such abominable machinations,&mdash;to which, I trust, your
sister is a stranger."</p>

<p>"Sir&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Enough, madame, enough! I am not a polished gentleman,
I am not, and I shall speak my mind bluntly."</p>

<p>Sarah gave the notary a piercing look with her jet-black
eyes, and said, coldly:</p>

<p>"You refuse?"</p>

<p>"I pray, madame, that you will not again insult me."</p>

<p>"Beware!"</p>

<p>"What! Threats?"</p>

<p>"Threats! And that you may learn they are not
vain ones, learn, first, that I have no sister&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What, madame?"</p>

<p>"I am the mother of this child!"</p>

<p>"You?"</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I made a circuitous route to reach my end&mdash;coined
a tale to excite your interest; but you are pitiless.
I raise the mask, you are for war. Well, war be
it then!"</p>

<p>"War! Because I refuse to associate myself with you
in a criminal machination! What audacity!"</p>

<p>"Listen to me, sir! Your reputation as an honest
man is established, acknowledged, undisputed&mdash;"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p>

<p>"Because deserved; and, therefore, you must have
lost your reason to make me such a proposal as you
have done, and then threaten me because I will not
accede to it."</p>

<p>"I know, sir, better than any one how much reputations
for immaculate virtue are to be distrusted; they
often mask wantonness in women and roguery in men."</p>

<p>"Madame?"</p>

<p>"Ever since our conversation began,&mdash;I do not know
why, but I have mistrusted your claim to the esteem
and consideration which you enjoy."</p>

<p>"Really, madame, your mistrust does honour to your
penetration!"</p>

<p>"Does it not? For this mistrust is based on mere
nothings&mdash;on instinct&mdash;on inexplicable presentiments;
but these intimations have rarely beguiled me."</p>

<p>"Madame, let us terminate this conversation."</p>

<p>"First learn my determination. I begin by telling
you that I am convinced of the death of my poor daughter.
But, no matter, I shall pretend that she is not
dead: the most unlikely things do happen. You are
at this moment in a position of which very many must
be envious, and would be delighted at any weapon with
which to assail you. I will supply one."</p>

<p>"You?"</p>

<p>"I, by attacking you under some absurd pretext,
some irregularity in the declaration of death; say&mdash;no
matter what&mdash;I will insist that my child is not dead.
As I have the greatest interest in making it believed
that she is still alive, though lost, this action will be
useful to me in giving a wide circulation to the affair.
A mother who claims her child is always interesting;
and I should have with me those who envy you,&mdash;your
enemies, and every sensitive and romantic mind."</p>

<p>"This is as mad as it is malevolent! What motive
could I have in making your daughter pass for dead, if
she were not really defunct?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p>

<p>"That is true enough, and the motive may be difficult
to find; but, then, have we not the attorneys and
barristers at our elbows? Now I think of it (excellent
idea!), desirous of sharing with your client the sum
sunk in the annuity on this unfortunate child, you caused
her disappearance."</p>

<p>The unabashed notary shrugged his shoulders.</p>

<p>"If I had been criminal enough for that, instead of
causing its disappearance, I should have killed it!"</p>

<p>Sarah started with surprise, remained silent for a
moment, and then said, with bitterness:</p>

<p>"For a pious man, this is an idea of crime deeply
reflective! Can I by chance, then, have hit the mark
when I fired at random? I must think of this,&mdash;and
think I will. One other word. You see the sort of
woman I am: I crush without remorse all obstacles
that lie in my onward path. Reflect well, then, for
to-morrow this must be decided on. You may do what
I ask you with impunity. In his joy, the father of my
daughter will not think of doubting the possibility of his
child's restoration, if our falsehoods, which will make him
happy, are adroitly combined. Besides, he has no other
proofs of the death of our daughter than those I wrote
to him of fourteen years ago, and I could easily persuade
him that I had deceived him on this subject; for
then I had real causes of complaint against him. I will
tell him that in my grief I was desirous of breaking
every existing tie that bound us to each other. You
cannot, therefore, be compromised in any way. Affirm
only, irreproachable man. Affirm that all was in former
days concerted between us,&mdash;you and me and Madame
Séraphin,&mdash;and you will be credited. As to the fifteen
thousand francs sunk in an annuity for my child, that is
my affair solely. They will remain acquired by your
client, who must be kept profoundly ignorant of this;
and, moreover, you shall yourself name your own
recompense."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p>

<p>Jacques Ferrand maintained all his <i>sang-froid</i> in spite
of the singularity of his situation, remarkable and dangerous
as it was. The countess, really believing in the
death of her daughter, had proposed to the notary to
pass off the dead child as living, whom, living, he had
declared to have died fourteen years before. He was too
clever, and too well acquainted with the perils of his
position, not to understand the effect of all Sarah's
threats. His reputation, although admirably and laboriously
built up, was based on a substructure of sand.
The public detaches itself as easily as it becomes infatuated,
liking to have the right to trample under foot him
whom but just now it elevated to the skies. How could
the consequences of the first assault on the reputation
of Jacques Ferrand be foreseen? However absurd the
attack might be, its very boldness might give rise to suspicions.
Wishing to gain time to determine on the mode
by which he would seek to parry the dangerous blow, the
notary said, frigidly, to Sarah:</p>

<p>"You have given me, madame, until to-morrow at noon;
I give you until the next day to renounce a plot whose
serious nature you do not seem to have contemplated.
If, between this and then, I do not receive from you a
letter informing me that you have abandoned this criminal
and crazy enterprise, you will learn to your cost
that Justice knows how to protect honest people who
refuse guilty associations, and what may happen to the
concoctors of hateful machinations."</p>

<p>"You mean to say, sir, that you ask from me one
more day to reflect on my proposals? That is a good
sign, and I grant the delay. The day after to-morrow,
at this hour, I will come here again, and it shall be
between us peace or war,&mdash;I repeat it,&mdash;but a 'war to
the knife,' without mercy or pity."</p>

<p>And Sarah left the room.</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>"All goes well," she said. "This miserable girl, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>
whom Rodolph capriciously takes so much interest, and
has sent to the farm at Bouqueval, in order, no doubt,
to make her his mistress hereafter, is no longer to be
feared,&mdash;thanks to the one-eyed woman who has freed
me from her. Rodolph's adroitness has saved Madame
d'Harville from the snare into which I meant she should
fall; but it is impossible that she can escape from the
fresh plot I have laid for her, and thus she must be for
ever lost to Rodolph. Thus, saddened, discouraged, isolated
from all affection, will he not be in a frame of
mind such as will best suit my purpose of making him
the dupe of a falsehood to which, by the notary's aid, I
can give every impress of truth? And the notary will
aid me, for I have frightened him. I shall easily find a
young orphan girl, interesting and poor, who, taught her
lesson by me, will fill the character of our child so bitterly
mourned by Rodolph. I know the expansiveness, the
generosity of his heart,&mdash;yes, to give a name, a rank to
her whom he will believe to be his daughter, till now
forsaken and abandoned, he will renew those bonds
between us which I believed indissoluble. The predictions
of my nurse will be at length realised, and I shall
thus and then attain the constant aim of my life,&mdash;a
crown!"</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>Sarah had scarcely left the notary before M. Charles
Robert entered, after alighting from a very dashing cabriolet.
He went like a person on most intimate terms
to the private room of Jacques Ferrand.</p>

<p>The commandant, as Madame Pipelet called him,
entered without ceremony into the notary's cabinet,
whom he found in a surly, bilious mood, and who thus
accosted him:</p>

<p>"I reserve the afternoon for my clients; when you
wish to speak to me come in the morning, will you?"</p>

<p>"My dear lawyer" (this was a standing pleasantry of
M. Robert), "I have a very important matter to talk<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
about in the first place, and, in the next, I was anxious
to assure you in person against any alarms you might
have&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What alarms?"</p>

<p>"What! Haven't you heard?"</p>

<p>"What?"</p>

<p>"Of my duel&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Your duel?"</p>

<p>"With the Duke de Lucenay. Is it possible you have
not heard of it?"</p>

<p>"Quite possible."</p>

<p>"Pooh! pooh!"</p>

<p>"But what did you fight about?"</p>

<p>"A very serious matter, which called for bloodshed.
Only imagine that, at a very large party, M. de Lucenay
actually said that I had a phlegmy cough!"</p>

<p>"That you had&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A phlegmy cough, my dear lawyer; a complaint which
is really most ridiculously absurd!"</p>

<p>"And did you fight about that?"</p>

<p>"What the devil would you have a man fight about?
Can you imagine that a man could stand calmly and
hear himself charged with having a phlegmy cough?
And before a lovely woman, too! Before a little marchioness,
who&mdash;who&mdash;In a word, I could not stand
it!"</p>

<p>"Really!"</p>

<p>"The military men, you see, are always sensitive.
My seconds went, the day before yesterday, to try and
obtain some explanation from those of the duke. I
put the matter perfectly straight,&mdash;a duel or an ample
apology."</p>

<p>"An ample apology for what?"</p>

<p>"For the phlegmy cough, <i>pardieu!</i>&mdash;the phlegmy
cough that he fastened on me."</p>

<p>The notary shrugged his shoulders.</p>

<p>"The duke's seconds said, 'We bear testimony to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
honourable character of M. Charles Robert, but M. de
Lucenay cannot, ought not, and will not retract.' 'Then,
gentlemen,' replied my seconds, 'M. de Lucenay is obstinately
determined to assert that M. Charles Robert has
a phlegmy cough?' 'Yes, gentlemen, but he does not
therefore mean in the slightest way to impugn the high
respectability of M. Charles Robert.' 'Then let him
retract&mdash;' 'No, gentlemen, M. de Lucenay acknowledges
M. Robert as a most decidedly worthy gentleman,
but still asserts that he has a phlegmy cough.' You see
there was no means of arranging so serious an affair."</p>

<p>"To be sure not. You were insulted in the point
which a man holds dearest."</p>

<p>"Wasn't I? Well, time and place were agreed on;
and yesterday morning we met at Vincennes, and everything
passed off in the most honourable manner possible.
I touched M. de Lucenay slightly in the arm, and the
seconds declared that honour was satisfied. Then the
duke, with a loud voice, said, 'I never retract before a
meeting, but, afterwards, it is a very different thing. It
is, therefore, my duty, and my honour impels me to
declare, that I falsely accused M. Charles Robert of having
a phlegmy cough. Gentlemen, I not only declare that
my honourable opponent had not a phlegmy cough, but I
trust he never will have one.' Then the duke extended
his hand in the most cordial manner, saying,'Are you
now satisfied?' 'We are friends through life and death,'
I replied; and it was really due to him to say so. The
duke has behaved to perfection. Either he might have
said nothing, or contented himself with declaring that I
had not the phlegmy cough. But to express his wish
that I might never have it, was a most delicate attention
on his part."</p>

<p>"This is what I call courage well employed! But
what do you want?"</p>

<p>"My dear cashkeeper" (this was another of M. Robert's
habitual pleasantries), "it is a matter of great importance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>
to me. You know that, according to our agreement, I
have advanced to you three hundred and fifty thousand
francs (14,000<i>l.</i>) to complete a particular payment you
had; and it was stipulated that I was to give you three
months' notice of my wish to withdraw that money, the
interest of which you pay me regularly."</p>

<p>"Go on."</p>

<p>"Well," said M. Robert, hesitatingly, "I&mdash;no&mdash;that
is&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What?"</p>

<p>"Why, it is only a whim of becoming a landed
proprietor."</p>

<p>"Come to the point, pray! You annoy me."</p>

<p>"In a word, then, I am anxious to become a landed
proprietor. And, if not inconvenient to you, I should
like&mdash;that is I should wish&mdash;to have my funds now
in your hands; and I came to say so."</p>

<p>"Ah, ah!"</p>

<p>"That does not offend you, I hope?"</p>

<p>"Why should I be offended?"</p>

<p>"Because you might think&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I might think&mdash;?"</p>

<p>"That I am the echo of certain reports&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What reports?"</p>

<p>"Oh, nothing. Mere folly."</p>

<p>"But, tell me&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, there can be no certainty in the gossip about
you!"</p>

<p>"What gossip?"</p>

<p>"Oh, it is false from beginning to end. But there
are chatterers who say that you are mixed up in some
unpleasant transactions. Idle gossip, I am quite certain.
It is just the same as the report that you and I speculated
on the Exchange together. These reports soon
died away. For I will always say that&mdash;"</p>

<p>"So you suppose that your money is not safe with
me?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p>

<p>"Oh, no&mdash;no! But, at this moment, I should like
to have it in my own hands."</p>

<p>"Wait a moment." M. Ferrand shut the drawer of
his bureau, and rose.</p>

<p>"Where are you going, my dear cashkeeper?"</p>

<p>"To fetch what will convince you of the truth of the
reports as to the embarrassment of my affairs," said
the notary, ironically; and, opening the door of a small
private staircase, which enabled him to go into the
pavilion at the back without passing through the office,
he disappeared. He had scarce left the room, when the
head clerk rapped again.</p>

<p>"Come in," said Charles Robert.</p>

<p>"Is not M. Ferrand here?"</p>

<p>"No, my worthy pounce and parchment" (another
joke of M. Robert).</p>

<p>"There is a lady with a veil on, who wishes to see my
employer this moment on a very urgent affair."</p>

<p>"Worthy quill-driver, the excellent employer will be
here in a moment, and I will inform him. Is the lady
handsome?"</p>

<p>"One must be very keen-sighted to discover; for she
has on a black veil, so thick that it is impossible to see
her face."</p>

<p>"Really, really, I will make her show her face as I go
out. I'll tell the governor as soon as he returns."</p>

<p>The clerk left the room.</p>

<p>"Where the devil has the attorney at law vanished?"
said M. Charles Robert. "To examine the state of his
finances, no doubt. If these reports are groundless, so
much the better. And, when all is said and done, they
can but be false reports. Men of Jacques Ferrand's
honesty always have so many people jealous of them!
Still, at the same time, I should just as well like to have
my own cash. I will certainly buy the château in question.
There are towers and Gothic turrets quite <i>à la
Louis Quatorze</i>, the real <i>renaissance</i>, and, in a word, all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>
that is most <i>rococo</i>. It would give me a kind of landed
proprietor's sort of air which would be capital. It
would not be like my <i>amour</i> with that flirt of a Madame
d'Harville. Has she really cut me? Can she really
have given me the 'go-by?' No, no! I am not trifled
with as that stupid porteress in the Rue du Temple, with
her bob-wig, says. Yet this agreeable little flirtation
has cost me at least one thousand crowns. True, the
furniture is left, and I have quite enough in my power
to compromise the marchioness. But here comes the
lawyer!"</p>

<p>M. Ferrand returned, holding in his hands some
papers, which he handed to M. Charles Robert.</p>

<p>"Here," said he, "are three hundred and fifty thousand
francs in bank-bills. In a few days we will
balance the account of interest. Give me a receipt."</p>

<p>"What!" exclaimed M. Robert, astonished; "do not
go to think that&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I don't think anything."</p>

<p>"But&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The receipt!"</p>

<p>"Dear cashkeeper!"</p>

<p>"Write it; and tell the persons who talk to you of
my embarrassments, how I reply to such suspicions."</p>

<p>"The fact is that, as soon as they hear this, your
credit will be more solid than ever. But, really, take
the money back again; I do not want it at this moment.
I told you it was three months hence."</p>

<p>"Monsieur Charles Robert, no man suspects me
twice."</p>

<p>"You are angry?"</p>

<p>"The receipt,&mdash;the receipt!"</p>

<p>"Man of iron, that you are!" said M. Charles Robert.
"There!" he added, writing the receipt. "There is a
lady, closely veiled, who desires to speak to you directly
on a very urgent affair. Won't I have a good look at
her as I go out! There's your receipt; is it all right?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p>

<p>"Quite. Now I'll thank you to go out this way."</p>

<p>"And so not see the lady?"</p>

<p>"Precisely so."</p>

<p>And the notary rang; and when the chief clerk made
his appearance, he said:</p>

<p>"Ask the lady to walk in. Good day, M. Robert."</p>

<p>"Well, I see I must give up the chance of seeing her.
Don't bear malice, lawyer. Believe me, if&mdash;"</p>

<p>"There&mdash;there; that'll do. Good-bye." And the
notary shut the door on M. Charles Robert.</p>

<p>After the lapse of a few moments, the chief clerk
introduced the Duchess de Lucenay, very simply attired,
wearing a large shawl, and her features entirely concealed
by a thick veil of black lace, depending from her
watered silk bonnet of the same colour.</p>

<p>Madame de Lucenay, a good deal agitated, walked
slowly towards the notary's bureau, who advanced a
few paces to meet her.</p>

<p>"Who are you, madame; and what may be your business
with me?" said Jacques Ferrand, abruptly; for
Sarah's menaces and M. Charles Robert's suspicions had
a good deal ruffled him. Moreover, the duchess was
clad so simply, that the notary did not see any reason
why he should not be rude. As she did not immediately
reply, he continued, abruptly:</p>

<p>"Will you be so kind as to inform me, madame?"</p>

<p>"Sir," she said, in a faltering voice, and endeavouring
to conceal her face in the folds of her veil, "Sir, may I
entrust you with a secret of extreme importance?"</p>

<p>"You may trust me with anything, madame. But it
is requisite that I should know and see to whom I speak."</p>

<p>"That, sir, perhaps, is not necessary. I know that
you are probity and honour itself&mdash;"</p>

<p>"To the point, madame,&mdash;to the point. I have some
one waiting for me. Who are you?"</p>

<p>"My name is of no consequence, sir. One&mdash;of&mdash;my
friends,&mdash;a relative,&mdash;has just left you."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p>

<p>"His name?"</p>

<p>"M. Florestan de Saint-Remy."</p>

<p>"Ah!" said the notary; and he cast a scrutinising
and steadfast glance on the duchess. Then he added,
"Well, madame?"</p>

<p>"M. de Saint-Remy has told me&mdash;all,&mdash;sir!"</p>

<p>"What has he told you, madame?"</p>

<p>"All!"</p>

<p>"What all?"</p>

<p>"Sir; you know&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I know many things about M. de Saint-Remy."</p>

<p>"Alas, sir, this is a terrible thing!"</p>

<p>"I know many terrible things about M. de Saint-Remy."</p>

<p>"Oh, sir, he was right when he told me that you
were pitiless."</p>

<p>"For swindlers and forgers like him,&mdash;yes, I am
pitiless. So this Saint-Remy is a relative of yours?
Instead of owning it, you ought to blush at it. Do you
mean to try and soften me with your tears? It is useless,&mdash;not
to add that you have undertaken a very
disgraceful task for a respectable female."</p>

<p>At this coarse insolence the pride and patrician blood
of the duchess revolted. She drew herself up, threw
back her veil; and then, with a lofty air, imperious
glance, and firm voice, said:</p>

<p>"I am the Duchess de Lucenay, sir!"</p>

<p>The lady then assumed the lofty look of her station;
and her appearance was so imposing that the notary,
controlled, fascinated, receded a pace, quite overcome,
took off mechanically the black silk cap that covered his
cranium, and made a low bow.</p>

<p>In truth, nothing could be more charming and aristocratic
than the face and figure of Madame de Lucenay,
although she was turned thirty, and her features were
pale and somewhat agitated. But then she had full,
brown eyes, sparkling and bold; splendid black hair; a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>
nose thin and arched; a lip red and disdainful; a dazzling
complexion; teeth of ivory; and a form tall and
slender, graceful, and full of distinction,&mdash;the carriage
of a goddess in the clouds, as the immortal Saint-Simon
says. With her hair powdered, and a costume of the
eighteenth century, Madame de Lucenay would have represented,
physically and morally, one of those gay and
careless duchesses of the Regency who carried on their
flirtations (or worse) with so much audacity, giddiness,
and real kindness of heart, who confessed their peccadilloes
from time to time with so much candour and
naïveté, that the most punctilious said, with a smile,
"She is, doubtless, light and culpable; but she is so
kind&mdash;so delightful; loves with so much intensity,
passion, and fidelity,&mdash;as long as she does love,&mdash;that
we cannot really be angry with her. After all, she only
injures herself, and makes so many others happy!" Except
the powder and the large skirts to her dress, such
also was Madame de Lucenay, when not depressed by
sombre thoughts. She entered the office of M. Jacques
Ferrand like a plain tradesman's wife; in the instant she
came forth as a great, proud, and irritated lady. Jacques
Ferrand had never in his life seen a woman of such striking
beauty,&mdash;so haughty and bold, and so noble in her
demeanour. The look of the duchess, her glorious eyes,
encircled with an imperceptible bow of azure, her rosy
nostrils, much dilated, betokened her ardent nature.</p>

<p>Although old, ugly, ignoble, and sordid, Jacques Ferrand
was as capable as any one of appreciating the style
of beauty of Madame de Lucenay. The hatred and rage
which the notary felt against M. de Saint-Remy was
increased by the admiration which his proud and lovely
mistress inspired in him. Devoured by all his repressed
passions, he said to himself, in an agony of rage, that
this gentleman forger, whom he had compelled almost
to fall at his feet when he threatened him with the
assizes, could inspire such love in such a woman that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
she actually risked the present step in his behalf, which
might prove fatal to her reputation. As he thus thought,
the notary felt his boldness, which had been for a moment
paralysed, restored to him. Hatred, envy, a kind of savage
and burning resentment, lighted up his eyes, his forehead,
and his cheeks. Seeing Madame de Lucenay on
the point of commencing so delicate a conversation, he
expected from her caution and management. What was
his astonishment! She spoke with as much assurance
and haughtiness as if she were discoursing about the
simplest thing in the world; and as if, before a man of
his sort, she had no care for reserve or those concealments
which she would assuredly have maintained with
her equals. In fact, the coarse brutality of the notary
wounded her to the quick, and had led Madame de
Lucenay to quit the humble and supplicating part she
was acting with much difficulty to herself. Returned
to herself, she thought it beneath her to descend to the
least concealment with a mere scribbler of acts and
deeds. High-spirited, charitable, generous, overflowing
with kindness, warm-heartedness, and energy, in spite
of her faults,&mdash;but the daughter of a mother of no
principle, and who had even disgraced the noble and
respectable, though fallen position of an <i>émigrée</i>,&mdash;Madame
de Lucenay, in her inborn contempt for certain
classes, would have said with the Roman empress who
took her bath in the presence of a male slave, "He
is not a man!"</p>

<p>"Monsieur Notary," said the duchess, with a determined
air, to Jacques Ferrand, "M. de Saint-Remy is
one of my friends, and has confided to me the embarrassment
under which he is at this moment suffering, from
a twofold treachery of which he is the victim. All is
arranged as to the money. How much is required to
terminate these miserable annoyances?"</p>

<p>Jacques Ferrand was actually aghast at this cavalier
and deliberate manner of entering on this affair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p>

<p>"One hundred thousand francs are required," he
repeated, after having in some degree surmounted his
surprise.</p>

<p>"You shall have your one hundred thousand francs;
so send, at once, these annoying papers to M. de Saint-Remy."</p>

<p>"Where are the one hundred thousand francs, Madame
la Duchesse?"</p>

<p>"Have I not said you should have them, sir?"</p>

<p>"I must have them to-morrow, and before noon,
madame; or else proceedings will be instantly commenced
for the forgery."</p>

<p>"Well, do you pay this sum, which I will repay to you."</p>

<p>"But madame, it is impossible."</p>

<p>"But, sir, you will not tell me, I imagine, that a
notary, like you, cannot find one hundred thousand
francs by to-morrow morning?"</p>

<p>"On what securities, madame?"</p>

<p>"What do you mean? Explain!"</p>

<p>"Who will be answerable to me for this sum?"</p>

<p>"I will."</p>

<p>"Still, madame&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Need I say that I have an estate four leagues from
Paris, which brings me in eighty thousand francs
(3,200<i>l.</i>) a year? That will suffice, I should think,
for what you call your securities?"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame, when the mortgage is properly
secured."</p>

<p>"What do you mean? Some formality of law, no
doubt? Do it, sir, do it."</p>

<p>"Such a deed cannot be drawn up in less than a
fortnight, and we must have your husband's assent,
madame."</p>

<p>"But the estate is mine, and mine only," said the
duchess, impatiently.</p>

<p>"No matter, madame, you have a husband; and
mortgage deeds are very long and very minute."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p>

<p>"But, once again, sir, you will not ask me to believe
that it is so difficult to find one hundred thousand francs
in two hours?"</p>

<p>"Then, madame, apply to the notary you usually
employ, or your steward; as for me, it is impossible."</p>

<p>"I have my reasons for keeping this secret," said
Madame de Lucenay, haughtily. "You know the
rogues who seek to take advantage of M. de Saint-Remy,
and that is the reason why I address myself to
you."</p>

<p>"Your confidence does me much honour, madame;
but I cannot do what you ask of me."</p>

<p>"You have not this sum?"</p>

<p>"I have much more than that sum, in bank-notes or
bright and good gold, here in my chest."</p>

<p>"Then why waste time about it? You require my
signature, I suppose? Well, let me give it to you, and let
us end the matter."</p>

<p>"Even admitting, madame, that you were Madame de
Lucenay&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Come to the Hôtel de Lucenay in one hour, sir, and
I will sign whatever may be requisite."</p>

<p>"And will the duke sign, also?"</p>

<p>"I do not understand, sir."</p>

<p>"Your signature, alone, would be worthless to me,
madame."</p>

<p>Jacques Ferrand delighted, with cruel joy, in the
manifest impatience of the duchess, who, under the
appearance of coolness and hauteur, repressed really
painful agony.</p>

<p>For an instant she was at her wits' end. On the previous
evening, her jeweller had advanced her a considerable
sum on her jewels, some of which had been confided
to Morel, the lapidary. This sum had been employed
in paying the bills of M. de Saint-Remy, and thus disarming
the other creditors; M. Dubreuil, the farmer
of Arnouville, was more than a year's rent in advance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>
on the farm; and, then, the time was so pressing. Still
more unfortunately for Madame de Lucenay, two of her
friends, to whom she could have had recourse in this
moment of distress, were then absent from Paris. In
her eyes, the viscount was innocent of the forgery. He
had said, and she had believed him, that he was the
victim of two rogues; but yet his position was not the
less terrible. He accused! He led to prison! And, even
if he took flight, his name would be no less dishonoured
by the suspicion that would light on him. At these distressing
thoughts, Madame de Lucenay trembled with
affright. She blindly loved this man, at the same
time so degraded, and gifted with such strong seductive
powers; and her passion for him was one of those affections
which women, of her character and her temperament,
ordinarily experience when they attain an age of
maturity.</p>

<p>Jacques Ferrand carefully watched every variation
in the physiognomy of Madame de Lucenay, who seemed
to him more lovely and attractive at every moment, and
awakened still more his ardent feeling. Yet he felt
a fierce pleasure in tormenting, by his refusals, this
female, who could only entertain disgust and contempt
for him. The lady had spurned the idea of saying a
word to the notary that might seem like a supplication;
yet, when she found the uselessness of other attempts,
which she had addressed to him who alone could save
M. de Saint-Remy, she said, at length, trying to repress
all evidence of emotion:</p>

<p>"Since you have the sum of money which I ask of
you, sir, and my guarantee is sufficient, why do you
refuse it to me?"</p>

<p>"Because men have their caprices, as well as ladies,
madame."</p>

<p>"Well, what is this caprice which thus impels you to
act against your own interest? For I repeat, sir, that
whatever may be your conditions, I accept them."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p>

<p>"You will accept all my conditions, madame?" said
the notary, with a singular expression.</p>

<p>"All,&mdash;two, three, four thousand francs, more, if you
please. For you must know, sir," added the duchess,
in a tone almost confidential, "I have no resource but in
you, sir, and in you only. It will be impossible for me
at this moment to find elsewhere what I require for
to-morrow, and I must have it, as you know,&mdash;I must
absolutely have it. Thus I repeat to you that, whatever
terms you require for this service, I accept them;
nothing will be a sacrifice to me,&mdash;nothing."</p>

<p>The breath of the notary became thick, and, in his
ignoble blindness, he interpreted the last words of
Madame de Lucenay in an unworthy manner. He
saw, through his darkened understanding, a woman
as bold as some of the females of the old court,&mdash;a
woman driven to her wits' end for fear of the dishonour
of him whom she loved, and capable, perhaps, of
any sacrifice to save him. It was even more stupid
than infamous to think so, but, as we have said already,
Jacques Ferrand sometimes, though rarely, forgot
himself.</p>

<p>He quitted his chair abruptly, and approached Madame
de Lucenay, who, surprised, rose when he did, and looked
at him with much astonishment.</p>

<p>"Nothing will be a sacrifice to you, say you? To
you, who are so lovely?" he exclaimed, with a voice
trembling and broken with agitation, as he went towards
the duchess. "Well, then, I will lend you this sum, on
one condition,&mdash;one condition only,&mdash;and I swear to
you&mdash;"</p>

<p>He could not finish his declaration.</p>

<p>By one of those singular contradictions of human
nature, at the sight of the singularly ugly features of M.
Ferrand, at the strange and whimsical thoughts which
arose in Madame de Lucenay's mind, at his ridiculous
pretensions, which she guessed in spite of her disquietude<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>
and anxiety, she burst into a fit of laughter, so hearty,
so loud, and so excessive, that the disconcerted notary
reeled back. Then, without allowing him a moment
to utter another word, the duchess gave way still
more to her increasing mirth, lowered her veil, and,
between two bursts of irrepressible laughter, she
said to the notary, overwhelmed by hatred, rage, and
fury:</p>

<p>"Really, I should much rather prefer asking this
advance from M. de Lucenay."</p>

<p>She then left the room, laughing so heartily that, even
when the door of his room was closed, the notary heard
her still.</p>

<p>Jacques Ferrand no sooner recovered his reason than
he cursed his imprudence; but he became reassured on
reflecting that the duchess could not allude to this
adventure without compromising herself. Still, the day
had been unpropitious, and he was plunged in thought
when the door of his study opened, and Madame Séraphin
entered in great agitation.</p>

<p>"Ah, Ferrand," she exclaimed, "you were right when
you declared that, one day or other, we should be ruined
for having allowed her to live!"</p>

<p>"Who?"</p>

<p>"That cursed little girl!"</p>

<p>"What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"A one-eyed woman, whom I did not know, and to
whom Tournemine gave the little chit to get rid of her,
fourteen years ago, when we wished to make her pass
for dead&mdash;Ah, who would have thought it!"</p>

<p>"Speak! Speak! Why don't you speak?"</p>

<p>"This one-eyed woman has been here, was down-stairs
just now, and told me that she knew it was I who had
delivered up the little brat."</p>

<p>"Malediction! Who could have told her? Tournemine
is at the galleys."</p>

<p>"I denied it, and treated the one-eyed woman as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
a liar. But bah! she declares she knows where the
girl is now, and that she has grown up, that she has
her, and that it only depends on her to discover everything."</p>

<p>"Is hell, then, unchained against me to-day?" exclaimed
the notary, in a fit of rage. "What shall I say
to this woman? What shall I offer her to hold her
tongue? Does she seem well off?"</p>

<p>"As I treated her like a beggar, she shook her hand-basket,
and there was money inside of it."</p>

<p>"And she knows where this young girl is now?"</p>

<p>"So she says."</p>

<p>"And she is the daughter of the Countess Sarah
Macgregor!" said the stupefied notary; "and just now
she offered me so much to declare that her daughter
was not dead; and the girl is alive, and I can restore
her to her mother! But, then, the false register of her
death! If a search were made, I am ruined! This
crime may put others on the scent."</p>

<p>After a moment's silence, he said to Madame
Séraphin:</p>

<p>"This one-eyed woman knows where the child is?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"And the woman will call again?"</p>

<p>"To-morrow."</p>

<p>"Write to Polidori, to come to me this evening, at
nine o'clock."</p>

<p>"What! Will you rid yourself of the young girl and
the old woman, too? Ferrand, that will be too much at
once!"</p>

<p>"I bid you write to Polidori, to come here this
evening, at nine o'clock!"</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>At the end of this day, Rodolph said to Murphy:
"Desire M. de Graün to despatch a courier this
instant; Cecily must be in Paris in six days."</p>

<p>"What! that she-devil again? The diabolical wife of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>
poor David, as beautiful as she is infamous! For what
purpose, monseigneur?"</p>

<p>"For what purpose, Sir Walter Murphy? Ask that
question, in a month hence, of the notary, Jacques
Ferrand."</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3>

<h5>THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.</h5>


<p>Towards ten o'clock in the evening of the same day
in which Fleur-de-Marie was carried off by the Chouette
and Schoolmaster, a man on horseback arrived at the
Bouqueval farm, representing himself as coming from
M. Rodolph to tranquillise Madame Georges as to the
safety of her young friend, and to assure her of her
safe return ere long. The man further stated that M.
Rodolph, having very important reasons for making
the request, particularly desired no letters might be
addressed to him at Paris for the present; but that,
in the event of Madame Georges having anything
particular to communicate, the messenger now sent
would take charge of it, and deliver it punctually.</p>

<p>This pretended envoy on the part of Rodolph was,
in fact, an emissary sent by Sarah, who, by this stratagem,
effected the twofold purpose of quieting the
apprehensions of Madame Georges and also obtaining
a delay of several days ere Rodolph learned that the
Goualeuse had been carried off; during which interval
Sarah hoped to have induced the notary, Jacques Ferrand,
to promote her unworthy attempt to impose a
supposititious child on Rodolph, after the manner which
has already been related. Nor was this all the evil
planned by the countess; she ardently desired to get
rid of Madame d'Harville, on whose account she entertained
very serious misgivings, and whose destruction<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>
she had so nearly compassed, but for the timely
interposition of Rodolph.</p>

<p>On the day following that in which the marquis
followed his wife into the house in the Rue du Temple,
Tom repaired thither, and, by skilfully drawing Madame
Pipelet into conversation, contrived to learn from her
how a young and elegantly dressed lady, upon the point
of being surprised by her husband, had been preserved
through the presence of mind and cleverness of a lodger
in the house, named M. Rodolph.</p>

<p>Once informed of this circumstance, and possessing
no positive proof of the assignation made by Clémence
with M. Charles Robert, Sarah conceived a plan evidently
more hateful than the former: she resolved to
despatch a second anonymous letter to M. d'Harville,
calculated to bring about a complete rupture between
himself and Rodolph; or, failing that, to infuse into the
mind of the marquis suspicions so unworthy of his
wife and friend as should induce him to forbid Madame
d'Harville ever admitting the prince into her society.</p>

<p>This black and malignant epistle was couched in the
following terms:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"... You have been grossly deceived the other day; your
wife, being apprised of your following her, invented a tale of
imaginary beneficence; the real purpose of her visit to the Rue
du Temple was to fulfil an assignation with an august personage,
who has hired a room on the fourth floor in the house situated
Rue du Temple,&mdash;this illustrious individual being known only
at his lodging under the simple name of Rodolph. Should you
doubt these facts, which may probably appear to you too improbable
to deserve credit, go to No. 17 Rue du Temple, and make
due inquiries; obtain a description of the face and figure of the
august personage alluded to; and you will be compelled to own
yourself the most credulous and easily duped husband that was
ever so royally supplanted in the affections of his wife. Despise
not this advice, if you would not have the world believe you
carry your devotion to your prince rather too far."</p></div>

<p>This infamous concoction was put into the post by
Sarah herself, about five o'clock in the afternoon of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>
day which had witnessed her interview with the
notary.</p>

<p>On this same day, after having given renewed directions
to M. de Graün to expedite the arrival of Cecily
in Paris by every means in his power, Rodolph prepared
to pass the evening with the Ambassadress of &mdash;&mdash;, and
on his return to call on Madame d'Harville, for the
purpose of informing her he had found a charitable
intrigue worthy even of her coöperation.</p>

<p>We shall now conduct our readers to the hôtel of
Madame d'Harville. The following dialogue will abundantly
prove that, in adopting a tone of kind and gentle
conciliation towards a husband she had hitherto treated
with such invariable coldness and reserve, the heart of
Madame d'Harville had already determined to practise
the sound and virtuous sentiments dictated by Rodolph.
The marquis and his lady had just quitted the dinner-table,
and the scene we are about to describe took place
in the elegant little salon we have already spoken of.
The features of Clémence wore an expression of kindness
almost amounting to tenderness, and even M. d'Harville
appeared less sad and dejected than usual. It only remains
to premise that the marquis had not as yet received the
last infamous production of the pen of Sarah Macgregor.</p>

<p>"What are your arrangements for this evening?"
inquired M. d'Harville, almost mechanically, of his wife.</p>

<p>"I have no intention of going out. And what are
your own plans?"</p>

<p>"I hardly know," answered he, with a sigh. "I feel
more than ordinarily averse to gaiety, and I shall pass
my evening, as I have passed many others, alone."</p>

<p>"Nay, but why alone, since I am not going out?"</p>

<p>M. d'Harville gazed at his wife as though unable to
comprehend her. "I am aware," said he, "that you
mentioned your intention to pass this evening at home;
still, I&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Pray go on, my lord."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p>

<p>"I did not imagine you would choose to have your
solitude broken in upon. I believe you have always
expressed a wish to be alone when you did not receive
company?"</p>

<p>"Perhaps I may have done so," said Clémence, with a
smile; "but let me, for once, plead my sex's privilege
of changing my mind, and so, even at the risk of astonishing
you by my caprice, I will own that I should
greatly prefer sharing my solitude with you,&mdash;that is, if
it would be quite agreeable to you."</p>

<p>"Oh, how very good of you," exclaimed M. d'Harville,
with much delight, "thus to anticipate my most ardent
desire, which I durst not have requested had you not
so kindly encouraged me!"</p>

<p>"Ah, my lord, your very surprise is a severe reproach
to me."</p>

<p>"A reproach! Oh, not for worlds would I have you
so understand me! But to find you so kindly considerate,
so attentive to my wishes, after my cruel and unjust
conduct the other day, does, I confess, both shame and
surprise me; though the surprise is of the most gratifying
and delightful sort."</p>

<p>"Come, come, my lord," said Madame d'Harville, with
a smile of heavenly sweetness, "let the past be for ever
forgotten between us."</p>

<p>"Can you, Clémence," said M. d'Harville, "can you
bring yourself to forget that I have dared to suspect you;
that, hurried on by a wild, insensate jealousy, I meditated
violence I now shudder to think of? Still, what are even
these deep offences to the greater and more irreparable
wrong I have done you?"</p>

<p>"Again I say," returned Clémence, making a violent
effort to command herself, "let us forget the past."</p>

<p>"What do I hear? Can you,&mdash;oh, is it possible you
will pardon me, and forget all the past?"</p>

<p>"I will try to do so, and I fear not but I shall succeed."</p>

<p>"Oh, Clémence! Can you, indeed, be so generous?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>
But no, no,&mdash;I dare not hope it! I have long since
resigned all expectation that such happiness would ever
be mine."</p>

<p>"And now you see how wrong you were in coming
to such a conclusion."</p>

<p>"But how comes this blessed change? Or do I dream?
Speak to me, Clémence! Tell me I am not deceiving
myself,&mdash;that all is not mere illusion! Speak! Say that
I may trust my senses!"</p>

<p>"Indeed you may; I mean all I have said."</p>

<p>"And, now I look at you, I see more kindness in your
eye,&mdash;your manner is less cold,&mdash;your voice tremulous.
Oh, tell me, tell me, is this indeed true? Or am I the
sport of some illusion?"</p>

<p>"Nay, my lord, all is true, and safely to be believed.
I, too, have need of pardon at your hands, and therefore
I propose that we mutually exchange forgiveness."</p>

<p>"You, Clémence! You need forgiveness! Oh, for what,
or wherefore?"</p>

<p>"Have I not been frequently unkind, unrelenting, and
perhaps even cruel, towards you? Ought I not to have
remembered that it required a more than ordinary share
of courage to act otherwise than you did,&mdash;a virtue more
than human to renounce the hope of exchanging a cheerless,
solitary life, for one of wedded sympathy and happiness?
Alas, when we are in grief or suffering, it is so
natural to trust to the kindness and goodness of others!
Hitherto your fault has been in depending too much on
my generosity; henceforward it shall be my aim to show
you, you have not trusted in vain."</p>

<p>"Oh, go on! Go on! Continue still to utter such
heavenly words!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, gazing in
almost ecstasy on the countenance of his wife, and clasping
his hands in fervid supplication. "Let me again
hear you pronounce my pardon, and it will seem as
though a new existence were opening upon me."</p>

<p>"Our destinies are inseparably united, and death only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
can dissever us. Believe me, it shall for the future be my
study to render life less painful to you than it has been."</p>

<p>"Merciful Heaven! Do I hear aright? Clémence, can
it be you who have spoken these dear, these enchanting
words?"</p>

<p>"Let me conjure you to spare me the pain and humiliation
of hearing you express so much astonishment at
my speaking as my duty prompts me to do; indeed,
your reluctance to credit my assertions grieves me more
than I can describe. How cruel a censure does it imply
upon my past conduct! Ah, who will pity and soothe
you in your severe trials, if not I? I seem inspired by
some holy voice, speaking within my breast, to reflect
upon my past conduct. I have deeply meditated on all
that has happened, as well as on the future. My faults
rise up in judgment against me; but with them come
also the whisperings of my awakened feelings, teaching
me how to repair my past errors."</p>

<p>"Your errors, my poor injured Clémence! Alas, you
were not to blame!"</p>

<p>"Yes, I was. I ought frankly to have appealed to
your honour to release me from the painful necessity of
living with you as your wife; and that, too, on the day
following our marriage,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Clémence, for pity's sake no more!"</p>

<p>"Otherwise, in accepting my position, I ought to have
elevated it by my entire submission and devotion. Under
the circumstances in which I was placed, instead of allowing
my coldness and proud reserve to act as a continual
reproach, I should have directed all my endeavours to
console you for so heavy a misfortune, and have forgotten
everything but the severe affliction under which you
laboured. By degrees I should have become attached to
my work of commiseration, and, probably, the very cares
and sacrifices it would have required to fulfil my voluntary
duty; for which your grateful appreciation would
have been a rich reward. I might, at last&mdash;But what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>
ails you, my lord? Are you ill? Surely you are
weeping!"</p>

<p>"But they are tears of pure delight. Ah, you can
scarcely imagine what new emotions are awakened in my
heart! Heed not my tears, beloved Clémence; trust
me, they flow from an excess of happiness, arising from
those dear words you just now uttered. Never did I
seem so guilty in my own eyes as I now appear, for
having selfishly bound you to such a life as mine!"</p>

<p>"And never did I find myself more disposed to forget
the past, and to bury all reference to it in oblivion; the
sight of your gently falling tears, even, seems to open to
me a source of happiness hitherto unknown to me.
Courage! Courage! Let us, in place of that bright and
prosperous life denied us by Providence, seek our enjoyment
in the discharge of the serious duties allotted us.
Let us be mutually indulgent and forbearing towards
each other; and, should our resolution fail, let us turn
to our child, and make her the depositary of all our
affections. Thus shall we secure to ourselves an unfailing
store of holy, of tranquil joys."</p>

<p>"Sure, 'tis some angel speaks!" cried M. d'Harville,
contemplating his wife with impassioned looks. "Oh,
Clémence, you little know the pleasure and the pain
you cause me. The severest reproach you ever addressed
me&mdash;your hardest word or most merited rebuke never
touched me as does this angelic devotion, this disregard
of self, this generous sacrifice of personal enjoyment.
Even despite myself, I feel hope spring up within me.
I dare hardly trust myself to believe the blessed future
which suggests itself to my imagination."</p>

<p>"Ah, you may safely and implicitly believe all I say,
Albert! I declare to you, by all that is sacred and
solemn, that I have firmly taken the resolution I spoke
of, and that I will adhere to it in strictest word and
deed. Hereafter I may even be enabled to give you
further pledges of my truth."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p>

<p>"Pledges!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, more and more
excited by a happiness so wholly unlocked for. "What
need have I of any pledges? Do not your look, your
tone, the heavenly expression of goodness which animates
your countenance, the rapturous pulsations of my own
heart, all convince me of the truth of your words?
But, Clémence, man, you know, is a creature not easily
satisfied; and," added the marquis, approaching his
wife's chair, "your noble, generous conduct inspires
me with the boldness, the courage, to hope&mdash;to hope,&mdash;yes,
Clémence, to venture to hope for that which,
only yesterday, I should have considered it even worse
than madness to presume to think of."</p>

<p>"For mercy's sake, explain yourself!" said Clémence,
alarmed at the impassioned words and glances of her
husband.</p>

<p>"Yes," cried he, seizing her hand, "yes, by dint of
tender, untiring, unwearied love,&mdash;Clémence, do you
understand me?&mdash;I say, by dint of love such as mine
I venture to hope to obtain a return of my affection. I
dare to anticipate being loved by you,&mdash;not with a cold,
lukewarm regard, but with a passion ardent as my own
for you. Ah, you know not the real nature of such a
love as I would inspire you with! Alas! I never even
dared to breathe it in your ears,&mdash;so frigid, so repulsive
were you to me. Never did you bestow on me
a look, a word of kindness, far less make my heart leap
with such joy as thrilled through my breast but now,
when your words of sweet and gentle tenderness drew
happy tears from my eyes, and which, still ringing in
my ears, make me almost beside myself with gladness;
and, amid the intoxicating delight which floats through
my brain, comes the proud consciousness of having
earned even so rich a reward by the deep, the passionate
ardour of my love for you. Oh, Clémence, when
you will let me only tell you half I have suffered,&mdash;how
I have writhed in despairing anguish at your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>
coldness, your disdain, how I have watched and
sighed in vain for one encouraging glance,&mdash;you will
own that, for patient devotion to one beloved object,
I am inferior to none. Whence arose that melancholy,
that avoidance of all society, our best friends have so
fruitlessly sought to rouse me from? Can you not guess
the cause? Ah, it originated in desolation of spirit and
despair of ever obtaining your love. Yes, dearest Clémence,
to that overwhelming dread was owing the
sombre taciturnity, the dislike to company, the desponding
gloom, which excited so many different conjectures.
Think, too, how much my sufferings must have been
increased by the fact that she, the beloved object of
my heart's idolatry, was my own,&mdash;legally, irrevocably
mine,&mdash;dwelling beneath the same roof, yet more completely
alienated from me than though we dwelt in the
opposite parts of the earth. But my burning sighs, my
bitter tears, reached not you; or, I feel almost persuaded,
they would have moved even you to pity me. And now
it seems to me that you must have divined my sufferings,
and have come, like an angel of goodness as you
are, to whisper in my ears bright promises of days of
unclouded happiness. No longer shall I be doomed
to gaze in unavailing yet doting admiration on your
graceful beauty; no more shall I account myself most
blessed yet most accursed in possessing a creature of
matchless excellence, whose charms of mind and body,
alas! I am forbidden to consider as mine; but now the
envious barrier which has thus long divided us is about
to be withdrawn, and the treasure my beating heart
tells me is all my own will henceforward be freely, indisputably
mine! Will it not, dear Clémence? Speak to
me, and confirm that which the busy throbbings of my
joyful heart tell me to hope for and expect, as the reward
of all I have so long endured!"</p>

<p>As M. d'Harville uttered these last words, he seized
the hand of his wife, and covered it with passionate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>
kisses; while Clémence, much grieved at the mistake
her husband had fallen into, could not avoid withdrawing
her hand with a mixture of terror and disgust.
And the expression of her countenance so plainly bespoke
her feelings, that M. d'Harville saw at once the
fearful error he had committed. The blow fell with
redoubled force after the tender visions he had so lately
conjured up. A look of intense agony replaced the
bright exultation of his countenance exhibited a little
while since, when Madame d'Harville, eagerly extending
her hand towards him, said, in an agitated tone:</p>

<p>"Albert, receive my solemn promise to be unto you as
the most tender and affectionate sister,&mdash;but nothing
more. Forgive me, I beseech you, if, inadvertently, my
words have inspired you with hopes which can never be
realised."</p>

<p>"Never?" exclaimed M. d'Harville, fixing on his
wife a look of despairing entreaty.</p>

<p>"Never!" answered she. The single word, with the
tone in which it was spoken, proved but too well the
irrevocable decision Clémence had formed.</p>

<p>Brought back, by the influence of Rodolph, to all her
nobleness of character, Madame d'Harville had firmly
resolved to bestow on her husband every kind and
affectionate attention; but to love him she felt utterly
out of her power; and to this immutable resolution
she was driven by a power more forcible than either
fear, contempt, or even dislike,&mdash;it was a species
of repugnance almost amounting to horror.</p>

<p>After a painful silence of some duration, M. d'Harville
passed his hand across his moist eyelids and said, in a
voice of bitterness:</p>

<p>"Let me entreat your pardon for the unintentional
mistake I have made. Oh, refuse not to forgive me for
having ventured to believe that happiness could exist
for me!"</p>

<p>And again a long pause ensued, broken at last by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>
D'Harville's vehemently exclaiming, "What a wretch
am I!"</p>

<p>"Albert," said Clémence, gently, "for worlds would
I not reproach you; yet is my promise of being unto
you the most loving and affectionate of sisters unworthy
any estimation? You will receive from the tender cares
of devoted friendship more solid happiness than love
could afford. Look forward to brighter days. Hitherto
you have found me almost indifferent to your sorrows;
you shall henceforward find me all zeal and solicitude
to alleviate them, and eager to share with you every
grief or cause of suffering, whether of body or of mind."</p>

<p>At this moment a servant, throwing open the folding
doors, announced:</p>

<p>"His Highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein."</p>

<p>M. d'Harville started; then, by a powerful effort,
recovering his self-command, he advanced to meet his
visitor.</p>

<p>"I am singularly fortunate, madame," said Rodolph,
approaching Clémence, "to find you at home to-night;
and I am still more delighted with my good fortune,
since it procures me the pleasure of meeting you,
also, my dear Albert," continued he, turning to the
marquis, and shaking him cordially by the hand.</p>

<p>"It is, indeed, some time since I have had the honour
of paying my respects to your royal highness."</p>

<p>"If the truth must be spoken, my dear Albert," said
the prince, smilingly, "you are somewhat platonic in
your friendships, and, relying on the certain attachment
of your friends, care very little about either giving or
receiving any outward proof of affection."</p>

<p>By a breach of etiquette, which somewhat annoyed
Madame d'Harville, a servant here entered the room
with a letter for the marquis. It was the anonymous
epistle of Sarah, accusing Rodolph of being the lover of
Madame d'Harville.</p>

<p>The marquis, out of deference for the prince, put<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
away with his hand the small silver salver presented
to him by the servant, saying, in an undertone:</p>

<p>"Another time,&mdash;another time."</p>

<p>"My dear Albert," said Rodolph, in a voice of the
most genuine affection, "why all this ceremony with
me?"</p>

<p>"My lord!"</p>

<p>"With Madame d'Harville's permission, let me beg of
you to read your letter without delay."</p>

<p>"I assure you, my lord, it is not of the slightest
consequence."</p>

<p>"Again I say, Albert, read your letter all the same
for my being here."</p>

<p>"But, my lord, indeed&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Nay, I ask you to do so; or, if you will have it,
I desire you to read it immediately."</p>

<p>"If your highness commands it, my duty is obedience,"
said the marquis, taking the letter from the
salver.</p>

<p>"Yes, I positively command you to treat me as one
old friend ought to treat another." Then turning
towards Madame d'Harville, while the marquis was
breaking the seal of the fatal letter, the contents of
which were, of course, unknown to Rodolph, he said,
smilingly, to Madame d'Harville:</p>

<p>"What a triumph for you, madame, to bend this
untractable spirit, and make it bow to your very
caprice!"</p>

<p>M. d'Harville having opened Sarah's infamous letter,
approached the wax-lights burning on the mantelpiece,
the better to read it. His features bore no visible mark
of agitation as he perused the vile scrawl. A slight
trembling of the hand alone was visible, as, after a short
hesitation, he refolded the paper and placed it in the
pocket of his waistcoat.</p>

<p>"At the risk of passing for a perfect Goth," said he,
with a smile, to Rodolph, "I will ask you to excuse me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
my lord, while I retire to reply to this letter, which is
more important than it at first appeared."</p>

<p>"Shall I not see you again this evening?"</p>

<p>"I am fearful I shall not have that honour, my lord;
and I trust your royal highness will condescend to excuse
me."</p>

<p>"What a slippery person you are!" cried Rodolph,
gaily. "Will you not, madame, endeavour to prevent
his quitting us?"</p>

<p>"Nay, I dare not attempt that your highness has failed
to accomplish."</p>

<p>"But seriously, my dear Albert, endeavour to come
back as soon as you have concluded your letter; or, if
that is not possible, promise to give me a few minutes
in the morning. I have a thousand things to say to
you."</p>

<p>"Your highness overwhelms me with kindness,"
answered the marquis, as, bowing profoundly, he withdrew,
leaving Clémence and the prince alone.</p>

<p>"Your husband has some heavy care on his mind,"
observed Rodolph to the marquise; "his smile appeared
to me a forced one."</p>

<p>"At the moment of your highness's arrival, M. d'Harville
was much excited, and he has had great difficulty
in concealing his agitation from you."</p>

<p>"My visit was, probably, <i>mal à propos</i>?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no, my lord! You came just in time to spare
me the conclusion of a most painful conversation."</p>

<p>"Indeed! May I inquire the subject of it?"</p>

<p>"I had explained to M. d'Harville the line of conduct
I had determined to pursue towards him for the future,
assuring him of my future sympathy and affectionate
attention to his happiness."</p>

<p>"How happy you must have rendered him by such
gratifying words!"</p>

<p>"He did, indeed, at first, seem most truly happy; and
so was I, likewise; for his tears and his joys caused in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
me a feeling of delight I never before experienced. Once
I fancied I did but indulge a just revenge each time I
addressed to him a reproach or a sarcasm; but it was
a weak and impotent mode of torture, which always
recoiled upon myself, as my better judgment pointed out
the unworthiness of such conduct; while just now how
great was the difference! I had inquired of my husband
if he were going out, to which he mournfully replied
that he had no intention of so doing, but should pass the
evening alone, as he most frequently did. Ah, my lord,
could you but have seen his surprise when I offered to
be his companion, and how suddenly did the gloomy
expression of his features give place to a bright glow
of happiness! Ah, you were quite right, there is nothing
more really delightful than preparing happy surprises
for those around us."</p>

<p>"But how could so much kindness on your part have
brought about the painful conversation you were alluding
to just now?"</p>

<p>"Alas, my lord!" said Clémence, blushing deeply,
"M. d'Harville, not satisfied with the hopes I felt myself
justified in holding out, allowed himself to form others
of a nature too tender to admit of their being realised,
and in proportion to my consciousness of my utter
inability to respond to such sentiments had been my
anxiety not to arouse them; and, greatly as I had felt
touched by the warmth of my husband's gratitude for my
proffered affection, I was even still more terrified and
alarmed by the passionate ardour of his manner and
expressions; and when, carried away by the impetuosity
of his feelings, he pressed his lips upon my hand, a cold
shudder pervaded my whole frame, and I found it impossible
to conceal the disgust and alarm I experienced.
Doubtless this manifestation of my invincible repugnance
pained him deeply, and I much lament having
been unable to prevent his perceiving my feelings. But
now that the blow has fallen, it will, at least, serve to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
convince M. d'Harville of the utter impossibility of my
ever being more to him than the most tender and devoted
friend."</p>

<p>"I pity him most sincerely, without being able to
blame you in the slightest degree for the part you have
acted. There are certain feelings which must ever be
held sacred. But poor Albert! With his noble, generous
spirit, his frank, confiding nature, his warm, enthusiastic
heart,&mdash;if you only knew how long I have been vainly
trying to discover the cause of the hidden melancholy
which was evidently preying upon his health. Well, we
must trust to the soothing effects of time and reason.
By degrees he will become more sensible of the value of
the affection you offer him, and he will resign himself
as he did before, when he had not the consolatory hopes
you now present to his view."</p>

<p>"Hopes which I solemnly assure you, my lord, it
is my fixed determination to realise in their fullest
extent."</p>

<p>"And now let us turn our attention to others who are
also called upon to suffer and taste of heavy sorrows.
You know I promised to occupy you in a charitable
work, which should have all the charm of a romance of
real life; and I am here to perform my promise."</p>

<p>"What, already, my lord? Indeed, you rejoice me
greatly."</p>

<p>"It was a most fortunate idea of mine to hire the
small chamber I told you of in the Rue du Temple; you
can scarcely imagine all the curious and interesting
objects it has made me acquainted with. In the first
place your poor protégées in the garrets are now enjoying
that happiness your presence secured to them. They
have still some severe trials to undergo; but I will not
enter upon the painful details at the present moment.
One of these days you shall learn how many direful evils
may be heaped upon one unfortunate family."</p>

<p>"How grateful they must feel towards you!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p>

<p>"Nay, 'tis your name is ever on their lips, loaded with
praises and blessings."</p>

<p>"Ah, my lord, is it then in my name you have
succoured them?"</p>

<p>"To increase the value of the gift, I confess I did
presume to name you as their benefactress. Besides,
what have I done more than carry out your promises?"</p>

<p>"I cannot allow of even this pious fraud, and to-morrow
they shall learn from me whom they have to thank.
I will tell them the extent of their obligations to
you."</p>

<p>"Oh, pray do no such thing, or you will spoil all my
fine schemes. Remember that I have a small apartment
in the house; that for the sake of much good I hope to
effect, I am anxious to preserve a strict <i>incognito</i> there.
Recollect, also, that the Morels are now beyond the reach
of further distress; and, finally, let me remind you that
there are other claimants for your benevolence. And
now for the subject of our present intrigue. I want your
generous aid and assistance in behalf of a mother and
daughter, who from former affluence are at this moment
reduced to the most abject penury, in consequence of
having been most villainously despoiled of their just
rights."</p>

<p>"Poor things! And where do these unfortunate beings
reside, my lord?"</p>

<p>"I do not know."</p>

<p>"Then how did you become acquainted with their
misfortunes?"</p>

<p>"Yesterday I was at the Temple,&mdash;perhaps, Madame
la Marquise, you do not know what sort of place the
Temple is?"</p>

<p>"Indeed, my lord, I do not."</p>

<p>"It is a bazaar of the most amusing description. Well,
I went there for the purpose of making several purchases
in company with a female lodger who occupies an apartment
adjoining my own&mdash;"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p>

<p>"Indeed! A female neighbour?"</p>

<p>"Yes, my next-door neighbour on the fourth floor.
Don't you recollect I told you I had a chamber in the
Rue du Temple?"</p>

<p>"Pardon me, my lord, I had quite forgotten that
circumstance."</p>

<p>"I must tell you that this same neighbour is one of
the prettiest little mantua-makers you ever saw. She is
called Rigolette, is for ever laughing, and never was in
love."</p>

<p>"Upon my word, a most uncommon specimen of her
class!"</p>

<p>"She even admits that her indifference to the tender
passion arises less from prudence than because she has
not time to think about love or lovers, both of which she
says would take up too much of her time; as, working
from twelve to fifteen hours daily, it is with difficulty
she manages to earn twenty-five sous a day, yet on that
trifling sum she lives contentedly."</p>

<p>"Is it possible?"</p>

<p>"Possible! Why, she even launches out into luxuries,&mdash;has
a couple of birds, who consume as much food as
herself, arranges her chamber with the most scrupulous
and pretty neatness, while her dress would make a modern
belle grow pale with envy."</p>

<p>"And all this effected upon five and twenty sous a
day? It is almost difficult to believe it."</p>

<p>"I assure you my fair neighbour is a pattern of
industry, order, economy, and practical philosophy; and
as such I beg to recommend her to your notice in her
capacity of dressmaker, in which she is reported to have
much skill. If you will honour her with your commands,
her fortune will be surely made; although
there is no occasion for your carrying your beneficence
so far as to wear the dresses you permit her
to make."</p>

<p>"Oh, I will take care to give her employment immediately.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
Poor girl! living honestly and contentedly
upon a sum squandered by the rich for the most
trifling whim or caprice."</p>

<p>"Well, now then that you have undertaken to interest
yourself in my deserving young neighbour, let us proceed
to the little adventure I was about to relate to you. I
went, as I told you, to the Temple with Mlle. Rigolette
in order to purchase many articles necessary for the
comfort of the poor family in the garret, when, accidentally
examining the drawers of an old <i>secrétaire</i> exposed
for sale, I found the fragment of a letter in a female
hand, in which the writer bitterly deplored the destitution
to which herself and daughter were exposed in
consequence of the villainy of the person in whose
hands their money had been placed. I inquired of
the mistress of the shop how she became possessed
of the piece of furniture in question. She told me it
was part of a lot of very common household goods she
purchased of a person still young, who had evidently
disposed of all her effects from stern necessity, and
being without any other means of raising money. Both
mother and daughter, continued my informant, seemed
much superior to their condition, and each bore their
distress with a proud yet calm fortitude."</p>

<p>"And do you not know where these poor ladies can
be found, my lord?"</p>

<p>"I do not, unfortunately, at the present moment, but
I have given directions to M. de Graün to use every
effort to discover them, and, if needs must be, even to
apply to the police for assistance. It is just probable
that the unfortunate parent and child, finding themselves
stripped of their little stock of furniture, may
have sought refuge in some obscure lodging; and if so,
there is every chance of discovering their abode, since
the keepers of lodging-houses are obliged to write a
daily report of every fresh inmate they receive."</p>

<p>"What a singular combination of events!" said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>
Madame d'Harville, much astonished: "Your account
is, indeed, a most interesting one."</p>

<p>"You have not heard all yet. In a corner of the
fragment of writing found in the old <i>secrétaire</i>, are
these words, 'To write to Madame de Lucenay.'"</p>

<p>"Oh, how fortunate!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville,
with much animation. "No doubt the duchess can tell
me all about these unfortunate ladies. But then," added
she, thoughtfully, "I do not see, after all, how we shall
be able to describe them, as we do not even know their
name."</p>

<p>"Nay, it will be easy to inquire whether she is
acquainted with a widow still in the prime of life,
whose air and manner indicate her being far superior
to her present circumstances, and who has a daughter
about sixteen years of age named Claire. I am sure it
was Claire the woman told me the younger female was
called."</p>

<p>"How very strange! That is my child's name; and
furnishes an additional reason for my interesting myself
in their misfortunes."</p>

<p>"I forgot to tell you that the brother of this unhappy
widow died by his own hands a very few months ago."</p>

<p>Madame d'Harville was silent for some minutes, as
though reflecting deeply; at length she said:</p>

<p>"If Madame de Lucenay be in any way acquainted
with this unfortunate family, these particulars will be
quite sufficient to identify them; besides which the
lamentable end of the brother must have fixed every
circumstance connected with them more strongly in
her memory. How impatient I feel to question the
duchess on the subject! I will write her a note this
very evening, begging of her not to go out to-morrow
till I have seen her. Who can these interesting people
be? From your account, my lord, I should say they
certainly belong to the higher class of society, and must,
therefore, feel their present distress so much the more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>
keenly. Alas, to such as they the falling into such
utter destitution must inflict a deeper, keener sting!"</p>

<p>"And all their sufferings have arisen from the
knavery of an unprincipled scoundrel,&mdash;a notary, named
Jacques Ferrand. But I am in possession of other acts
of villainy on his part equally black with this."</p>

<p>"That is the name of the person acting as the
legal adviser both of my husband and mother-in-law,"
exclaimed Clémence; "and, indeed, my lord, I think
you must be mistaken in your opinion of him, for he
is universally regarded as a person of the strictest
honour and probity."</p>

<p>"I assure you I have the most irrefragable proofs
of what I assert. Meanwhile let me beg of you to be
perfectly silent as to the character I assign this man,
who is as subtle as unprincipled; and the better to
unmask his nefarious practices, it is necessary he
should be allowed to think himself secure from all
danger; a few days will enable me to perfect my
schemes for bringing him to a severe reckoning. He
it was who brought such unmerited affliction upon the
interesting females I have been telling you of, by
defrauding them of a large sum, which, it appears,
was consigned to his care by the brother of the
unfortunate widow."</p>

<p>"And this money?"</p>

<p>"Was their sole dependence."</p>

<p>"This is, indeed, a crime of the most heinous description!"</p>

<p>"'Tis, indeed, of blackest die," exclaimed Rodolph,
"having nothing to extenuate it, and originating neither
in passion nor necessity. The pangs of hunger will often
instigate a man to commit a theft, the thirst for revenge
lead on to murder; but this legal hypocrite is passing
rich, and invested, by common consent, with a character
of almost priestly sanctity, while his countenance and
manners are moulded with such studious art as to inspire<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>
and command universal confidence. The assassin kills
you at a blow,&mdash;this villain tortures, prolongs your sufferings,
and leaves you, after the death-blow has been
inflicted, to sink under the gnawing agonies of want,
misery, and despair. Nothing is safe from the cupidity
of such a man as Ferrand: the inheritance of the orphan,
the hard-earned savings of the laborious poor,&mdash;all
excite alike his unprincipled avarice; and that which in
other men arises out of the impulse of the moment is
with this wretch the result of a cold and unrelenting calculation.
You entrust him with your wealth,&mdash;to see it
is to covet it, and with him to desire is to possess himself,
without the smallest scruple. Totally unheeding
your future wretchedness, the grasping deceiver deprives
you of your property, and without a pang consigns you to
beggary and destitution. Suppose that, by a long course
of labour and privations, you have contrived to amass a
provision against the wants and infirmities of old age;
well, no sooner is this cold-blooded hypocrite made the
depositary of your little treasure, than he unhesitatingly
appropriates it, leaving you to drag on a miserable existence,
without a morsel of bread but such as the hand of
charity doles out to you. Nor is this all. Let us consider
the fearful consequences of these infamous acts of
spoliation. Take the case of the widow of whom we
were speaking just now,&mdash;imagine her dying of grief
and a crushed spirit, the results of her heavy afflictions;
she leaves a young and helpless girl to struggle alone in
the world,&mdash;a weak and delicate being, whose very loveliness
increases her dangers and difficulties. Without
friends or support, unaccustomed to the rough realities
of life, the poor orphan has but to choose between starvation
and dishonour. In an evil hour she falls, and becomes
a lost, degraded creature. And thus Jacques Ferrand,
by his dishonest appropriation of the things committed
to his charge, occasions not only the death of the mother,
but the dishonour of the child; he destroys the body of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
the one and the soul of the other,&mdash;and again, I say, not
with the merciful despatch of the assassin's dagger, but
by the slow tortures of lingering cruelty!"</p>

<p>Clémence listened in profound silence, not unmixed
with surprise, at hearing Rodolph express himself with
so much indignation and bitterness. Accustomed only
to witness the most urbane suavity in the tone and manner
of her guest, she felt more than ordinarily struck by
his vehement and excited language; which, however,
seemed to show his intense abhorrence of all crooked
and nefarious dealings.</p>

<p>"I must entreat your pardon, madame," said the prince,
after a pause, "for having permitted myself to use so
much warmth in the presence of a lady; but, in truth, I
could not restrain my indignation when I reflected on all
the horrible dangers which may overwhelm your future
protégées. But, be assured, it is quite impossible to
exaggerate those fearful consequences brought about by
ruin and misery."</p>

<p>"Indeed! Indeed, my lord, you rather merit my
thanks, for having so powerfully and energetically augmented,
if possible, the tender pity I feel for this unfortunate
parent, whose heart is, doubtless, wrung with
anguish rather for her young and innocent daughter
than for herself. It is, in truth, a fearful situation.
But we shall soon be enabled to relieve her mind, and
rescue her from her present misery, shall we not, my
lord? Oh, yes, I feel assured we shall,&mdash;and henceforward
their happiness shall be my care. I am rich,&mdash;though
not so much so as I could wish, now that I perceive
how worthily wealth may be employed; but should
there be occasion for further aid than I am enabled to
afford, I will apply to M. d'Harville in their behalf. I
will render him so happy, that he shall find it impossible
to refuse any of my new caprices, and I foresee that I
shall have plenty of them. You told me, did you not,
my lord, that our protégées are proud? So much the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>
better. I am better pleased to find them so; for pride
under unmerited misfortune always betokens a great and
elevated mind. But I shall be able to overreach them,
for I will so contrive that they shall be relieved from
their present misery without ever guessing to what channel
they owe their deliverance from misery. You think
I shall find it difficult to deceive them? So much the
better. Oh, I have my own plans of action, I can assure
you, my lord; and you will see that I shall be deficient
neither in cunning nor address."</p>

<p>"I fully anticipate the most Machiavelian system of
ruse and deep combination," said Rodolph, smiling.</p>

<p>"But we must, first of all, discover where they are.
Oh, how I wish to-morrow were come! When I leave
Madame de Lucenay, I shall go directly to their old residence,
make inquiries of their late neighbours, collect all
the information I can, and form my own conclusions from
all I see and hear. I should feel so proud and delighted
to work out all the good I intend to these poor ladies,
without being assisted by any person; and I shall accomplish
it,&mdash;I feel sure I shall. This adventure affects me
greatly. Poor things! I seem even to feel a livelier
interest in their misfortunes when I think of my own
child."</p>

<p>Deeply touched at this charitable warmth, Rodolph
smiled with sincere commiseration at seeing a young
creature of scarcely twenty years of age, seeking to lose,
amid occupations so pure and noble, the sense of the
severe domestic afflictions which bore so heavily upon
her. The eyes of Clémence sparkled with enthusiasm, a
delicate carnation tinged her pale cheek, while the animation
of her words and gestures imparted additional
beauty to her lovely countenance.</p>

<p>The close and silent scrutiny of Rodolph did not escape
the notice of Madame d'Harville. She blushed, looked
down for a few minutes, then, raising her eyes in sweet
confusion, said:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p>

<p>"I see, my lord, you are amused at my girlish eagerness.
But, in truth, I am impatient to taste those
sources of delight which are about to gild an existence
hitherto so replete with grief and sadness, and, unfortunately,
so useless to every one. Alas, this was not the
life my early dreams had pictured to me,&mdash;the one
great passion of life I must for ever renounce! Though
young, I must live, and act, and think, as though scores
of years had passed over my head. Alas, alas!" continued
Clémence, with a sigh, "to me is denied the dear
domestic joys my heart could so fondly have prized."
After a minute's pause she resumed: "But why should
I dwell on such vain and fruitless regrets? Thanks to
you, my lord, charity will replace the void left in my
heart by disappointed affection. Already have I owed
to your counsels the enjoyment of the most touching
emotions. Your words, my lord, affect me deeply, and
exercise unbounded influence over me. The more I
meditate on what you have advanced, the more I search
into its real depth and value, the more I am struck by
its vast power and truth, the more just and valuable
does it appear to me. Then, when I reflect that, not
satisfied with sympathising with sufferings of which you
can form no idea from actual experience, you aid me
with the most salutary counsels, and guide me, step by
step, in the new and delightful path of virtue and goodness
pointed out by you to relieve a weary and worn-out
heart, oh, my lord, what treasure of all that is good
must your mind contain! From what source have you
drawn so large a supply of tender pity for the woes
of all?"</p>

<p>"Nay, the secret of my sincere commiseration with
the woes of others consists in my having deeply suffered
myself,&mdash;nay, in still sighing over heavy sorrows none
can alleviate or cure."</p>

<p>"You, my lord! Surely you cannot have tasted thus
bitterly of grief and misfortune?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes, 'tis even so. I sometimes think that I have
been made to taste of nearly every bitter which fills our
cup of worldly sorrows, the better to fit me for sympathising
with all descriptions of worldly trials. Wounded
and sorely afflicted as a friend, a husband, and a parent,
what grief can there be in which I am not qualified to
participate?"</p>

<p>"I always understood, my lord, that your late wife,
the grand duchess, left no child?"</p>

<p>"True; but, before I became her husband, I was the
father of a daughter, who died quite young. And, however
you may smile at the idea, I can with truth assert
that the loss of that child has poisoned all my subsequent
days. And this grief increases with my years.
Each succeeding hour but redoubles the poignancy of my
regrets, which, far from abating, appear to grow,&mdash;strengthen,
even as my daughter would have done had
she been spared me. She would now have been in her
seventeenth year."</p>

<p>"And her mother," asked Clémence, after a trifling
hesitation, "is she still living?"</p>

<p>"Oh, name her not, I beseech you!" exclaimed
Rodolph, whose features became suddenly overcast at
this reference to Sarah. "She to whom you allude is a
vile, unworthy woman, whose feelings are completely
buried beneath the cold selfishness and ambition of her
nature. Sometimes I even ask myself whether it is not
better that my child has been removed by death than
for her to have been contaminated by the example of
such a mother."</p>

<p>Clémence could not restrain a feeling of satisfaction
at hearing Rodolph thus express himself. "In that
case," said she, "I can imagine how doubly you must
bewail the loss of your only object of affection!"</p>

<p>"Oh, how I should have doted on my child! For it
seems to me that, among princes, there is always mixed
up with the affection we bear a son, a sort of interested<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>
regard for the being destined to perpetuate our race,&mdash;a
kind of political calculation. But a daughter!&mdash;oh,
she is loved for herself alone! And when, alas! one is
weary of witnessing the many fearful pictures of fallen
humanity an intercourse with the world compels us to
behold, what joy to turn from the dark pictures of guilt
and crime to refresh ourselves by the contemplation of
a young and innocent mind, and to delight in watching
the unfolding of all those pure and tender feelings so
guilelessly true to nature! The proudest, the happiest
mother feels not half the exquisite joy of a father in
observing the gradual development of a daughter's character.
A mother will dwell with far greater rapture
on the bold and manly qualities of a son. For have
you never remarked that the cause which still further
cements the doting affection of a mother for her son,
or a father for his daughter, is the feeling of either
requiring or bestowing aid and protection? Thus, the
mother looks upon her son in the light of a future support
and protection; while the father beholds in his
young and helpless daughter a weak and fragile creature,
clinging to him for safety, counsel, and protection from
all the storms of life."</p>

<p>"True, my lord,&mdash;most true!"</p>

<p>"But what avails it thus to dwell on sources of
delight for ever lost to me?" cried Rodolph, in a
voice of the deepest dejection. His mournful tones
sunk into the very heart of Clémence, who could not
restrain a tear, which trickled slowly down her cheek.
After a short pause, during which the prince, making a
powerful effort to restrain himself, and feeling almost
ashamed of allowing his feelings thus to get the better
of him in the presence of Madame d'Harville, said, with
a smile of infinite sadness, "Your pardon, madame,
for thus allowing myself to be drawn away by the
remembrance of my past griefs!"</p>

<p>"I beseech you, my lord, make no apology to me;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>
but, on the contrary, believe that I most sincerely sympathise
with your very natural regrets. Have I not a
right to share your griefs, for have I not made you
a participator in mine? My greatest pain is, that the
only consolation I could offer you would be vain and
useless to assuage your grief."</p>

<p>"Not so; the very expression of your kind commiseration
is grateful and beneficial to me; and I
find it a relief to disburden my mind, and tell you
all I suffer. But, courage!" added Rodolph, with a
faint and melancholy smile; "the conversation of this
evening entirely reassures me on your account. A safe
and healthful path is opened to you, by following which
you will escape the trials and dangers so fatal to many
of your sex, and, still more so, for those as highly
endowed as yourself. You will have much to endure,
to struggle against, and contend with; but in proportion
to the difficulties of your position will be your
merit in overcoming them. You are too young and
lovely to escape without a severe ordeal; but, should
your courage ever fail you, the recollection, not only of
the good you have done, but also that you propose to
effect, will serve to strengthen your virtuous resolutions,
and arm you with fresh courage."</p>

<p>Madame d'Harville melted into tears.</p>

<p>"At least," said she, "promise me your counsels and
advice shall never fail me. May I depend on this, my
lord?"</p>

<p>"Indeed, indeed, you may. Whether near or afar off,
believe that I shall ever feel the most lively interest in
your welfare and well-doing; and, so far as in me lies,
will I devote my best services to promote your happiness,
or that of the man whom I glory in calling my
dearest friend."</p>

<p>"Thanks, my lord," said Clémence, drying her tears,
"for this consoling promise. But for your generous
aid, I feel too well that my own strength would fail me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>
Still I bind myself now, and in your presence, faithfully
and courageously to perform my duty, however hard or
painful that duty may be."</p>

<p>As Clémence uttered these last words, a small door,
concealed by the hangings, suddenly opened; and M.
d'Harville, pale, agitated, and evidently labouring under
considerable excitement, appeared before Madame d'Harville
and Rodolph. The latter involuntarily started, while
a faint cry escaped the lips of the astonished wife.</p>

<p>The first surprise over, the marquis handed to Rodolph
the letter received from Sarah, saying:</p>

<p>"Here, my lord, is the letter I but just now received
in your presence. Have the kindness to cast your eyes
over it, and afterwards commit it to the flames."</p>

<p>Clémence gazed on her husband with utter astonishment.</p>

<p>"Most infamous!" exclaimed Rodolph, indignantly,
as he finished the perusal of the vile scrawl.</p>

<p>"Nay, my lord, there is an act more dastardly even
than the sending an anonymous letter; and that act
I have committed."</p>

<p>"For the love of heaven, explain yourself!"</p>

<p>"Instead of at once fearlessly and candidly showing
you this letter, I concealed its contents from you. I
feigned calmness and tranquillity, while jealousy, rage,
and despair filled my heart. Nor is this all. To what
detestable meanness do you suppose, my lord, my ungoverned
passions led me? Why, to enact the part of a spy,&mdash;to
hide myself basely and contemptibly behind this
door, to overhear your conversation and espy your actions.
Yes, hate me, despise me as you will, I merit all
for having insulted you by a suspicion. Oh, the writer
of these fiendish letters knew well the culpable weakness
of him to whom they were addressed. But, after all
I have heard,&mdash;for not a word has escaped me, and I
now know the nature of the interest which attracts you
to frequent the Rue du Temple,&mdash;after having, by my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span>
mean and unworthy jealousy, given support to the base
calumny by believing it even for an instant, how can
I hope for pardon, though I sue for it upon my knees?
Still, still, I venture to implore from you, so superior to
myself in nobleness and generosity of soul, pity, and, if
you can, forgiveness for the wrong I have done you!"</p>

<p>"No more of this, my dear Albert," said Rodolph,
extending his hands towards his friend with the most
touching cordiality; "you have nothing to ask pardon
for. Indeed, I feel quite delighted to find you have discovered
the secrets of Madame d'Harville and myself.
Now that all further restraint is at an end, I shall be
able to lecture you as much and as frequently as I choose.
But, what is better still, you are now installed as the
confidant of Madame d'Harville,&mdash;that is to say, you
now know what to expect from a heart so pure, so
generous, and so noble as hers."</p>

<p>"And you, Clémence," said M. d'Harville, sorrowfully,
to his wife, "can you forgive me my last unworthy act,
in addition to the just causes you already have to hate
and despise me?"</p>

<p>"On one condition," said she, extending her hand
towards her husband, which he warmly and tenderly
pressed, "that you promise to aid me in all my schemes
for promoting and securing your happiness!"</p>

<p>"Upon my word, my dear marquis," exclaimed
Rodolph, "our enemies have shown themselves bunglers
after all! They have afforded you an opportunity
you might never otherwise have obtained, of rightly
appreciating the tender devotion of your incomparable
wife, whose affection for you, I venture to say, has
shone out more brightly and steadily under the machinations
of those who seek to render us miserable, than
amidst all the former part of your wedded life; so that
we are enabled to take a sweet revenge for the mischief
intended to be effected: that is some consolation, while
awaiting a fuller atonement for this diabolical attempt.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>
I strongly suspect the quarter from which this scheme
has emanated; and however patiently I may bear my
own wrongs, I am not of a nature to suffer those offered
to my friends to remain unpunished. This, however, is
my affair. Adieu, madame,&mdash;our intrigue is discovered;
and you will be no more at liberty to work alone in
befriending your protégées. But, never mind! Before
long we will get up some mysterious enterprise, impossible
to be found out; and we will even defy the marquis,
with all his penetration, to know more than we
choose to tell him."</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>After accompanying Rodolph to his carriage with
reiterated thanks and praises, the marquis retired to
his apartments without again seeing Clémence.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER VII.</h3>

<h5>REFLECTIONS.</h5>


<p>It would be difficult to describe the tumultuous and
opposing sentiments that agitated M. d'Harville when
alone. He reflected with delight on the detection of
the unworthy falsehood charged upon Rodolph and
Clémence; but he was, at the same time, thoroughly
convinced that he must for ever forego the hope of being
loved by her. The more Clémence had proved herself,
in her conversation with Rodolph, resigned, full of courage,
and bent on acting rightly, the more bitterly did
M. d'Harville reproach himself for having, in his culpable
egotism, chained the lot of his unhappy young wife to
his own. Far from being consoled by the conversation
he had overheard, he fell into a train of sorrowful
thought and indescribable anguish.</p>

<p>Riches, without occupation, bring with them this
wretchedness. Nothing can divert it, nothing relieve it,
from the deepest feelings of mental torture. Not being
compulsorily preoccupied by cares for the future or daily
toil, it is utterly exposed to heavy moral affliction. Able
to acquire all that money can purchase, it desires or
regrets with intense violence&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"What gold could never buy."<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p>The mental torture of M. d'Harville was intense, for,
after all, what he desired was only what was just, and
actually legal,&mdash;the society, if not the love, of his wife.</p>

<p>But, when placed beside the inexorable refusal of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>
Clémence, he asked himself if there was not the bitterest
derision in these words of the law: The wife
belongs to her husband.</p>

<p>To what influence, to what means could he have
recourse to subdue this coldness, this repugnance, which
turned his whole existence into one long punishment,
since he could not&mdash;ought not&mdash;would not love any
woman but his wife?</p>

<p>He could not but see in this, as in many other positions
of conjugal life, the simple will of the husband or
the wife imperatively substituted, without appeal or possibility
of prevention, for the sovereign will of the law.</p>

<p>To the paroxysms of vain anger there succeeded a
melancholy depression. The future weighed him down,
heavy, dull, and chill. He only saw before him the
grief that would doubtless render more frequent the
attacks of his fearful malady.</p>

<p>"Oh," he exclaimed, at once in tears and despair,
"it is my fault,&mdash;it is my fault! Poor, unhappy girl!
I deceived her,&mdash;shamefully deceived her! She must,&mdash;she
ought to hate me; and yet but now she displayed
the deepest interest in me, and, instead of contenting
myself with that, my mad passion led me away, and I
became tender. I spoke of my love, and scarcely had
my lips touched her hand than she became startled, and
bounded with fright. If I could for a moment have
doubted the invincible repugnance with which I inspire
her, what she said to the prince must for ever destroy
that illusion. Ah, it is frightful,&mdash;frightful! By what
right has she confided to him this hideous secret? It is
an unworthy betrayal! By what right?&mdash;alas, by the
right the victim has to complain of its executioner! Poor
girl! So young,&mdash;so loving! All she could find most
cruel to say against the horrid existence I have entailed
upon her was, that such was not the lot of which she had
dreamed, and that she was very young to renounce all
hopes of love! I know Clémence, and the word she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>
gave me,&mdash;the word she gave to the prince,&mdash;she will
abide by for ever. She will be to me the tenderest of
sisters! Well, is not my position still most enviable?
To the cold and constrained demeanour which existed
between us will succeed affectionate and gentle intercourse,
whilst she might have treated me always with
icy disdain of which it was impossible that I could complain.
So, then, I will console myself by the enjoyment
of what she offers to me. Shall I not be too happy
then?&mdash;too happy? Ah, how weak I am! How cowardly!
Is she not my wife, after all? Is she not mine and mine
only? Does not the law recognise my right over her?
My wife refuses, but is not the right on my side?" he
interrupted himself, with a burst of sardonic laughter.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes,&mdash;be violent, eh? What, another infamy?
But what can I do? For I love her yet,&mdash;love her to
madness! I love her and her only! I want but her,&mdash;her
love, and not the lukewarm regard of a sister. Ah,
at last she must have pity; she is so kind, and she will
see how unhappy I am! But no, no! Never! Mine
is a case of estrangement which a woman never can
surmount. Disgust,&mdash;yes, disgust,&mdash;I cannot but
see it,&mdash;disgust! I must convince myself that it is my
horrid infirmity that frightens her, and always must,&mdash;always
must!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, in his fearful
excitement.</p>

<p>After a moment of gloomy silence, he continued:</p>

<p>"This anonymous attack, which accused the prince and
my wife, comes from the hand of an enemy; and yet,
but an hour ago, before I saw through it, I suspected him.
Him!&mdash;to believe him capable of such base treachery!
And my wife, too, I included in the same suspicion! Ah,
jealousy is incurable! And yet I must not abuse myself.
If the prince, who loves me as his best and dearest friend,
has made Clémence promise to occupy her mind and
heart in charitable works, if he promises her his advice,
his support, it is because she requires advice, needs support.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>
And, indeed, lovely and young, and surrounded
as she is, and without that love in her heart which protects
and even almost excuses her wrongs through mine,
which are so atrocious, must she not fall? Another
torturing thought! What I have suffered when I
thought her guilty,&mdash;fallen,&mdash;Heaven knows what
agony! But, no; the fear is vain! Clémence has
sworn never to fail in her duties, and she will keep her
promise,&mdash;strictly keep it! But at what a price! At
what a price! But now, when she turned towards me
with affectionate language, what agony did I feel at the
sight of her gentle, sad, and resigned smile! How much
this return to me must have cost! Poor love! how lovely
and affecting she seemed at that moment! For the first
time I felt a fierce remorse, for, up to that moment,
her haughty coldness had sufficiently avenged her. Oh,
wretch!&mdash;wretch that I am!"</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>After a long and sleepless night, spent in bitter reflections,
the agitation of M. d'Harville ceased, as if by
enchantment. He had come to an unalterable resolution.
He awaited daybreak with excessive impatience.</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>Early in the morning he rang for his <i>valet de chambre</i>.</p>

<p>When old Joseph entered his master's room, to his
great surprise he heard him hum a hunting song,&mdash;a
sign, as rare as certain, that M. d'Harville was in good
humour.</p>

<p>"Ah, M. le Marquis," said the faithful old servant,
quite affected, "what a charming voice you have!
What a pity that you do not sing more frequently!"</p>

<p>"Really, Joseph, have I a charming voice?" said M.
d'Harville, smiling.</p>

<p>"If M. le Marquis had a voice as hoarse as a night
raven or as harsh as a rattle, I should still think he had
a charming voice."</p>

<p>"Be silent, you flatterer!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p>

<p>"Why, when you sing, M. le Marquis, it is a sign you
are happy, and then your voice sounds to me the most
beautiful music in the world."</p>

<p>"In that case, Joseph, my old friend, prepare to open
your long ears."</p>

<p>"What do you mean, sir?"</p>

<p>"You may enjoy every day the music which you call
charming, and of which you seem so fond."</p>

<p>"What! You will be happy every day, M. le Marquis?"
exclaimed Joseph, clasping his hands with
extreme delight.</p>

<p>"Every day, my old Joseph, happy every day. Yes,
no more sorrow,&mdash;no more sadness. I can tell you,
the only and discreet confidant of my troubles, that I
am at the height of happiness. My wife is an angel of
goodness, and has asked my forgiveness for her past
estrangement, attributing it (can you imagine?) to
jealousy."</p>

<p>"To jealousy?"</p>

<p>"Yes, absurd suspicions, excited by anonymous
letters."</p>

<p>"How shameful!"</p>

<p>"You understand? Women have so much self-love,&mdash;a
little more and we should have been separated;
but, fortunately, last evening she explained all frankly
to me, and I disabused her mind. To tell you her
extreme delight would be impossible, for she loves me,&mdash;oh,
yes, she loves me! The coldness she evinced
towards me lay as cruelly on herself as on me, and
now, at length, our distressing separation has ended.
Only conceive my delight!"</p>

<p>"Can it be true?" cried Joseph, with tears in his
eyes. "Can it really be true, M. le Marquis? And
now your life will be happy, for it was only my lady's
love that you required, or, rather, since her estrangement
was your sole misery, as you told me."</p>

<p>"And to whom but you should I have told it, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>
worthy old Joseph? Do not you possess, also, a still
sadder secret? But do not let us say anything more
of sorrows now,&mdash;it is too bright a time. You see,
perhaps, that I have been weeping? It is because this
happiness has come over me so suddenly, when I so little
anticipated it! How weak I am!&mdash;am I not?"</p>

<p>"Well, well, M. le Marquis, you may weep for joy
as much as you please, for you have wept long enough
for pain; and now see, do not I do as you do? They
are right sort of tears, and I would not give them for ten
years more of life. I have now but one fear, and that is,
not to be able to prevent myself from falling at the feet
of Madame la Marquise the first time I see her."</p>

<p>"Silly old fellow! Why you are as weak as your
master. And now I have but one fear."</p>

<p>"And what is that?"</p>

<p>"That this will not last; I am too happy. What now
is wanting to me?"</p>

<p>"Nothing,&mdash;nothing, M. le Marquis,&mdash;absolutely
nothing."</p>

<p>"That is why I mistrust such perfect happiness,&mdash;too
complete."</p>

<p>"Alas! If that is all, why, M. le Marquis&mdash;But
no, I dare not."</p>

<p>"I understand you. Well, I believe your fears are
vain. The change which my happiness causes me is so
intense, so complete, that I am almost sure of being
nearly cured."</p>

<p>"How?"</p>

<p>"My doctor has told me a hundred times that a
violent emotion is frequently sufficient either to bring on
or to cure this terrible malady."</p>

<p>"You are right, monsieur,&mdash;you are cured, and what
a blessing that is! Ah, as you say, M. le Marquis,
the marquise is a good angel come down from heaven;
and I begin myself to be almost alarmed lest the happiness
is too great; but now I think of it, if you only want<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span>
a small matter just to annoy you, thank God, I have just
the very thing!"</p>

<p>"What is it?"</p>

<p>"One of your friends has very luckily had a sword-wound,
very slight, to be sure; but that's all the same,
it is quite enough for you, as you desire to make a small
black spot in your too happy day."</p>

<p>"What do you mean, and of whom do you speak?"</p>

<p>"The Duke de Lucenay."</p>

<p>"Is he wounded?"</p>

<p>"A scratch in the arm. M. the Duke came yesterday
to call on you, sir, and told me he should come again
this morning, and invite himself to a cup of tea."</p>

<p>"Poor Lucenay! And why did you not tell me
this?"</p>

<p>"I could not see you last night, M. le Marquis."</p>

<p>After a moment's reflection, M. d'Harville resumed:</p>

<p>"You are right, this slight regret will, doubtless, satisfy
jealous Fate. But an idea has come across me; I
should like to get up a bachelors' breakfast this morning
of all the friends of M. de Lucenay, to celebrate the
fortunate result of his duel; not anticipating such a
meeting, he will be delighted."</p>

<p>"A capital idea, M. le Marquis. <i>Vive la joie!</i> Let
us make up for lost time. For how many shall I
desire the <i>maître d'hôtel</i> to lay covers?"</p>

<p>"For six, in the small winter dining-room."</p>

<p>"And the invitations?"</p>

<p>"I will write them. Let a groom get his horse ready,
and take them instantly. It is very early, and he will
find everybody at home. Ring."</p>

<p>Joseph rang the bell.</p>

<p>M. d'Harville entered into his cabinet, and wrote the
following letter, with no other alteration than the name
of each invited guest.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p>

<div class="blockquot"><p class="indent">"<span class="smcap">My dear</span> &mdash;&mdash;: This is a circular, and is also an impromptu.
Lucenay is coming to breakfast with me this morning, expecting
only a <i>tête-à-tête</i>. Will you join me and several friends, whom I
also invite, in giving him an agreeable surprise?</p>

<p class="indent">"Twelve punctually.</p>

<p class="sigs">"<span class="smcap">M. d'Harville</span>."</p>
</div>

<p>A servant entered.</p>

<p>"Desire some one to get on horseback, and deliver
these notes directly," said M. d'Harville; and then,
addressing Joseph, "Write the addresses: M. le
Vicomte de Saint-Remy,&mdash;Lucenay cannot get on without
him," said M. d'Harville to himself; "M. de
Monville, one of the duke's travelling companions; Lord
Douglas, his beloved partner at whist; the Baron de
Sézannes, one of the friends of his childhood. Have you
done?"</p>

<p>"Yes, M. le Marquis."</p>

<p>"Send them off, then, without losing a minute's time,"
said M. d'Harville.</p>

<p>"Ah, Philippe, request M. Doublet to come and speak
to me."</p>

<p>Philippe left the room.</p>

<p>"Well, what is the matter with you?" inquired M.
d'Harville of Joseph, who looked at him with astonishment.</p>

<p>"I cannot get over it, sir; I never saw you in such
spirits,&mdash;so lively; and then you, who are usually so
pale, have got such a colour, and your eyes sparkle."</p>

<p>"Happiness, my old friend,&mdash;happiness, and nothing
else; and you must assist me in my little plot.
You must go and learn of Mlle. Juliette, Madame
d'Harville's waiting-woman, who has the care of her
diamonds."</p>

<p>"Yes, M. le Marquis, it is Mlle. Juliette who has the
charge of them, for it is not eight days since I helped her
to clean them."</p>

<p>"Ask her to tell you the name of her lady's jeweller,
but not to say a word on the subject to her mistress."</p>

<p>"Ah, I understand,&mdash;a surprise."</p>

<p>"Go as quickly as possible. Here is M. Doublet."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></p>

<p>And the steward entered as Joseph quitted the
apartment.</p>

<p>"I have the honour to attend the orders of M. le
Marquis."</p>

<p>"My dear M. Doublet, I am going to alarm you," said
M. d'Harville, smiling; "I shall compel you to utter
fearful cries of distress."</p>

<p>"Me, sir?"</p>

<p>"You."</p>

<p>"I will endeavour to give satisfaction to M. le
Marquis."</p>

<p>"I am going to spend an enormous sum, M. Doublet."</p>

<p>"Why not, M. le Marquis? We are well able to do
so."</p>

<p>"I have been planning a considerable extent of building.
I propose to annex a gallery in the garden, on the
right wing of the hôtel. After having hesitated at this
folly, of which I have not before spoken to you, I have
made up my mind on the point, and I wish you to send
to-day to my architect, desiring him to come and talk
over the plans with me. Well, M. Doublet, you do not
seem to object to the outlay."</p>

<p>"I can assure your lordship that I have no objection
whatsoever."</p>

<p>"This gallery is destined for fêtes, and I wish to have
it erected as though by enchantment; and, as enchantments
are very dear, we must sell fifteen or twenty
thousand livres of income in order to meet the expenditure,
for I wish the work to be begun as speedily as
possible."</p>

<p>"I have always said there is nothing which M. le
Marquis wants, unless it be a certain taste. That for
building has the advantage of having the buildings
always left; as to money, M. le Marquis need not
alarm himself, and he may, if he pleases, build the
gallery."</p>

<p>Joseph returned.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p>

<p>"Here, M. le Marquis, is the address of the jeweller,
whose name is M. Baudoin," said he to M. d'Harville.</p>

<p>"My dear M. Doublet, will you go to this jeweller's,
and desire him to bring here in an hour a river of diamonds,
worth, say, two thousand louis? Women never
have too many jewels, now they wear gowns decorated
with them. You can arrange with the jeweller as to the
payment."</p>

<p>"Yes, M. le Marquis; and I do not even yet begin to
groan. Diamonds are like buildings,&mdash;they remain.
And then, no doubt, the surprise will greatly please
Madame la Marquise, without counting the pleasure
that you yourself will experience. It is as I had the
honour of saying the other day, there is not in the world
any person whose existence can be more delightful than
that of M. le Marquis."</p>

<p>"My dear M. Doublet," said M. d'Harville, with a
smile, "your congratulations are always so peculiarly
apropos."</p>

<p>"That is their only merit, M. le Marquis; and they
possess that merit, perhaps, because they proceed from
the heart. I will run to the jeweller."</p>

<p>As soon as he was alone, M. d'Harville began to pace
up and down his cabinet, with his arms folded, and his
eye fixed and meditative. His features suddenly changed,
and no longer expressed that somewhat feverish contentment
of which the steward and his old servant had been
the dupes, but assumed a calm, sad, and chilling resolution.
Afterwards, having paced up and down for a short
time, he sunk into a chair heavily, and, as though weighed
down with sorrow, placed his elbows on his desk, and hid
his face in his hands. After a moment he rose suddenly,
wiped a tear which moistened his red eyelid, and said
with effort:</p>

<p>"Come, come! Courage, courage!"</p>

<p>He then wrote to several persons on very trifling matters,
and postponed various meetings for some days. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>
marquis had concluded this correspondence when Joseph
again entered, so gay, and so forgetful of himself, as to
hum a tune in his turn.</p>

<p>"M. Joseph, what a charming voice you have!" said
his master, jestingly.</p>

<p>"<i>Ma foi!</i> so much the worse, M. le Marquis, for I
don't care about it. I am singing so merrily within,
that my music must be heard without."</p>

<p>"Send these letters to the post."</p>

<p>"Yes, M. le Marquis; but where will you receive the
gentlemen who are expected this morning?"</p>

<p>"Here, in my cabinet; they will smoke after breakfast,
and then the smell of the tobacco will not reach
Madame d'Harville."</p>

<p>At this moment the noise of carriage wheels was heard
in the courtyard of the hôtel.</p>

<p>"It is Madame la Marquise going out; she ordered
her carriage very early this morning," said Joseph.</p>

<p>"Run and request her to be so kind and come here
before she goes out."</p>

<p>"Yes, M. le Marquis."</p>

<p>The domestic had scarcely left the room when M.
d'Harville approached a mirror, and looked at himself
attentively.</p>

<p>"Well, well," said he, in a hoarse voice, "it is there,&mdash;the
flushed cheeks&mdash;the bright look&mdash;joy or fever,
it is little consequence which, so that they are deceived;
now, then, for the smile on the lips,&mdash;there are so many
sorts of smiles! But who can distinguish the false from
the true? Who can peep beneath the false mask, and
say, 'That laugh hides a dark despair, that noisy gaiety
conceals a thought of death?' Who could guess that?
No one,&mdash;fortunately, no one,&mdash;no one! Ah, yes, love
would never be mistaken; his instinct would enlighten
him. But I hear my wife,&mdash;my wife! Now, then,
sinister actor, play thy part."</p>

<p>Clémence entered M. d'Harville's apartment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p>

<p>"Good morrow, dear brother Albert," she said, in a
tone full of sweetness. Then, observing the smiling
expression of her husband's countenance, "But what is
it, my dear, that gives you such a smiling air?"</p>

<p>"It was because, when you entered, my dear sister, I
was thinking of you, and, moreover, I was under the
influence of an excellent resolution."</p>

<p>"That does not surprise me."</p>

<p>"What took place yesterday,&mdash;your extreme generosity,
the prince's noble conduct,&mdash;has given me much
food for reflection, and I am converted,&mdash;entirely converted
to your ideas."</p>

<p>"Indeed! That is a happy change!" exclaimed
Madame d'Harville. "Ah! I was sure that, when I
appealed to your heart, to your reason, you would
understand me; and now I have no doubt about the
future."</p>

<p>"Nor I either, Clémence, I assure you. Yes, since
my resolution last night, the future, which seemed so
vague and sombre, is singularly brightened and simplified."</p>

<p>"Nothing can be more natural, my dear. Now we
both go towards the same end, like a brother and sister,
mutually dependent on each other; at the end of our
career we shall find each other what we are to-day.
The feeling will be unalterable. In a word, I wish
you to be happy; and you shall be, for I have resolved
it there," said Clémence, placing her finger on her forehead.
Then she added, with charming emphasis, lowering
her hand to her heart, "No, I mistake, it is here.
That is the good thought that will watch over you incessantly,
and myself also; and you shall see, my brother,
in what the obstinacy of a devoted heart consists."</p>

<p>"Dear Clémence!" said M. d'Harville with repressed
emotion; then, after a moment's silence, he continued,
in a gay tone:</p>

<p>"I sent to beg you to come here before you went out,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>
to tell you that I could not take tea with you this morning.
I have some friends to breakfast,&mdash;a sort of
impromptu,&mdash;to celebrate the fortunate result of a duel
of poor Lucenay, who, by the way, was only very slightly
wounded by his adversary."</p>

<p>Madame d'Harville blushed when she reflected on the
origin of this duel,&mdash;an absurd remark addressed in her
presence by the Duke de Lucenay to M. Charles Robert.
It reminded her of an <i>erreur</i> of which she was ashamed,
and, to escape from the pain she felt, she said to her
husband:</p>

<p>"What a singular chance! M. de Lucenay is coming
to breakfast with you, and I am going, perhaps rather
indiscreetly, to invite myself this morning to Madame
de Lucenay's; for I have a great deal to say to her
about my two unknowns. From her, it is my intention
to go to the prison of St. Lazare with Madame de
Blinval, for you do not know all my projects; at this
time I am intriguing to get admittance into the workroom
of the young prisoner-girls."</p>

<p>"You are really insatiable," said M. d'Harville, with
a smile; and then he added, with a painful emotion,
which, despite his efforts, betrayed itself a little, "Then
I shall see you no more to-day."</p>

<p>"Does it annoy you that I should go out so early?"
asked Clémence, quickly, astonished at the tone of his
voice. "If you wish it, I can put off my visit to
Madame de Lucenay."</p>

<p>The Marquis had nearly betrayed himself, but continued,
in an affectionate tone:</p>

<p>"Yes, my dear little sister, I am as annoyed to see
you go out, as I shall be impatient to see you return,
and these are faults of which I shall never be corrected."</p>

<p>"And you are quite right, dear; for if you did I
should be very, very sorry."</p>

<p>The sound of a bell, announcing a visit, was now heard.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p>

<p>"Here is one of your guests, no doubt," said Madame
d'Harville. "I leave you; but, by the way, what are
you going to do in the evening? If you have no better
engagement, I require you to accompany me to the
Italian Opera; perhaps now you will like the music
better."</p>

<p>"I am at your orders with the utmost pleasure."</p>

<p>"Are you going out by and by? Shall I see you
before dinner?"</p>

<p>"I shall not go out; you will find me here."</p>

<p>"Well, then, on my return, I shall come and inquire
if your bachelors' breakfast has been amusing."</p>

<p>"Adieu, Clémence!"</p>

<p>"Adieu, dear! We shall soon meet again. I leave
you a clear house, and wish you may be as merry as
possible. Be very gay and lively, mind."</p>

<p>Having cordially shaken her husband's hand,
Clémence went out of one door as M. de Lucenay
entered by another.</p>

<p>"She wished me to be as merry as possible, and bade
me be gay! In the word adieu, in that last cry of my
soul in its agony, in that word of complete and eternal
separation, she has understood that we should meet
again soon,&mdash;this evening,&mdash;and leaves me tranquilly,
and with a smile! It does honour to my dissimulation.
By heaven, I did not think that I was so good an actor!
But here is Lucenay."</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3>

<h5>THE BACHELORS' BREAKFAST.</h5>


<p>M. de Lucenay came into the room.</p>

<p>The duke's wound had been so slight, that he did not
even carry his arm in a sling. His countenance was, as
usual, mirthful, yet proud; his motion perpetual; and
his restlessness, as usual, unconquerable. In spite of
his awkwardness, his ill-timed pleasantries, and in spite
of his immense nose, which gave his face a grotesque
and odd character, M. de Lucenay was not, as we have
already said, a vulgar person, thanks to a kind of natural
dignity and bold impertinence, which never forsook
him.</p>

<p>"How indifferent you must think me to what concerns
you, my dear Henry!" said M. d'Harville, extending
his hand to M. de Lucenay; "but it was only this
morning that I heard of your unfortunate adventure."</p>

<p>"Unfortunate! Pooh&mdash;pooh, marquis! I had my
money's worth, as they say. I really never laughed so
in my life. The worthy M. Robert was so religiously
determined to maintain that he never had a phlegmy
cough, in all his life,&mdash;but you do not know! This was
the cause of the duel. The other evening at the &mdash;&mdash; embassy,
I asked him, before your wife and the Countess
Macgregor, how his phlegmy cough was? <i>Inde iræ!</i> for,
between ourselves, he had nothing of the kind; but it
was all the same, and, you may suppose, to have such
a thing alluded to before pretty women was very provoking."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p>

<p>"How foolish! Yet it is so like you! But who is
this M. Robert?"</p>

<p>"<i>Ma foi!</i> I have not the slightest idea in the world.
He is a person whom I met at the Spas; he passed by
us in the winter garden at the embassy, and I called to
him to play off this foolish jest, to which he gallantly
replied the next day by giving me a touch with his
sword-point. This is the history of our acquaintance.
But let us speak no more of such follies. I have come
to ask you for a cup of tea."</p>

<p>So saying, M. de Lucenay flung himself down full
length on the sofa; after which, poking the point of his
cane between the wall and the frame of a picture hanging
over his head, he began to move it about, and try
and balance the frame.</p>

<p>"I expected you, my dear Henry; and I have got up
a surprise for you," said M. d'Harville.</p>

<p>"Ah, bah! and in what way?" exclaimed M. de
Lucenay, giving to the picture a very doubtful kind of
balance.</p>

<p>"You will unquestionably unhook that picture, and
let it down on your head."</p>

<p>"<i>Pardieu!</i> I believe you are right. What an eagle's
eye you have! But, tell me, what is this surprise of
yours?"</p>

<p>"I have invited some of our friends to come and
breakfast with us!"</p>

<p>"Really! Well, that is capital! Bravo, marquis,&mdash;bravissimo!
ultra-bravissimo!" exclaimed M. de Lucenay,
in a lusty voice, and beating the sofa cushions with
his cane with all his might. "And who shall we
have,&mdash;Saint-Remy? No, I recollect; he has been
in the country for some days. What the devil can
he be pattering about in the country in the mid-winter
for?"</p>

<p>"Are you sure he is not in Paris?"</p>

<p>"Quite sure; for I wrote to him to go out with me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>
and learned he was absent; and so I fell back upon
Lord Douglas, and Sézannes."</p>

<p>"Nothing can be better; they breakfast with us."</p>

<p>"Bravo! bravo! bravo!" exclaimed M. de Lucenay
again, with lusty lungs; and then, wriggling and twisting
himself on the sofa, he accompanied his cries with
a series of fishlike bounds and springs, which would
have made a boatman envious. The acrobatic exercises
of the Duke de Lucenay were interrupted by the arrival
of M. de Saint-Remy.</p>

<p>"There was no occasion to ask if Lucenay was here,"
said the viscount, gaily; "one could hear him below
stairs."</p>

<p>"What! Is it you, graceful sylvan, country swain,&mdash;wolf
of the woods?" exclaimed the duke, in his surprise,
and sitting up suddenly. "I thought you were in the
country!"</p>

<p>"I came back yesterday; and, having this instant
received D'Harville's invitation, I have hastened hither,
quite delighted to make one in so pleasant a surprise."
And M. de Saint-Remy extended his hand to M. de
Lucenay, and then to the marquis.</p>

<p>"Let me thank you for your speed, my dear Saint-Remy.
Is it not natural? The friends of Lucenay
ought to rejoice in the fortunate result of this duel,
which, after all, might have had very serious results."</p>

<p>"But," resumed the duke, doggedly, "what on earth
have you been doing in the country in the middle of
winter, Saint-Remy? It mystifies me."</p>

<p>"How inquisitive he is!" said the viscount, addressing
M. d'Harville; and then, turning to the duke, "I
am anxious to wean myself gradually from Paris, as
I am soon to quit it."</p>

<p>"Ah, yes, the beautiful idea of attaching you to the
legation from France to Gerolstein! Pray leave off
those silly ideas of diplomacy! You will never go.
My wife says so, everybody says the same."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p>

<p>"I assure you that Madame de Lucenay is mistaken,
as well as all the rest of the world."</p>

<p>"She told you, in my presence, that it was a folly."</p>

<p>"How many have I committed in my life?"</p>

<p>"Yes, elegant, charming follies, true;&mdash;such as people
said would ruin you in your Sardanapalian magnificences,&mdash;that
I admit. But to go and bury yourself alive in
such a court,&mdash;at Gerolstein! What an idea! Psha!
It is a folly, an absurdity; and you have too much good
sense to commit absurdities."</p>

<p>"Take care, my dear Lucenay. When you abuse this
German court, you will get up a quarrel with D'Harville,
the intimate friend of the grand duke regnant, who, moreover,
received me with the best possible grace at the
embassy, where I was presented to him."</p>

<p>"Really, my dear Henry," said M. d'Harville, "if you
knew the grand duke as I know him, you would understand
that Saint-Remy could have no repugnance to
passing some time at Gerolstein."</p>

<p>"I believe you, marquis, although they do say that he
is very haughty and very peculiar, your grand duke; but
that will not hinder a don like Saint-Remy, the finest
sifting of the finest flour, from being unable to live
anywhere but in Paris. It is in Paris only that he is
duly appreciated."</p>

<p>The other guests of M. d'Harville now arrived, when
Joseph entered, and said a few words in a low voice to
his master.</p>

<p>"Gentlemen," said the marquis, "will you allow me?&mdash;it
is my wife's jeweller, who has brought some diamonds
to select for her,&mdash;a surprise. You understand
that, Lucenay? We are husbands of the old sort, you
and I."</p>

<p>"Ah, <i>pardieu</i>! If it is a surprise you mean," shouted
the duke, "my wife gave me one yesterday, and a
famous one too!"</p>

<p>"Some magnificent present?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span></p>

<p>"She asked me for a hundred thousand francs
(4,000<i>l.</i>)."</p>

<p>"And you are such a magnifico&mdash;you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Lent them to her; they are advanced as mortgage
on her Arnouville estate. Right reckonings make good
friends,&mdash;but that's by the by. To lend in two hours
a hundred thousand francs to a friend who requires that
sum is what I call pretty, but rare. Is it not prodigal,
you who are a connoisseur in loans?" said the duke,
laughingly, to Saint-Remy, little thinking of the cutting
purport of his words.</p>

<p>In spite of his effrontery, the viscount blushed
slightly, and then replied, with composure:</p>

<p>"A hundred thousand francs?&mdash;that is immense!
What could a woman ever want with such a sum as a
hundred thousand francs? As for us men, that is quite
a different matter."</p>

<p>"<i>Ma foi!</i> I really do not know what she could want
with such a sum as that. But that's not my affair.
Some arrears for the toilet, probably? The tradespeople
hungry and annoying,&mdash;that's her affair. And,
as you know very well, my dear Saint-Remy, that, as it
was I who lent my wife the money, it would have been
in the worst possible taste in me to have inquired the
purpose for which she required it."</p>

<p>"Yet," said the viscount, with a laugh, "there is
usually a singular curiosity on the part of those who
lend money to know what is done with it."</p>

<p>"<i>Parbleu!</i> Saint-Remy," said M. d'Harville, "you
have such exquisite taste, that you must help me to
choose the ornament I intend for my wife. Your approbation
will consecrate my choice; your decisions are
sovereign in all that concerns the fashion."</p>

<p>The jeweller entered, bringing with him several caskets
of gems in a large leather bag.</p>

<p>"Ah, it is M. Baudoin!" said M. de Lucenay.</p>

<p>"At your grace's service."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p>

<p>"I am sure that it is you who ruined my wife with
your dazzling and infernal temptations," said M. de
Lucenay.</p>

<p>"Madame la Duchesse has only had her diamonds
reset this winter," said the jeweller, slightly embarrassed;
"and now, as I came to M. le Marquis, I left
them with her grace."</p>

<p>M. de Saint-Remy knew that Madame de Lucenay, to
aid him, had changed her jewels for false stones. He
was disagreeably embarrassed at this rencontre, but
said, boldly:</p>

<p>"How curious these husbands are!&mdash;don't answer
any inquisitive interrogatories, M. Baudoin."</p>

<p>"Curious; <i>ma foi!</i> no," said the duke; "it is my
wife who pays. She can afford all her whims, for she
is much richer than I am."</p>

<p>During this conversation, M. Baudoin had displayed
on a table several superb necklaces of rubies and
diamonds.</p>

<p>"What a fine water, and how exquisitely those stones
are cut!" said Lord Douglas.</p>

<p>"Alas, sir!" said the jeweller, "I employed in this
work one of the most skilful lapidaries in Paris, named
Morel; but, unfortunately, he has become insane, and I
shall never find such another workman. My matcher of
stones says that, in all probability, it was his wretched
condition that deprived the man of his senses, poor
fellow!"</p>

<p>"Wretched condition! What! do you trust diamonds
to people in distress?"</p>

<p>"Certainly, sir; and there is no instance of a lapidary
having ever pilfered anything, however miserable and
destitute his condition."</p>

<p>"How much for this necklace?" inquired M.
d'Harville.</p>

<p>"M. le Marquis will observe that the stones are of a
splendid water and cut, and nearly all of a size."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p>

<p>"These oratorical prefaces threaten your purse," said
M. de Saint-Remy, with a laugh. "Now, my dear D'Harville,
look out for a high price."</p>

<p>"Come, M. Baudoin, have a conscience, and ask the
price you mean to take!" said M. d'Harville.</p>

<p>"I will not haggle with your lordship. The lowest
price is forty-two thousand francs (11,680<i>l.</i>)."</p>

<p>"Gentlemen," exclaimed M. de Lucenay, "let us who
are married admire D'Harville in silence. A man who
contrives a surprise for his wife to the amount of forty-two
thousand francs! <i>Diable!</i> we must not noise that
abroad, or it would be a detestable precedent."</p>

<p>"Laugh on, gentlemen, as much as you please," said
the marquis, gaily. "I love my wife, and am not
ashamed to confess it; on the contrary, I boast of it."</p>

<p>"It is plain enough to be seen," said M. de Saint-Remy;
"such a present speaks more eloquently than all
the protestation in the world."</p>

<p>"I will take this necklace, then," said M. d'Harville,
"if the setting of black enamel seems to you in good
taste, Saint-Remy."</p>

<p>"Oh, it sets off the brilliancy of the stones; it is
exquisitely devised."</p>

<p>"Then this it shall be," said M. d'Harville. "You
will settle, M. Baudoin, with M. Doublet, my man of
business."</p>

<p>"M. Doublet told me as much, my lord marquis,"
said the jeweller, who quitted the apartment, after
having packed up his bag without counting the jewels
which he had brought (such was his confidence), and
notwithstanding M. de Saint-Remy had for a long time
and curiously handled and examined them during the
interview.</p>

<p>M. d'Harville gave the necklace to Joseph, who was
waiting, and said to him, in a low tone:</p>

<p>"Mlle. Juliette must put these diamonds cleverly
away with those of her mistress, so that la marquise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>
may not suspect; and then her surprise will be the
greater."</p>

<p>At this moment the <i>maître d'hôtel</i> announced that
the breakfast was ready; and the guests, passing into
the dining-room, seated themselves.</p>

<p>"Do you know, my dear D'Harville," said M. de
Lucenay, "that this house is one of the most elegant
and best arranged in Paris?"</p>

<p>"It is very convenient, certainly, but we want room;
I have a plan to add a gallery on the garden. Madame
d'Harville wishes to give some grand balls, and our
salons are not large enough. Then, I think, nothing is
more inconvenient than the encroachments of fêtes on
the apartments one usually occupies, and from which,
on such occasions, you are necessarily driven."</p>

<p>"I am quite of D'Harville's opinion," said M. de
Saint-Remy; "nothing is more wretched, more tradesmanlike,
than these movings, compelled by the coming
of balls and concerts. To give fêtes, really of the first
class, without inconveniencing oneself, there must be
devoted to their uses peculiar and special suites of
apartments; and then vast and splendid rooms, devoted
to a magnificent ball, ought to assume an appearance
wholly distinct from that of ordinary salons. There is
the same difference between these two sets of apartments
as between a monumental fresco-painting and a
sketch on a painter's easel."</p>

<p>"He is right," said M. d'Harville. "What a pity,
gentlemen, that Saint-Remy has not twelve or fifteen
hundred thousand livres a year! What wonders he
would create for our admiration!"</p>

<p>"Since we have the happiness to possess a representative
government," said the Duke de Lucenay,
"the country ought to vote a million or two a year
to Saint-Remy, and authorise him to represent in Paris
the French taste and elegance, which should decide the
taste and elegance of all Europe,&mdash;all the world."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p>

<p>"Adopted!" cried the guests in chorus.</p>

<p>"And we would raise these annual millions as compulsory
taxes on those abominable misers, who, being
possessors of colossal fortunes, should be marked down,
accused, and convicted of living like gripe-farthings,"
added M. de Lucenay.</p>

<p>"And as such," added M. d'Harville, "condemned to
defray those splendours which they ought to display."</p>

<p>"Not including that these functions of high priest, or,
rather, grand master of elegance, which would devolve
on Saint-Remy," continued M. de Lucenay, "would
have, by imitation, an enormous influence on the general
taste."</p>

<p>"He would be the type which all would seek to
resemble."</p>

<p>"That is evident."</p>

<p>"And, in endeavouring to imitate him, taste would
become purified."</p>

<p>"At the time of the Renaissance taste became universally
excellent, because it was modelled on that of
the aristocracy, which was exquisite."</p>

<p>"By the serious turn which the question has taken,"
said M. d'Harville, gaily, "I see that we have only to
address a petition to the Chambers for the establishment
of the office of grand master of French elegance."</p>

<p>"And as the Deputies have credit for possessing very
elevated, very artistic, and very magnificent ideas, of
course it will be voted by acclamation."</p>

<p>"Whilst we are waiting the decision which shall
establish as a right the supremacy which Saint-Remy
exercises in fact," said M. d'Harville, "I will ask him
his opinion as to the gallery which I propose to erect;
for I have been struck with his ideas as to the right
splendour of fêtes."</p>

<p>"My faint lights are at your service, D'Harville."</p>

<p>"And when shall we commence our magnificences,
my dear fellow?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></p>

<p>"Next year, I suppose, for I intend to begin my
works without delay."</p>

<p>"How full of projects you are!"</p>

<p>"<i>Ma foi!</i> I have others also; I contemplate an entire
alteration of Val-Richer."</p>

<p>"Your estate in Burgundy?"</p>

<p>"Yes; there is much that may be done there, if,
indeed, God grants me life."</p>

<p>"Poor old fellow!"</p>

<p>"Have you not recently bought a farm near Val-Richer
to complete your ring-fence?"</p>

<p>"Yes, a very nice thing, to which I was advised by
my notary."</p>

<p>"And who is this rare and precious notary who
advises such admirable purchases?"</p>

<p>"M. Jacques Ferrand."</p>

<p>At this name a slight shudder came over M. de
Saint-Remy, and he frowned imperceptibly.</p>

<p>"Is he really the honest man they call him?" he
inquired, carelessly, of M. d'Harville, who then remembered
what Rodolph had related to Clémence about the
notary.</p>

<p>"Jacques Ferrand? What a question! Why, his
honesty is a proverb," said M. de Lucenay.</p>

<p>"As respected as respectable."</p>

<p>"And very pious; which does him no harm."</p>

<p>"Excessively stingy; which is a guarantee for his
clients."</p>

<p>"In fact, he is one of the notaries of the 'old rock,'
who ask you whom you take them for when you ask
them for a receipt for the money which you place in
their hands."</p>

<p>"That would have no effect on me; I would trust
him with my whole fortune."</p>

<p>"But where the deuce did Saint-Remy imbibe his
doubts with respect to this honest man, whose integrity
is proverbial?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p>

<p>"I am but the echo of certain vague reports; besides,
I have no reason for running down this ph&oelig;nix of
notaries. But to return to your plans, D'Harville, what
is it you wish to build at Val-Richer? I have heard
that the château is excessively beautiful."</p>

<p>"Make yourself easy, my dear Saint-Remy, for you
shall be consulted, and sooner than you expect, perhaps,
for I take much pleasure in such works. I think that
there is nothing more interesting than to have those
affairs in hand, which expand as you examine them,
and they advance, giving you occupation for years to
come. To-day one project, next year another, after that
something else springs up. Add to this a charming
woman whom one adores, and who shares your every
taste and pleasure, then, <i>ma foi!</i> life passes sweetly
enough."</p>

<p>"I think so, <i>pardieu</i>! Why, it then makes earth a
perfect paradise."</p>

<p>"Now, gentlemen," said D'Harville, when the breakfast
was finished, "if you will smoke a cigar in my
cabinet, you will find some excellent Havannahs there."</p>

<p>They rose from the table, and returned to the cabinet
of the marquis. The door of his bedchamber, which
communicated with it, was open. We have said the
only decoration of the room consisted of two small racks
of very beautiful arms.</p>

<p>M. de Lucenay, having lighted a cigar, followed the
marquis into his room.</p>

<p>"You see, I am still a great lover of good weapons,"
said D'Harville to him.</p>

<p>"Yes, and I see you have here some splendid English
and French guns. <i>Ma foi!</i> I hardly know which to
admire most. Douglas," exclaimed M. de Lucenay,
"come and see if these fowling-pieces are not equal to
your crack Mantons."</p>

<p>Lord Douglas, Saint-Remy, and the two other guests
went into the marquis's room to examine the arms.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p>

<p>M. d'Harville, taking down a duelling-pistol, cocked
it, and said, laughingly:</p>

<p>"Here, gentlemen, is the universal panacea for all the
ills,&mdash;spleen, disgust, weariness."</p>

<p>And as he spoke, jestingly, he placed the muzzle to
his lips.</p>

<p>"<i>Ma foi!</i> I prefer another specific," said Saint-Remy;
"that is only good in the most desperate cases."</p>

<p>"Yes, but it is so speedy," said M. d'Harville. "Click!
and it is done!"</p>

<p>"Pray be cautious, D'Harville; these jokes are always
so rash and dangerous; and accident happens in an
instant," said M. de Lucenay.</p>

<p>"My dear fellow, do you think I would do so if it
were loaded?"</p>

<p>"Of course not, but it is always imprudent."</p>

<p>"See, gentlemen, how it is done. You introduce the
muzzle delicately between the teeth, and then&mdash;"</p>

<p>"How foolish you are, D'Harville, to place it so!"
said M. de Lucenay.</p>

<p>"You place your finger on the trigger&mdash;" continued
M. d'Harville.</p>

<p>"What a child! What folly at your age!"</p>

<p>"A small touch on the lock," added the marquis,
"and one goes&mdash;"</p>

<p>As he spoke the pistol went off. M. d'Harville had
blown his brains out.</p>

<p>It is impossible to paint the horror,&mdash;the stupor, of
M. d'Harville's guests.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 316px;"><a name="image222" id="image222"></a>
<img src="images/i005.jpg" width="316" height="500" alt="M. d&#39;Harville had blown his brains out.
Original Etching by Mercier." title="M. d&#39;Harville had blown his brains out." />
<span class="caption"><i>M. d&#39;Harville had blown his brains out.</i><br />
<span class="artist">Original Etching by Mercier.</span></span>
</div>

<p>Next day the following appeared in one of the newspapers:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>"Yesterday an event, as unforeseen as deplorable, put all the
Faubourg St. Germain in a state of excitement. One of those
imprudent acts, which every year produce such sad accidents, has
caused this terrible misfortune. The following are the facts
which we have gathered, the authenticity of which may be relied
upon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p>

<p>"The Marquis d'Harville, the possessor of an immense fortune,
and scarcely twenty-six years of age, universally known for his
kind-hearted benevolence, and married but a few years to a wife
whom he idolised, had some friends to breakfast with him; on
leaving the table, they went into M. d'Harville's sleeping apartment,
where there were several firearms of considerable value.
Whilst the guests were looking at some choice fowling-pieces, M.
d'Harville in jest took up a pistol which he thought was not
loaded, and placed the muzzle to his lips. Though warned by
his friends, he pressed on the trigger,&mdash;the pistol went off, and
the unfortunate young gentleman dropped down dead, with his
skull horribly fractured. It is impossible to describe the extreme
consternation of the friends of M. d'Harville, with whom but
a few instants before he had been talking of various plans and
projects, full of life, spirits, and animation. In fact, as if all the
circumstances of this sad event must be still more cruel by the
most painful contrasts, that very morning M. d'Harville, desirous
of agreeably surprising his wife, had purchased a most expensive
ornament, which he intended as a present to her. It was at this
very moment, when, perhaps, life had never appeared more smiling
and attractive, that he fell a victim to this most distressing
accident.</p>

<p>"All reflections on such a dreadful event are useless. We
can only remain overwhelmed at the inscrutable decrees of
Providence."</p></div>

<p>We quote this journal in order to show the general
opinion which attributed the death of Clémence's husband
to fatal and lamentable imprudence.</p>

<p>Is there any occasion to say that M. d'Harville alone
carried with him to the tomb the mysterious secret of
his voluntary death,&mdash;yes, voluntary and calculated
upon, and meditated with as much calmness as generosity,
in order that Clémence might not conceive the
slightest suspicion as to the real cause of his suicide?</p>

<p>Thus the projects of which M. d'Harville had talked
with his steward and his friends,&mdash;those happy confidences
to his old servant, the surprise which he proposed
for his wife, were all but so many precautions for the
public credulity.</p>

<p>How could it be supposed that a man so preoccupied
as to the future, so anxious to please his wife, could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>
think of killing himself? His death was, therefore,
attributed to imprudence, and could not be attributed
to anything else.</p>

<p>As to his determination, an incurable despair had dictated
that. By showing herself as affectionate towards
him, and as tender as she had formerly been cold and
disdainful, by again appearing to entertain a high
regard, Clémence had awakened in the heart of her
husband deep remorse.</p>

<p>Seeing her so sadly resigned to a long life without
love, passed with a man visited by an incurable and
frightful malady, and utterly persuaded that, after her
solemn conversation, Clémence could never subdue the
repugnance with which he inspired her, M. d'Harville
was seized with a profound pity for his wife, and an
entire disgust for himself and for life.</p>

<p>In the exasperation of his anguish, he said to himself:</p>

<p>"I only love,&mdash;I never can love,&mdash;but one woman
in the world, and she is my own wife. Her conduct, full
of noble-heartedness and high mind, would but increase
my mad passion, if it be possible to increase it. And
she, my wife, can never belong to me! She has a right
to despise,&mdash;to hate me! I have, by base deceit, chained
this young creature to my hateful lot! I repent it bitterly.
What, then, should I do for her? Free her from
the hateful ties which my selfishness has riveted upon
her. My death alone can break those rivets; and I must,
therefore, die by my own hand!"</p>

<p>This was why M. d'Harville had accomplished this
great,&mdash;this terrible sacrifice.</p>

<p>The inexorable immutability of the law sometimes
makes certain terrible positions irremediable, and, as in
this case (as divorce was unattainable), only allows the
injury to be effaced by an additional crime.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER IX.</h3>

<h5>ST. LAZARE.</h5>


<p>The prison of St. Lazare, especially devoted to
female thieves and prostitutes, is daily visited by many
ladies, whose charity, whose names, and whose social
position command universal respect. These ladies, educated
in the midst of the splendours of fortune,&mdash;these
ladies, properly belonging to the best society,&mdash;come
every week to pass long hours with the miserable prisoners
of St. Lazare; watching in these degraded souls
for the least indication of an aspiration towards good,
the least regret for a past criminal life, and encouraging
the good tendencies, urging repentance, and, by the potent
magic of the words, Duty, Honour, Virtue, withdrawing
from time to time one of these abandoned, fallen, degraded,
despised creatures, from the depths of utter pollution.</p>

<p>Accustomed to delicacy and the most polished breeding
of the highest circles, these courageous females quit
their homes, after having pressed their lips on the virgin
foreheads of their daughters, pure as the angels of
heaven, and go into dark prisons to brave the coarse
indifference or infamous language of these thieves and
lost women.</p>

<p>Faithful to their tasks of high morality, they boldly
plunge into the tainted soil, place their hands on those
gangrened hearts, and, if any feeble pulsation of honour
reveals to them a slight hope of recovery, they contend
for and snatch from irrevocable perdition the wretched
soul of which they have never despaired.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p>

<p>Having said so much by way of introduction to the
new scenes to which we are about to direct attention, we
will introduce the reader to St. Lazare, an immense
edifice of imposing and repulsive aspect, situated in the
Faubourg St. Denis.</p>

<p>Ignorant of the shocking drama that was passing at
her own house, Madame d'Harville had gone to the
prison, after having received certain information from
Madame de Lucenay as to the two unhappy females
whom the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand had plunged
into misery. Madame de Blinval, one of the patronesses
of the charity of the young prisoners, being on this day
unable to accompany Clémence to St. Lazare, she had
gone thither alone. She was received with great attention
by the governor and the several female superintendents,
who were distinguished by their black garments
and the blue riband with the silver medal which they
wore around their necks. One of these superintendents,
a female of mature age, with a serious but kind expression
of countenance, remained alone with Madame
d'Harville, in a small room attached to the registry
office.</p>

<p>We may easily suppose that there is often unrecognised
devotion, understanding, commiseration, and
sagacity amongst the respectable females who devote
themselves to the humble and obscure function of superintendent
of the prisoners. Nothing can be more excellent,
more practical, than the notions of order, work,
and duty which they endeavour to instil into the
prisoners, in the hope that these instructions may
survive their term of imprisonment. In turns indulgent
and firm, patient and severe, but always just
and impartial, these females, incessantly in contact
with the prisoners, end, after the lengthened experience
of years, by acquiring such a knowledge of the
physiognomy of these unfortunates that they can judge
of them almost invariably from the first glance, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>
can at once classify them according to their degree of
immorality.</p>

<p>Madame Armand, the inspectress who remained with
Madame d'Harville, possessed in a remarkable degree
this almost supernatural prescience as to the character of
the prisoners; her words and decisions had very great
weight in the establishment.</p>

<p>Madame Armand said to Clémence:</p>

<p>"Since madame wishes me to point out to her such
of our prisoners as have by good conduct, or sincere
repentance, deserved that an interest should be taken
in them, I believe I can mention to her a poor girl
whom I believe to be more unfortunate than culpable; for
I am not deceived when I say that it is not too late to
save this young girl, an unhappy creature of not more
than sixteen or seventeen years of age."</p>

<p>"And for what is she imprisoned?"</p>

<p>"She is guilty of being found in the Champs Elysées
in the evening. As it is prohibited to such females,
under very severe penalties, to frequent, by day or
night, certain public places, and as the Champs Elysées
are in the number of the forbidden promenades, she was
apprehended."</p>

<p>"And does she appear to you interesting?"</p>

<p>"I never saw features more regular, more ingenuous.
Picture to yourself, my lady, the face of a Virgin; and
what adds still more to the expression of modesty in her
countenance is that, on coming here, she was dressed like
a peasant girl of the environs of Paris."</p>

<p>"She is, then, a country girl?"</p>

<p>"No, my lady; the inspectors knew her again.
She had lived for some weeks in a horrible abode
in the Cité, from which she has been absent for two
or three months; but, as she had not demanded the
erasure of her name from the police registries, she
comes under the power of that body, which has sent her
hither."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p>

<p>"But, perhaps, she had quitted Paris to try and
reinstate herself?"</p>

<p>"I think so, madame; and it is therefore I have
taken such an interest in her. I have questioned her
as to her past life, inquired if she came from the country,
and told her to hope, as I did myself, that she might
still return to a course of good life."</p>

<p>"And what reply did she make?"</p>

<p>"Lifting her full and melancholy blue eyes on me,
filled with tears, she said, with angelic sweetness, 'I
thank you, madame, for your kindness; but I cannot
say one word as to the past; I was apprehended,&mdash;I
was doing wrong, and I do not therefore complain.'
'But where do you come from? Where have you been
since you quitted the Cité? If you went into the
country to seek an honest livelihood, say so, and prove
it. We will write to the prefect to obtain your liberty,
your name will be scratched off the police register, and
you will be encouraged in your good resolutions.' 'I
beseech you, madame, do not ask me; I cannot answer
you,' she replied. 'But, on leaving this house, would
you return again to that place of infamy?' 'Oh,
never!' she exclaimed. 'What, then, will you do?'
'God only knows!' she replied, letting her head fall
on her bosom."</p>

<p>"Very singular! And she expresses herself&mdash;"</p>

<p>"In very excellent terms, madame; her deportment
is timid and respectful, but without servility; nay, more,
in spite of the extreme gentleness of her voice and look,
there is in her accent and her attitude a sort of proud
sorrow which puzzles me. If she did not belong to that
wretched class of which she forms one, I should say
that her haughtiness announces a soul which has a
consciousness of dignity."</p>

<p>"But this is all a romance!" exclaimed Clémence,
deeply interested, and finding, as Rodolph had told
her, that nothing was more interesting than to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span>
good. "And how does she behave with the other
prisoners? If she is endowed with that dignity of
soul that you imagine, she must suffer excessively in
the midst of her wretched associates."</p>

<p>"Madame, for me, who observe all from my position,
and from habit, all about this young girl is a subject of
astonishment. Although she has been here only three
days, yet she already possesses a sort of influence over
the other prisoners."</p>

<p>"In so short a time?"</p>

<p>"They feel for her not only interest, but almost
respect."</p>

<p>"What! these unhappy women&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Have sometimes the instinct of a remarkable delicacy
in recognising and detecting noble qualities in others;
only, they frequently hate those persons whose superiority
they are compelled to admit."</p>

<p>"But do they hate this poor girl?"</p>

<p>"Far from it, my lady; none of them knew her before
she came here. They were at first struck with her
appearance. Her features, although of singular beauty,
are, if I may so express myself, covered with a touching
and sickly paleness; and this melancholy and gentle
countenance at first inspired them with more interest
than jealousy. Then she is very silent, another source
of surprise for these creatures, who, for the most part,
always endeavour to banish thought by making a noise,
talking, and moving about. In fact, although reserved
and retiring, she showed herself compassionate, which
prevented her companions from taking offence at her
coldness of manner. This is not all: about a month
since, an intractable creature, nicknamed La Louve (the
she-wolf), such is her violent and brutal character, became
a resident here. She is a woman of twenty years
of age, tall, masculine, with good-looking but strongly
marked features, and we are sometimes compelled to
place her in the black-hole to subdue her violence. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span>
day before yesterday, only, she came out of the cell, still
irritated at the punishment she had undergone; it was
meal-time, the poor girl of whom I speak could not eat,
and said, sorrowfully, to her companions, 'Who will have
my bread?' 'I will!' said La Louve. 'I will!' then
said a creature almost deformed, called Mont Saint-Jean,
who is the laughing-stock and, sometimes in spite of us,
the butt of the other prisoners, although several months
advanced in pregnancy. The young girl gave her bread
to this latter, to the extreme anger of La Louve. 'It
was I who asked you for the allowance first!' she
exclaimed, furiously. 'That is true; but this poor
woman is about to become a mother, and wants it
more than you do,' replied the young girl. La Louve,
notwithstanding, snatched the bread from the hands of
Mont Saint-Jean, and began to wave her knife about,
and to vociferate loudly. As she is very evil-disposed
and much feared, no one dared take the part of the poor
Goualeuse, although all the prisoners silently sided with
her."</p>

<p>"What do you call her name, madame?"</p>

<p>"La Goualeuse; it is the name, or rather the nickname,
under which they brought her here who is my
protégée, and will, I hope, my lady, soon be yours.
Almost all of them have borrowed names."</p>

<p>"This is a very singular one."</p>

<p>"It signifies in their horrid jargon 'the singer,' for
the young girl has, they told me, a very delightful voice;
and I believe it, for her speaking tones are sweetness
itself."</p>

<p>"But how did she escape from this wretch, La Louve?"</p>

<p>"Rendered still more furious by the composure of La
Goualeuse, she rushed towards her, uttering menaces,
and with her uplifted knife in her hand. All the prisoners
cried out with fear; La Goualeuse alone, looking
at this fierce creature without alarm, smiled at her
bitterly and said, in her sweet voice, 'Oh, kill me! Kill<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>
me! I am willing to die. But do not make me suffer
too great pain!' These words, they told me, were
uttered with a simplicity so affecting, that almost all
the prisoners burst into tears."</p>

<p>"I can imagine so," said Madame d'Harville, deeply
moved.</p>

<p>"The worst characters," continued the inspectress,
"have, fortunately, occasional good feelings. When she
heard these words, bearing the stamp of such painful
resignation, La Louve, touched (as she afterwards declared)
to her inmost core, threw her knife on the
ground, fell at her feet and exclaimed, 'It was wrong&mdash;shameful
to threaten you, Goualeuse, for I am stronger
than you! You are not afraid of my knife; you are
bold&mdash;brave! I like brave people; and now, from this
day forth, if any dare to molest you, let them beware,
for I will defend you.'"</p>

<p>"What a singular being!"</p>

<p>"This incident strengthened La Goualeuse's influence
still more and more. A thing almost unexampled here,
none of the prisoners accost her familiarly. The majority
are respectful to her, and even proffer to do for her all the
little services that prisoners can render to one another.
I spoke to some of the women of her dormitory, to learn
the reason of this deference which was evinced towards
her. 'It is hardly explicable to ourselves,' they replied;
'but it is easy to perceive she is not one of us.' 'But
who told you so?' 'No one told us; it is easy to discover
it.' 'By what?' 'By a thousand things. In the
first place, before she goes to bed, she goes down on her
knees and says her prayers; and if she pray, as La Louve
says, why, she must have a right to do so.'"</p>

<p>"What a strange observation!"</p>

<p>"These unhappy creatures have no religious feeling,
and still they never utter here an impious or irreligious
word. You will see, madame, in all our rooms small
altars, where the statue of the Virgin is surrounded with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span>
offerings and ornaments which they have made. Every
Sunday they burn a quantity of wax candles before them
in <i>ex-voto</i>. Those who attend the chapel behave remarkably
well; but generally the very sight of holy places
frightens them. To return to La Goualeuse; her companions
said to me, 'We see that she is not one of us, by
her gentle ways, her sadness, and the manner in which
she talks.' 'And then,' added La Louve (who was
present at this conversation), abruptly, 'it is quite
certain that she is not one of us, for this morning, in
the dormitory, without knowing why, we were all
ashamed of dressing ourselves before her.'"</p>

<p>"What remarkable delicacy in the midst of so much
degradation!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville.</p>

<p>"Yes, madame, in the presence of men, and amongst
themselves, modesty is unknown to them, and yet they
are painfully confused at being seen half dressed by us
or the charitable visitors who come, like your ladyship,
to the prison. Thus the profound instinct of modesty,
which God has implanted in us, reveals itself even in
these fallen creatures, at the sight of those persons
whom they can respect."</p>

<p>"It is at least consolatory to find some good and
natural feelings, which are stronger even than depravity."</p>

<p>"Assuredly it is; and these women are capable of
devoted attachments which, were they worthily placed,
would be most honourable. There is also another sacred
feeling with them, who respect nothing, fear nothing,
and that is maternity. They honour it, rejoice at it; and
they are admirable mothers, considering nothing a sacrifice
to keep their children near them. They will undergo
any trouble, difficulty, or danger that they may bring them
up; for, as they say, these little beings are the only ones
who do not despise them."</p>

<p>"Have they, then, so deep a sense of their abject
condition?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span></p>

<p>"They are not half so much despised by others as
they despise themselves. With those who sincerely
repent, the original blot of sin is ineffaceable in their
own eyes, even if they should find themselves in a better
position; others go mad, so irremediably is this idea
imprinted in their minds; and I should not be surprised,
madame, if the heartfelt grief of La Goualeuse
is attributable to something of this nature."</p>

<p>"If so, how she must suffer!&mdash;a remorse which
nothing can soothe!"</p>

<p>"Fortunately, madame, this remorse is more frequent
than is commonly believed. The avenging conscience
is never completely lulled to sleep; or, rather, strange
as it may appear, sometimes it would seem that the
soul is awake whilst the body is in a stupor; and this
remark I again made last night in reference to my
protégée."</p>

<p>"What! La Goualeuse?"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame."</p>

<p>"In what way?"</p>

<p>"Frequently, when the prisoners are asleep, I walk
through the dormitories. You would scarcely believe,
my lady, how the countenances of these women differ in
expression whilst they are slumbering. A good number
of them, whom I have seen during the day, saucy, careless,
bold, insolent, have appeared entirely changed when
sleep has removed from their features all exaggeration
of bravado; for, alas, vice has its pride! Oh, madame,
what sad revelations on those dejected, mournful, and
gloomy faces! What painful sighs, involuntarily elicited
by some dream. I was speaking to your ladyship just
now of the girl they call La Louve,&mdash;an untamed,
untamable creature. It is but a fortnight since that
she abused me in the vilest terms before all the prisoners.
I shrugged up my shoulders, and my indifference
whetted her rage. Then, in order to offend me more
sorely, she began to say all sorts of disgraceful things<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span>
of my mother, whom she had often seen come here to
visit me."</p>

<p>"What a shameful creature!"</p>

<p>"I confess that, although this attack was not worth
minding, yet it made me feel uncomfortable. La Louve
perceived this, and rejoiced in it. The same night,
about midnight, I went to inspect the dormitories; I
went to La Louve's bedside (she was not to be put in
the dark cell until next day) and I was struck with her
calmness,&mdash;I might say the sweetness of her countenance,&mdash;compared
with the harsh and daring expression
which is habitual to it. Her features seemed suppliant,
filled with regret and contrition; her lips were half open,
her breast seemed oppressed, and&mdash;what appeared to me
incredible, for I thought it impossible&mdash;two tears, two
large tears, were in the eyes of this woman, whose disposition
was of iron! I looked at her in silence for
several minutes, when I heard her say, 'Pardon! Pardon!
Her mother!' I listened more attentively, but all
I could catch, in the midst of a murmur scarcely intelligible,
was my name, 'Madame Armand,' uttered with
a sigh."</p>

<p>"She repented, during her sleep, of having uttered
this bad language about your mother."</p>

<p>"So I believe; and that made me less severe. No
doubt she desired, through a miserable vanity, to increase
her natural insolence in her companions' eyes, whilst,
perhaps, a good instinct made her repent in her sleep."</p>

<p>"And did she evince any repentance for her bad
behaviour next day?"</p>

<p>"Not the slightest, but conducted herself as usual, and
was coarse, rude, and obstinate; but I assure your ladyship
that nothing disposes us more to pity than the
observations I have mentioned to you. I am persuaded
(I may deceive myself, perhaps) that, during their
sleep, these unfortunates become better, or rather return
to themselves, with all their faults, it is true, but also<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span>
with certain good instincts, no longer masked by the
detestable assumption of vice. From all I have observed,
I am led to believe that these creatures are generally less
wicked than they affect to be; and, acting upon this
conviction, I have often attained results it would have
been impossible to realise, if I had entirely despaired of
them."</p>

<p>Madame d'Harville could not conceal her surprise at
so much good sense, and so much just reasoning, joined
to sentiments of humanity so noble and so practical, in
an obscure inspectress of degraded women.</p>

<p>"But my dear madame," observed Clémence, "you
must have a great deal of courage, and much strength
of mind, not to be repulsed by the ungratefulness of the
task, which must so very seldom reward you by satisfactory
results!"</p>

<p>"The consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and
encourages, and sometimes we are recompensed by happy
discoveries; now and then we find some rays of light in
hearts which have hitherto been supposed to be in utter
darkness."</p>

<p>"Yet, madame, persons like you are very rarely met
with?"</p>

<p>"No, I assure your ladyship, others do as I do, with
more success and intelligence than I have. One of the
inspectresses of the other division of St. Lazare, which
is occupied by females charged with different crimes,
would interest you much more. She told me this morning
of the arrival of a young girl accused of infanticide.
I never heard anything more distressing. The father
of the unhappy girl, a hard-working, honest lapidary,
has gone mad with grief on hearing his daughter's shame.
It seems that nothing could be more frightful than the
destitution of all this family, who lived in a wretched
garret in the Rue du Temple."</p>

<p>"The Rue du Temple!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville,
much astonished; "what is the workman's name?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p>

<p>"His daughter's name is Louise Morel."</p>

<p>"'Tis as I thought, then!"</p>

<p>"She was in the service of a respectable lawyer named
M. Jacques Ferrand."</p>

<p>"This poor family has been recommended to me,"
said Clémence, blushing; "but I was far from expecting
to see it bowed down by this fresh and terrible blow.
And Louise Morel&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Declares her innocence, and affirms her child was
born dead; and it seems as if hers were accents of
truth. Since your ladyship takes an interest in this
family, if you would be so good as to see the poor girl,
perhaps this mark of your kindness might soothe her
despair, which they tell me is really alarming."</p>

<p>"Certainly I will see her; then I shall have two protégées
instead of one, Louise Morel and La Goualeuse,
for all you tell me relative to this poor girl interests me
excessively. But what must be done to obtain her
liberty? I will then find a situation for her. I will
take care of her in future."</p>

<p>"With your connections, madame, it will be very easy
for you to obtain her liberty the day after to-morrow, for
it is at the discretion of the Prefect of Police, and the
application of a person of consequence would be decisive
with him. But I have wandered from the observation
which I made on the slumber of La Goualeuse; and, with
reference to this, I must confess that I should not be
astonished if, to the deeply painful feeling of her first
error, there is added some other grief no less severe."</p>

<p>"What mean you, madame?"</p>

<p>"Perhaps I am deceived; but I should not be astonished
if this young girl, rescued by some circumstance
from the degradation in which she was first plunged, has
now some honest love, which is at the same time her
happiness and her torment."</p>

<p>"What are your reasons for believing this?"</p>

<p>"The determined silence which she keeps as to where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>
she has passed the three months which followed her
departure from the Cité makes me think that she fears
being discovered by the persons with whom she in all
probability found a shelter."</p>

<p>"Why should she fear this?"</p>

<p>"Because then she would have to own to a previous
life, of which they are no doubt ignorant."</p>

<p>"True; her peasant's dress."</p>

<p>"And then a subsequent circumstance has confirmed
my suspicions. Yesterday evening, when I was walking
my round of inspection in the dormitory, I went up to
La Goualeuse's bed. She was in a deep sleep, and,
unlike her companions, her features were calm and tranquil.
Her long, light hair, half disengaged from their
bands, fell in profusion down her neck and shoulders.
Her two small hands were clasped, and crossed over her
bosom, as if she had gone to sleep whilst praying. I
looked for some moments with interest at her lovely
face, when, in a low voice, and with an accent at once
respectful, sad, and impassioned, she uttered a name."</p>

<p>"And that name?"</p>

<p>After a moment's silence, Madame Armand replied,
gravely:</p>

<p>"Although I consider that anything learnt during
sleep is sacred, yet you interest yourself so generously
in this unfortunate girl, madame, that I will confide
this name to your secrecy. It was Rodolph."</p>

<p>"Rodolph!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville, thinking
of the prince. Then, reflecting that, after all, his
highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein could have
no connection with the Rodolph of the poor Goualeuse,
she said to the inspectress, who seemed astonished at
her exclamation:</p>

<p>"The name has surprised me, madame, for, by a
singular chance, it is that of a relation of mine; but
what you tell me of La Goualeuse interests me more
and more. Can I see her to-day? now&mdash;directly?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes, madame, I will go, as you wish it, and ask her;
I can also learn more of Louise Morel, who is in the
other side of the prison."</p>

<p>"I shall, indeed, be greatly obliged to you, madame,"
replied Madame d'Harville, who the next moment was
alone.</p>

<p>"How strange!" she said. "I cannot account for the
singular impression which this name of Rodolph makes
upon me! I am really quite insane! What connection
can there be between him and such a creature?"
Then, after a moment's silence, the marchioness added,
"He was right; how all this does interest me! The
mind, the heart, expand when they are occupied so
nobly! 'Tis as he said; we seem to participate somewhat
in the power of Providence when we aid those who
deserve it; and, then, these excursions into a world of
which we had no idea are so attractive,&mdash;so amusing, as
he said so pleasantly! What romance could give me
such deep feelings, excite my curiosity to such a pitch?
This poor Goualeuse, for instance, has inspired me with
deep pity, after all I have heard of her; and I will
blindly follow up this commiseration, for the inspectress
has too much experience to be deceived with respect
to our protégée. And the other unhappy girl,&mdash;the
artisan's daughter, whom the prince has so generously
succoured in my name! Poor people! their bitter suffering
has served as a pretext to save me. I have
escaped shame, perhaps death, by a hypocritical falsehood.
This deceit weighs on my mind, but I will expiate
my fault by my charity, though that may be too easy a
mode. It is so sweet to follow Rodolph's noble advice!
It is to love as well as to obey him. Oh, I feel it with
rapture! His breath, alone, animates and fertilises the
new existence which he has given me in directing me to
console those who suffer. I experience an unalloyed
delight in acting but as he directs, in having no ideas
but his; for I love him,&mdash;ah, yes, I love him! And yet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span>
he shall always be in ignorance of this, the lasting
passion of my life."</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>Whilst Madame d'Harville is waiting for La Goualeuse,
we will conduct the reader into the presence of
the prisoners.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER X.</h3>

<h5>MONT SAINT-JEAN.</h5>


<p>It was just two o'clock by the dial of the prison of
St. Lazare. The cold, which had lasted for several
days, had been succeeded by soft, mild, and almost
spring weather; the rays of the sun were reflected in the
water of the large square basin, with its stone corners,
formed in the centre of a courtyard planted with trees,
and surrounded by dark, high walls pierced with a great
many iron-barred windows. Wooden benches were fastened
here and there in this large paved enclosure, which
served for the walking-place of the prisoners. The
ringing of a bell announcing the hour of recreation, the
prisoners came in throngs by a thick wicket-door which
was opened to them. These women, all clad alike, wore
black skull-caps and long loose gowns of blue woollen
cloth, fastened around the waist by a band and iron
buckle. There were there two hundred prostitutes, sentenced
for breach of the particular laws which control
them and place them out of the pale of the common law.
At first sight their appearance had nothing striking, but,
after regarding them with further attention, there might
be detected in each face the almost ineffaceable stigmas
of vice, and particularly that brutishness which ignorance
and misery invariably engender. Whilst contemplating
these masses of lost creatures, we cannot help
recollecting with sorrow that most of them have been
pure and honest, at least at some former period. We
say "most of them," because there are some who have
been corrupted, vitiated, depraved, not only from their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>
youth, but from tenderest infancy,&mdash;even from their
very birth, if we may say so; and we shall prove it as
we proceed.</p>

<p>We ask ourselves, then, with painful curiosity, what
chain of fatal causes could thus debase these unhappy
creatures, who have known shame and chastity? There
are so many declivities, alas, which verge to that fall!
It is rarely the passion of the depraved for depravity;
but dissipation, bad example, perverse education, and,
above all, want, which lead so many unfortunates to
infamy; and it is the poor classes alone who pay to
civilisation this impost on soul and body.</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>When the prisoners came into the yard, running and
crying out, it was easy to discern that it was not alone
the pleasure of leaving their work that made them so
noisy. After having hurried forth by the only gate
which led to this yard, the crowd spread out and made
a ring around a misshapen being, whom they assailed
with shouts. She was a small woman, from thirty-six to
forty years of age; short, round-shouldered, deformed,
and with her neck buried between shoulders of unequal
height. They had snatched off her black cap, and her
hair, which was flaxen, or rather a pale yellow, coarse,
matted, and mingled with gray, fell over her low and
stupid features. She was clad in a blue loose gown,
like the other prisoners, and had under her right arm
a small bundle, wrapped up in a miserable, ragged,
checked pocket-handkerchief. With her left elbow she
endeavoured to ward off the blows aimed at her. Nothing
could be more lamentably ludicrous than the visage
of this unhappy woman. She was hideous and distorted
in figure, with projecting features, wrinkled, tanned, and
dirty, which were pierced with two holes for nostrils,
and two small, red, bloodshot eyes. By turns wrathful
and imploring, she scolded and entreated; but they
laughed even more at her complaints than her threats.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span>
This woman was the plaything of the prisoners. One
thing ought, however, to have protected her from such
ill-usage,&mdash;she was evidently about to become a mother;
but her ugliness, her imbecility, and the custom they
had of considering her as a victim intended for common
sport, rendered her persecutors implacable, in spite of
their usual respect for maternity.</p>

<p>Amongst the fiercest enemies of Mont Saint-Jean
(that was the unhappy wretch's name), La Louve was
conspicuous. La Louve was a strapping girl of twenty,
active, and powerfully grown, with regular features.
Her coarse black hair was varied by reddish shades,
whilst her blood suffused her skin with its hue; a brown
down shaded her thin lips; her chestnut eyebrows, thick
and projecting, were united over her large and fierce
eyes. There was something violent, savage, and brutal
in the expression of this woman's physiognomy,&mdash;a sort
of habitual sneer, which curled her upper lip during a
fit of rage, and, exposing her white and wide-apart teeth,
accounted for her name of La Louve (the she-wolf).
Yet in that countenance there was more of boldness and
insolence than cruelty; and, in a word, it was seen that,
rather become vicious than born so, this woman was still
susceptible of certain good impulses, as the inspectress
had told Madame d'Harville.</p>

<p>"Alas! alas! What have I done?" exclaimed Mont
Saint-Jean, struggling in the midst of her companions.
"Why are you so cruel to me?"</p>

<p>"Because it is so amusing."</p>

<p>"Because you are only fit to be teased."</p>

<p>"It is your business."</p>

<p>"Look at yourself, and you will see that you have no
right to complain."</p>

<p>"But you know well enough that I don't complain as
long as I can help it; I bear it as long as I can."</p>

<p>"Well, we'll let you alone, if you will tell us why you
call yourself Mont Saint-Jean."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes, yes; come, tell us all that directly."</p>

<p>"Why, I've told you a hundred times. It was an old
soldier that I loved a long while ago, and who was called
so because he was wounded at the battle of Mont Saint-Jean;
so I took his name. That's it; now are you
satisfied? You will make me repeat the same thing
over, and over, and over!"</p>

<p>"If your soldier was like you, he was a beauty!"</p>

<p>"I suppose he was in the Invalids?"</p>

<p>"The remains of a man&mdash;"</p>

<p>"How many glass eyes had he?"</p>

<p>"And wasn't his nose of block tin?"</p>

<p>"He must have been short of two arms and two legs,
besides being deaf and blind, if he took up with you."</p>

<p>"I am ugly,&mdash;a monster, I know that as well as you
can tell me. Say what you like,&mdash;make game of me, if
you choose, it's all one to me; only don't beat me, that's
all, I beg!"</p>

<p>"What have you got in that old handkerchief?"
asked La Louve.</p>

<p>"Yes, yes! What is it?"</p>

<p>"Show it up directly!"</p>

<p>"Let's see! Let's see!"</p>

<p>"Oh, no, I beg!" exclaimed the miserable creature,
squeezing up the little bundle in her hands with all her
might.</p>

<p>"What! Must we take it from you?"</p>

<p>"Yes, snatch it from her, La Louve!"</p>

<p>"Oh, you won't be so wicked? Let it go! Let it go,
I say!"</p>

<p>"What is it?"</p>

<p>"Why, it's the beginning of my baby linen; I make
it with the old bits of linen which no one wants, and I
pick up. It's nothing to you, is it?"</p>

<p>"Oh, the baby linen of Mont Saint-Jean's little one!
That must be a rum set out!"</p>

<p>"Let's look at it."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p>

<p>"The baby clothes! The baby clothes!"</p>

<p>"She has taken measure of the keeper's little dog, no
doubt."</p>

<p>"Here's your baby clothes," cried La Louve, snatching
the bundle from Mont Saint-Jean's grasp.</p>

<p>The handkerchief, already torn, was now rent to
tatters, and a quantity of fragments of stuff of all
colours, and old pieces of linen half cut out, flew
around the yard, and were trampled under feet by the
prisoners, who holloaed and laughed louder than before.</p>

<p>"Here's your rags!"</p>

<p>"Why, it is a ragpicker's bag."</p>

<p>"Patterns from the ragman's."</p>

<p>"What a shop!"</p>

<p>"And to sew all that rubbish!"</p>

<p>"Why, there's more thread than stuff."</p>

<p>"What nice embroidery!"</p>

<p>"Here, pick up your rags and tatters, Mont Saint-Jean."</p>

<p>"Oh, how wicked! Oh, how cruel!" exclaimed the
poor ill-used creature, running in every direction after
the pieces, which she endeavoured to pick up in spite of
pushes and blows. "I never did anybody any harm,"
she added, weeping. "I have offered, if they would let
me alone, to do anything I could for anybody, to give
them half my allowance, although I am always so
hungry; but, no! no! it's always so. What can I
do to be left in peace? They haven't even pity of a
poor woman in the family way. They are more cruel
than the beasts. Oh, the trouble I had to collect these
little bits of linen! How else can I make the clothes for
my baby, for I have no money to buy them with? What
harm was there in picking up what nobody else wanted
when it was thrown away?" Then Mont Saint-Jean
exclaimed suddenly, with a ray of hope, "Oh, there you
are, Goualeuse! Now, then, I'm safe; do speak to them
for me; they will listen to you, I am sure, for they love
you as much as they hate me."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p>

<p>La Goualeuse was the last of the prisoners who
entered the enclosure.</p>

<p>Fleur-de-Marie wore the blue woollen gown and black
skull-cap of the prisoners; but even in this coarse costume
she was still charming. Yet, since her carrying
off from the farm of Bouqueval (the consequences of
which circumstance we will explain hereafter), her
features seemed greatly altered; her pale cheeks,
formerly tinged with a slight colour, were as wan
as the whiteness of alabaster; the expression, too, of
her countenance had changed, and was now imprinted
with a kind of dignified grief. Fleur-de-Marie felt that
to bear courageously the painful sacrifices of expiation is
almost to attain restored position.</p>

<p>"Ask a favour for me, Goualeuse," said poor Mont
Saint-Jean, beseechingly, to the young girl; "see how
they are flinging about the yard all I had collected, with
so much trouble, to begin my baby linen for my child.
What good can it do them?"</p>

<p>Fleur-de-Marie did not say a word, but began very
actively to pick up, one by one, from under the women's
feet, all the rags she could collect. One prisoner ill-temperedly
kept her foot on a sort of little bed-gown
of coarse woollen cloth. Fleur-de-Marie, still stooping,
looked up at the woman, and said to her in a sweet
tone:</p>

<p>"I beg of you let me pick it up. I ask it in the name
of this poor woman who is weeping."</p>

<p>The prisoner removed her foot. The bed-gown was
rescued, as well as most of the other scraps, which La
Goualeuse acquired piece by piece. There remained to
obtain a small child's cap, which two prisoners were
struggling for, and laughing at. Fleur-de-Marie said
to them:</p>

<p>"Be all good, pray do. Let me have the little cap."</p>

<p>"Oh, to be sure! It's for a harlequin in swaddling-clothes
this cap is! It is made of a bit of gray stuff,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span>
with points of green and black fustian, and lined with
a bit of an old mattress cover."</p>

<p>The description was exact, and was hailed with loud
and long-continued shoutings.</p>

<p>"Laugh away, but let me have it," said Mont Saint-Jean;
"and pray do not drag it in the mud as you have
some of the other things. I'm sorry you've made your
hands so dirty for me, Goualeuse," she added, in a
grateful tone.</p>

<p>"Let me have the harlequin's cap," said La Louve,
who obtained possession of it, and waved it in the air as
a trophy.</p>

<p>"Give it to me, I entreat you," said Goualeuse.</p>

<p>"No! You want to give it back to Mont Saint-Jean."</p>

<p>"Certainly I do."</p>

<p>"Oh, it is not worth while, it is such a rag."</p>

<p>"Mont Saint-Jean has nothing but rags to dress her
child in, and you ought to have pity upon her, La Louve,"
said Fleur-de-Marie, in a mournful voice, and stretching
out her hand towards the cap.</p>

<p>"You sha'n't have it!" answered La Louve, in a
brutal tone; "must everybody always give way to you
because you are the weakest? You come, I see, to abuse
the kindness that is shown to you."</p>

<p>"But," said La Goualeuse, with a smile full of sweetness,
"where would be the merit of giving up to me, if
I were the stronger of the two?"</p>

<p>"No, no; you want to wheedle me over with your
smooth, canting words; but it won't do,&mdash;you sha'n't
have it, I tell you."</p>

<p>"Come, come, now, La Louve, do not be ill-natured."</p>

<p>"Let me alone! You tire me to death!"</p>

<p>"Oh, pray do!"</p>

<p>"I will not!"</p>

<p>"Yes, do,&mdash;let me beg of you!"</p>

<p>"Now, don't put me in a passion," exclaimed La Louve,
thoroughly irritated. "I have said no, and I mean no."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p>

<p>"Take pity on the poor thing, see how she is crying!"</p>

<p>"What is that to me? So much the worse for her;
she is our pain-bearer" (<i>souffre douleur</i>).</p>

<p>"So she is," murmured out a number of the prisoners,
instigated by the example of La Louve. "No, no, she
ought not to have her rags back! So much the worse
for Mont Saint-Jean."</p>

<p>"You are right," said Fleur-de-Marie, with bitterness;
"it is so much the worse for her; she is your pain-bearer,
she ought to submit herself to your pleasure,&mdash;her tears
and sighs amuse and divert you!&mdash;and you must have
some way of passing your time. Were you to kill her
on the spot, she would have no right to say anything.
You speak truly, La Louve, this is just and fair, is it not?
Here is a poor, weak, defenceless woman; alone in the
midst of so many, she is quite unable to defend herself,
yet you all combine against her! Certainly your
behaviour towards her is most just and generous!"</p>

<p>"And I suppose you mean to say we are all a parcel
of cowards?" retorted La Louve, carried away by the
violence of her disposition and extreme impatience at
anything like contradiction. "Answer me, do you call us
cowards, eh? Speak out, and let us know your meaning,"
continued she, growing more and more incensed.</p>

<p>A murmur of displeasure against La Goualeuse, not
unmixed with threats, arose from the assembled crowd.
The offended prisoners thronged around her, vociferating
their disapprobation, forgetting, or remembering but as
a fresh cause of offence, the ascendency she had until the
present moment exercised over them.</p>

<p>"She calls us cowards, you see!"</p>

<p>"What business has she to find fault with us?"</p>

<p>"Is she better than we are, I should like to know?"</p>

<p>"Ah, we have all been too kind to her!"</p>

<p>"And now she wants to give herself fine lady airs, and
to domineer over us! If we choose to torment Mont
Saint-Jean, what need has she to interfere?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p>

<p>"Since it has come to this, I tell you what, Mont
Saint-Jean, you shall fare the worse for it for the
future."</p>

<p>"Take this to begin with!" said one of the most
violent of the party, giving her a blow.</p>

<p>"And if you meddle again with what does not concern
you, La Goualeuse, we will serve you the same."</p>

<p>"Yes, that we will."</p>

<p>"But that is not all!" said La Louve. "La Goualeuse
must ask our pardon for having called us cowards.
She must and she shall! If we don't put a stop to her
goings on, she will soon leave us without the power of
saying our soul is our own, and we are great fools not
to have seen this sooner."</p>

<p>"Make her ask our pardon."</p>

<p>"On her knee."</p>

<p>"On both knees."</p>

<p>"Or we will serve her precisely the same as we did
her protégée, Mont Saint-Jean!"</p>

<p>"Down on her knees! Down with her!"</p>

<p>"Lo! we are cowards, are we?"</p>

<p>"Dare to say it again!"</p>

<p>Fleur-de-Marie allowed this tumult to pass away, ere
she replied to the many furious voices that were raging
around her. Then, casting a mild and melancholy glance
at the exasperated crowd, she said to La Louve, who
persisted in vociferating, "Will you dare to call us
cowards again?"</p>

<p>"You? Oh, no, not you! I call this poor woman, whom
you have so roughly treated, whom you have dragged
through the mud, and whose clothes you have nearly
torn off, a coward. Do you not see how she trembles,
and dares not even look at you? No, no! I say again,
'tis she who is a coward, for being thus afraid of you."</p>

<p>Fleur-de-Marie had touched the right chord; in vain
might she have appealed to their sense of justice and
duty, in order to allay their bitter irritation against poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>
Mont Saint-Jean; the stupid or brutalised minds of the
prisoners would alike have been inaccessible to her pleadings;
but, by addressing herself to that sentiment of
generosity, which is never wholly extinct, even in the
most depraved characters, she kindled a spark of pity,
that required but skilful management to fan into a flame
of commiseration, instead of hatred and violence. La
Louve, amid their continued murmurings against La
Goualeuse and her protégée, felt, and confessed, that
their conduct had been both unwomanly and cowardly.</p>

<p>Fleur-de-Marie would not carry her first triumph too
far. She contented herself with merely saying:</p>

<p>"Surely, if this poor creature, whom you call yours,
to tease, to torment, to ill-use,&mdash;in fact, your <i>souffre
douleur</i>,&mdash;be not worthy of your pity, her infant has
done nothing to offend you. Did you forget, when striking
the mother, that the unborn babe might suffer from
your blows? And when she besought your mercy, 'twas
not for herself, but her child. When she craves of you
a morsel of bread, if, indeed, you have it to spare, 'tis
not to satisfy her own hunger she begs it, but that her
infant may live; and when, with streaming eyes, she
implored of you to spare the few rags she had with
so much difficulty collected together, it arose from a
mother's love for that unseen treasure her heart so loves
and prizes. This poor little patchwork cap, and the
pieces of old mattresses she has so awkwardly sewed
together, no doubt appear to you fit objects of mirth;
but, for my own part, I feel far more inclined to cry
than to laugh at seeing the poor creature's instinctive
attempts to provide for her babe. So, if you laugh at
Mont Saint-Jean, let me come in for my share of your
ridicule."</p>

<p>Not the faintest attempt at a smile appeared on any
countenance, and La Louve continued, with fixed gaze,
to contemplate the little cap she still held in her hand.</p>

<p>"I know very well," said Fleur-de-Marie, drying her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span>
eyes with the back of her white and delicate hand,&mdash;"I
know very well that you are not really ill-natured or
cruel, and that you merely torment Mont Saint-Jean
from thoughtlessness. But consider that she and her
infant are one. If she held it in her arms, not only
would you carefully avoid doing it the least injury, but
I am quite sure, if it were cold, you would even take
from your own garments to cover it. Would not you,
La Louve? Oh, I know you would, every one of
you!"</p>

<p>"To be sure we would,&mdash;every one pities a tender
baby."</p>

<p>"That is quite natural."</p>

<p>"And if it cried with hunger, you would take the
bread from your own mouth to feed it with. Would
not you, La Louve?"</p>

<p>"That I would, and willingly, too! I am not more
hard-hearted than other people!"</p>

<p>"Nor more are we!"</p>

<p>"A poor, helpless, little creature!"</p>

<p>"Who could have the heart to think of harming it?"</p>

<p>"They must be downright monsters!"</p>

<p>"Perfect savages!"</p>

<p>"Worse than wild beasts!"</p>

<p>"I told you so," resumed Fleur-de-Marie. "I said
you were not intentionally unkind; and you have proved
that you are good and pitying towards Mont Saint-Jean.
The fault consisted in your not reflecting that, although
her child is yet unborn, it is still liable to harm from
any mischief that befalls its mother. That is all the
wrong you have done."</p>

<p>"All the wrong we have done!" exclaimed La
Louve, much excited. "But I say it is not all. You
were right, La Goualeuse. We acted like a set of
cowards; and you alone deserve to be called courageous,
because you did not fear to tell us so, or shrink from us
after you had told us. It is nonsense to seek to deny<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>
the fact that you are not a creature like us,&mdash;it is no
use trying to persuade ourselves you are like such beings
as we are, so we may as well give it up. I don't like to
own it, but it is so; and I may just as well confess it.
Just now, when we were all in the wrong, you had courage
enough, not only to refuse to join us, but to tell us
of our fault."</p>

<p>"That is true enough; and the fair-faced girl must
have had a pretty stock of courage to tell us the truth
so plainly to our faces."</p>

<p>"But, bless you, these blue-eyed people, who look so
soft and gentle, if once they are worked up&mdash;"</p>

<p>"They become courageous as lions."</p>

<p>"Poor Mont Saint-Jean! She has good reason to be
thankful to her!"</p>

<p>"What she says is true enough. We could not injure
the mother without harming the child also."</p>

<p>"I never thought of that."</p>

<p>"Nor I either."</p>

<p>"But you see La Goualeuse did,&mdash;she never forgets
anything."</p>

<p>"The idea of hurting an infant! horrible! Is it not?"</p>

<p>"I'm sure there is not one of us would do it for anything
that could be offered us."</p>

<p>Nothing is more variable than popular passion, or
more abrupt than its rapid transition from bad to good,
and even the reverse. The simple yet touching arguments
of Fleur-de-Marie had effected a powerful reaction
in favour of Mont Saint-Jean, who shed tears of deep
joy. Every heart seemed moved; for, as we have already
said, the womanly feelings of the prisoners had
been awakened, and they now felt a solicitude for the
unhappy creature in proportion as they had formerly
held her in dislike and contempt. All at once, La
Louve, violent and impetuous in all her actions, twisted
the little cap she held in her hand into a sort of purse,
and feeling in her pocket brought out twenty sous, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span>
she threw into the purse; then presenting it to her
companions, exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Here is my twenty sous towards buying baby clothes
for Mont Saint-Jean's child. We will cut them out and
make them ourselves, in order that the work may cost
nothing."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, let us."</p>

<p>"To be sure,&mdash;let us all join!"</p>

<p>"I will for one."</p>

<p>"What a capital idea!"</p>

<p>"Poor creature!"</p>

<p>"Though she is so frightfully ugly, yet she has a
mother's feelings the same as another."</p>

<p>"La Goualeuse was right. It is really enough to
make one cry one's eyes out, to see what a wretched
collection of rags the poor creature has scraped together
for her baby."</p>

<p>"Well, I'll give thirty sous."</p>

<p>"And I ten."</p>

<p>"I'll give twenty sous."</p>

<p>"I've only got four sous, but I'll give them."</p>

<p>"I have no money at all; but I'll sell my allowance
for to-morrow, and put whatever any one will give for it
into the collection. Who'll buy my to-morrow's rations?"</p>

<p>"I will," said La Louve. "So, here I put in ten sous
for you; but you shall keep your rations. And now,
Mont Saint-Jean shall have baby clothes fit for a
princess."</p>

<p>To express the joy and gratitude of Mont Saint-Jean
would be wholly impossible. The most intense delight
and happiness illumined her countenance, and rendered
even her usual hideous features interesting. Fleur-de-Marie
was almost as happy, though compelled to say,
when La Louve handed to her the collecting-cap:</p>

<p>"I am very sorry I have not a single sou of money,
but I will work as long as you please at making the
clothes."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p>

<p>"Oh, my dear heavenly angel!" cried Mont Saint-Jean,
throwing herself on her knees before La Goualeuse,
and striving to kiss her hand. "What have I
ever done to merit such goodness on your part, or the
charity of these kind ladies? Gracious Father! Do
I hear aright? Baby things! and all nice and comfortable
for my child! A real, proper set of baby clothes!
Everything I can require! Who would ever have thought
of such a thing? I am sure I never should. I shall lose
my senses with joy! Only to think that a poor, miserable
wretch like myself, the make-game of everybody,
should all at once, just because you spoke a few soft,
sweet words out of that heavenly mouth, have such
wonderful blessings! See how your words have changed
those who meant to harm me, but who now pity me and
are my friends; and I feel as though I could never thank
them enough, or express my gratitude! Oh, how very,
very kind of them! How wrong of me to be offended
and angry with what they said! How stupid and ungrateful
I must have been not to perceive that they were
only playing with me,&mdash;that they had no intention of
harming me. Oh, no! It was all meant for my good.
Here is a proof of it. Oh, for the future, if they like to
knock me about ever so, I will not so much as cry out!
Oh, I was too impatient when I complained before; but
I will make up for it next time!"</p>

<p>"Eighty-eight francs seven sous!" said La Louve,
finishing her reckoning of the collection gathered by
handing about the little bonnet. "Who will be treasurer
till we lay out the money? We must not entrust
it to Mont Saint-Jean, she is too simple."</p>

<p>"Let La Goualeuse take charge of it!" cried a
unanimous burst of voices.</p>

<p>"No," said Fleur-de-Marie; "the best way will be to
beg of the inspectress, Madame Armand, to take charge
of the sum collected, and to buy the necessary articles
for Mont Saint-Jean's confinement; and then,&mdash;who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span>
knows?&mdash;perhaps Madame Armand may take notice
of the good action you have performed, and report it,
so as to be the means of shortening the imprisonment
of all whose names are mentioned as being concerned
in it. Tell me, La Louve," added Fleur-de-Marie, taking
her companion by the arm, "are you not better
satisfied with yourself than you were just now, when
you were throwing about all Mont Saint-Jean's poor
baby's things?"</p>

<p>La Louve did not immediately reply. To the generous
excitement which a few moments before animated her
features, succeeded a sort of half savage air of defiance.
Unable to comprehend the cause of this sudden change,
Fleur-de-Marie looked at her with surprise.</p>

<p>"Come here, La Goualeuse," said La Louve at last,
with a gloomy tone; "I want to speak to you."</p>

<p>Then abruptly quitting the other prisoners, she led
Fleur-de-Marie to a reservoir of water, surrounded by
a stone coping, which had been hollowed out in the
midst of an adjoining meadow. Near the water was
a bench, also of stone, on which La Louve and La Goualeuse
placed themselves, and were thus, in a manner,
beyond the observation or hearing of their companions.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER XI.</h3>

<h5>LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE.</h5>


<p>We firmly believe in the influence of certain master
minds so far sympathising with the masses, so powerful
over them as to impose on them the bias of good or evil.
Some, bold, enthusiastic, indomitable, addressing themselves
to the worst passions, will rouse them, as the
storm raises the foam of the sea; but, like all tempests,
these are as ephemeral as they are furious; to these terrible
effervescences will succeed the sullen reversion of
sadness and restlessness, which will obtain supremacy
over the most miserable conditions. The reaction of
violence is always severe; the waking after an excess is
always painful.</p>

<p>La Louve, if you will, personifies this fatal influence.</p>

<p>Other organisations, more rare, because their generous
instincts must be fertilised by intelligence, and with
them the mind is on an equality with the heart,&mdash;others,
we say, will inspire good, as well as some inspire
evil. Their wholesome influence will gently penetrate
into the soul, as the warm rays of the sun penetrate the
body with invigorating heat, as the arid and burning
earth imbibes the fresh and grateful dew of night.</p>

<p>Fleur-de-Marie, if you will, personifies this benevolent
influence.</p>

<p>The reaction to good is not so sudden as the reaction
to evil; its effects are more protracted. It is something
delicious, inexplicable, which gradually extends itself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span>
calms and soothes the most hardened heart, and gives
it the feeling of inexpressible serenity. Unfortunately
the charm ceases.</p>

<p>After having seen celestial brightness, ill-disposed persons
fall back into the darkness of their habitual life;
the recollections of sweet emotions which have for a
moment surprised them are gradually effaced. Still
they sometimes seek vaguely to recall them, even as we
try to murmur out the songs with which our happy
infancy was cradled. Thanks to the good action with
which she had inspired them, the companions of La Goualeuse
had tasted of the passing sweetness of these feelings,
in which even La Louve had participated; but this
latter, for reasons we shall describe hereafter, remained
a shorter time than the other prisoners under this benevolent
feeling. If we are surprised to hear and see Fleur-de-Marie,
hitherto so passively, so painfully resigned, act
and speak with courage and authority, it was because
the noble precepts she had imbibed during her residence
at the farm at Bouqueval had rapidly developed the rare
qualities of her admirable disposition. Fleur-de-Marie
understood that it is not sufficient to bewail the irreparable
past, and that it is only in doing or inspiring good
that a reinstatement can be hoped for.</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>We have said that La Louve was sitting on a wooden
bench, beside La Goualeuse. The close proximity of
these two young girls offered a singular contrast.</p>

<p>The pale rays of a winter sun were shed over them;
the pure sky was speckled in places with small, white,
and fleecy clouds; some birds, enlivened by the warmth
of the temperature, were warbling in the black branches
of the large chestnut-trees in the yard; two or three
sparrows, more bold than their fellows, came and drank
in a small rivulet formed by the overflow of the basin;
the green moss covered the stones of the fountain, and
between their joints, here and there, were tufts of grass<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span>
and some small creepers, spared by the frost. This
description of a prison-basin may seem puerile; but
Fleur-de-Marie did not lose one of the details, but with
her eyes fixed mournfully on the little verdant corner,
and on this limpid water in which the moving whiteness
of the clouds over the azure of the heavens was reflected,
in which the golden rays of a lovely sun broke with
beautiful lustre, she thought with a sigh of the magnificence
of the Nature which she loved, which she admired
so poetically, and of which she was still deprived.</p>

<p>"What did you wish to say to me?" asked La Goualeuse
of her companion, who, seated beside her, was
gloomy and silent.</p>

<p>"We must have an explanation," said La Louve,
sternly; "things cannot go on as they are."</p>

<p>"I do not understand you, La Louve."</p>

<p>"Just now, in the yard, referring to Mont Saint-Jean,
I said to myself, 'I won't give way any more to La
Goualeuse,' and yet I do give way now."</p>

<p>"But&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But I tell you it cannot continue so."</p>

<p>"In what have I offended you, La Louve?"</p>

<p>"Why, I am not the same person I was when you
came here; no, I have neither courage, strength, nor
boldness."</p>

<p>Then suddenly checking herself, La Louve pulled up
the sleeve of her gown, and showing La Goualeuse her
white arm, powerful, and covered with black down, she
showed her, on the upper part of it, an indelible tattooing,
representing a blue dagger half plunged in a red
heart; over this emblem were these words:</p>

<p class="center">
MORT AUX LÂCHES!<br />
MARTIAL<br />
P. L. V. (<i>pour la vie</i>.)<br />
(DEATH TO COWARDS!<br />
MARTIAL<br />
FOR LIFE!)<br /></p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span></p>

<p>"Do you see that?" asked La Louve.</p>

<p>"Yes; and it is so shocking, it quite frightens me,"
said La Goualeuse, turning away her head.</p>

<p>"When Martial, my lover, wrote, with a red-hot
needle, these words on my arm, 'Death to Cowards!' he
thought me brave; if he knew my behaviour for the last
three days, he would stick his knife in my body, as this
dagger is driven into this heart,&mdash;and he would be right,
for he wrote here, 'Death to Cowards!' and I am a
coward."</p>

<p>"What have you done that is cowardly?"</p>

<p>"Everything."</p>

<p>"Do you regret the good resolution you made just
now?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"I cannot believe you."</p>

<p>"I say I do regret it,&mdash;for it is another proof of
what you can do with all of us. Didn't you understand
what Mont Saint-Jean meant when she went on her
knees to thank you?"</p>

<p>"What did she say?"</p>

<p>"She said, speaking of you, that with nothing you
turned us from evil to good. I could have throttled her
when she said it, for, to our shame, it was true. Yes,
in no time you change us from black to white. We
listen to you,&mdash;give way to our first feelings, and are
your dupes, as we were just now."</p>

<p>"My dupe! for having generously succoured this poor
woman?"</p>

<p>"Oh, it has nothing to do with all that," exclaimed
La Louve, with rage. "I have never till now stooped my
head before a breathing soul. La Louve is my name,
and I am well named: more than one woman bears my
marks, and more than one man, too; and it shall never
be said that a little chit like you can place me beneath
her feet."</p>

<p>"Me! and in what way?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p>

<p>"How do I know! You come here, and first begin
by insulting me."</p>

<p>"Insult you?"</p>

<p>"Yes,&mdash;you ask who'll have your bread. I first say&mdash;<i>I.</i>
Mont Saint-Jean did not ask for it till afterwards,
and yet you give her the preference. Enraged at that,
I rushed at you with my uplifted knife&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And I said to you, 'Kill me, if you like, but do not
let me linger long,' and that is all."</p>

<p>"That is all? Yes, that is all. And yet these
words made me drop my knife,&mdash;made me&mdash;ask your
pardon,&mdash;yes, pardon of you who insulted me. Is that
natural? Why, when I recovered my senses, I was
ashamed of myself. The evening you came here, when
you were on your knees to say your prayers,&mdash;why,
instead of making game of you, and setting all the
dormitory on you, did I say, 'Let her alone; she prays,
and has a right to pray?' Then the next day, why
were I and all the others ashamed to dress ourselves
before you?"</p>

<p>"I do not know, La Louve."</p>

<p>"Indeed!" replied the violent creature, with irony.
"You don't know! Why, no doubt, it is because, as we
have all of us said, jokingly, that you are of a different
sort from us. You think so, don't you?"</p>

<p>"I have never said that I thought so."</p>

<p>"No, you have not said so; but you behave just as if
it were so."</p>

<p>"I beg of you to listen to me."</p>

<p>"No, I have been already too foolish to listen to you&mdash;to
look at you. Till now, I never envied any one.
Well, two or three times I have been surprised at
myself. Am I growing a fool or a coward? I have
found myself envious of your face, so like the Holy
Virgin's; of your gentle and mournful look. Yes, I
have even been envious of your chestnut hair and your
blue eyes. I, who detest fair women, because I am dark<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>
myself, wish to resemble you. I! La Louve! I! Why,
it is but eight days since, and I would have marked
any one who dared but say so. Yet it is not your lot
that would tempt one, for you are as full of grief as a
Magdalene. Is it natural, I say, eh?"</p>

<p>"How can I account to you for the impression I make
upon you?"</p>

<p>"Oh, you know well enough what you do, though
you look as if you were too delicate to be touched."</p>

<p>"What bad design can you suppose me capable of?"</p>

<p>"How can I tell? It is because I do not understand
anything of all this that I mistrust you. Another
thing, too: until now I have always been merry or
passionate, and never thoughtful, but you&mdash;you have
made me thoughtful. Yes, there are words which
you utter, that, in spite of myself, have shaken my
very heart, and made me think of all sorts of sad
things."</p>

<p>"I am sorry, La Louve, if I ever made you sad; but
I do not remember ever having said anything&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh," cried La Louve, interrupting her companion
with angry impatience, "what you do is sometimes as
affecting as what you say! You are so clever!"</p>

<p>"Do not be angry, La Louve, but explain what you
mean."</p>

<p>"Yesterday, in the workroom, I noticed you,&mdash;you
bent your head over the work you were sewing, and
a large tear fell on your hand. You looked at it for a
minute, and then you lifted your hand to your lips, as if
to kiss and wipe it away. Is this true?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said La Goualeuse, blushing.</p>

<p>"There was nothing in this; but at the moment you
looked so unhappy, so very miserable, that I felt my very
heart turned, as it were, inside out. Tell me, do you find
this amusing? Why, now, I have been as hard as flint
on all occasions. No one ever saw me shed a tear,&mdash;and
yet, only looking at your chit face, I felt my heart sink<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span>
basely within me! Yes, for this is baseness,&mdash;pure
cowardice; and the proof is, that for three days I have
not dared to write to Martial, my lover, my conscience
is so bad. Yes, being with you has enfeebled my mind,
and this must be put an end to,&mdash;there's enough of
it; this will else do me mischief, I am sure. I wish
to remain as I am, and not become a joke and despised
thing to myself."</p>

<p>"You are angry with me, La Louve?"</p>

<p>"Yes, you are a bad acquaintance for me; and if it
continues, why, in a fortnight's time, instead of calling
me the She-wolf, they would call me the Ewe! But no,
thank ye, it sha'n't come to that yet,&mdash;Martial would
kill me; and so, to make an end of this matter, I will
break up all acquaintance with you; and that I may be
quite separated from you, I shall ask to be put in another
room. If they refuse me, I will do some piece of mischief
to put me in wind again, and that I may be sent to
the black-hole for the remainder of my time here. And
this was what I had to say to you, Goualeuse."</p>

<p>Timidly taking her companion's hand, who looked at
her with gloomy distrust, Fleur-de-Marie said:</p>

<p>"I am sure, La Louve, that you take an interest in
me, not because you are cowardly, but because you are
generous-hearted. Brave hearts are the only ones which
sympathise in the misfortunes of others."</p>

<p>"There is neither generosity nor courage in it," said
La Louve, coarsely; "it is downright cowardice. Besides,
I don't choose to have it said that I sympathise
with any one. It ain't true."</p>

<p>"Then I will not say so, La Louve; but since you
have taken an interest in me, you will let me feel
grateful to you, will you not?"</p>

<p>"Oh, if you like! This evening, I shall be in another
room than yours, or alone in the dark hole, and I shall
soon be out, thank God!"</p>

<p>"And where shall you go when you leave here?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span></p>

<p>"Why, home, to be sure, to the Rue Pierre-Lescat.
I have my furniture there."</p>

<p>"And Martial?" said La Goualeuse, who hoped to
keep up the conversation with La Louve, by interesting
her in what she most cared for; "shall you be glad to
see him again?"</p>

<p>"Yes, oh, yes!" she replied, with a passionate air.
"When I was taken up, he was just recovering from
an illness,&mdash;a fever which he had from being always
in the water. For seventeen days and seventeen nights
I never left him for a moment, and I sold half my kit in
order to pay the doctor, the drags and all. I may boast
of that, and I do boast of it. If my man lives, it is I who
saved him. Yesterday I burnt another candle for him.
It is folly,&mdash;a mere whim,&mdash;but yet it is all one, and
we have sometimes very good effects in burning candles
for a person's recovery."</p>

<p>"And, Martial, where is he now? What is he
doing?"</p>

<p>"He is still on an island, near the bridge, at
Asnières."</p>

<p>"On an island?"</p>

<p>"Yes, he is settled there, with his family, in a lone
house. He is always at loggerheads with the persons
who protect the fishing; but when he is once in his boat,
with his double-barrelled gun, why, they who approach
him had better look out!" said La Louve, proudly.</p>

<p>"What, then, is his occupation?"</p>

<p>"He poaches in the night; and then, as he is as bold
as a lion, when some coward wishes to get up a quarrel
with another, why, he will lend his hand."</p>

<p>"Where did you first know Martial?"</p>

<p>"At Paris. He wished to be a locksmith,&mdash;a capital
business,&mdash;always with red-hot iron and fire around you;
dangerous you may suppose, but then that suited him.
But he, like me, was badly disposed, and could not agree
with his master; and then, too, they were always throwing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>
his father and one of his brothers in his teeth. But
that's nothing to you. The end of it was, that he returned
to his mother, who is a very devil in sin and
wickedness, and began to poach on the river. He cannot
see me at Paris, and in the daytime I go to see him in
his island, the Ile du Ravageur, near Asnières. It's very
near; though if it were farther off, I would go all the
same, even if I went on my hands and knees, or swam
all the way, for I can swim like an otter."</p>

<p>"You must be very happy to go into the country,"
said La Goualeuse, with a sigh; "especially if you are
as fond as I am of walking in the fields."</p>

<p>"I prefer walking in the woods and large forests with
my man."</p>

<p>"In the forests! Oh, ain't you afraid?"</p>

<p>"Afraid! Oh, yes, afraid! I should think so!
What can a she-wolf fear? The thicker and more
lonely the forest, the better I should like it. A lone
hut in which I should live with Martial as a poacher,
to go with him at night to set the snares for the game,
and then, if the keepers came to apprehend us, to fire
at them, both of us, whilst my man and I were hid in
underwood,&mdash;ah, that would indeed be happiness!"</p>

<p>"Then you have lived in the woods, La Louve?"</p>

<p>"Never."</p>

<p>"Who gave you these ideas, then?"</p>

<p>"Martial."</p>

<p>"How did he acquire them?"</p>

<p>"He was a poacher in the forest of Rambouillet; and
it is not a year ago that he was supposed to have fired
at a keeper who had fired at him, the vagabond! However,
there was no proof of the fact, but Martial was
obliged to leave that part of the country. Then he
came to Paris to try and be a locksmith, and then I first
saw him. As he was too wild to be on good terms with
his master, he preferred returning to his relations at
Asnières, and poach in the river; it is not so slavish.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span>
Still he always regrets the woods, and some day or
other will return to them. From his talking to me of
poaching and forests, he has crammed my head with
these ideas, and I now think that is the life I was
born for. But it is always so. What your man likes,
you like. If Martial had been a thief, I should have
been a thief. When one has a man, we like to be like
him."</p>

<p>"And where are your own relations, La Louve?"</p>

<p>"How should I know?"</p>

<p>"Is it long since you saw them?"</p>

<p>"I don't know whether they are dead or alive."</p>

<p>"Were they, then, so very unkind to you?"</p>

<p>"Neither kind nor unkind. I was about eleven years
old, I think, when my mother went off with a soldier.
My father, who was a day-labourer, brought home a
mistress with him into our garret, and two boys she
had,&mdash;one six, and the other my own age. She was a
barrow-woman. She went on pretty well at first, but
after a time, whilst she was out with her fruit, a fish-woman
used to come and drink with my father, and
this the apple-woman found out. Then, from this time,
every evening, we had such battles and rows in the
house that I and the two boys were half dead with
fright. We all three slept together, for we had but one
room. One day,&mdash;it was her birthday, Sainte Madeleine's
fête,&mdash;and she scolded him because he had not congratulated
her on it. From one word another arose,
and my father concluded by breaking her head with the
handle of the broom. I really thought he had killed
her. She fell like a lump of lead, but <i>la mère</i> Madeleine
was hard-lived, and hard-headed also. After that she
returned my father with interest all the blows he had
given her, and once bit him so savagely in the hand
that the piece of flesh remained between her teeth. I
must say that these contests were what we may call the
<i>grandes eaux</i> at Versailles. On common and working-days<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>
the skirmishes were of a lighter sort,&mdash;there were
bruises, but no blood."</p>

<p>"Was this woman unkind to you?"</p>

<p>"Mère Madeleine? No; on the contrary. She was
a little hasty, but, otherwise, a good sort of woman
enough. But at last my father got tired, and left her
and the little furniture we had. He came out of Burgundy,
and most probably returned to his own country.
I was fifteen or sixteen at this time."</p>

<p>"And were you still with the old mistress of your
father?"</p>

<p>"Where else should I be? Then she took up with a
tiler, who came to lodge with us. Of the two boys of
Mère Madeleine, one, the eldest, was drowned at the
Ile des Cygnes, and the other went apprentice to a
carpenter."</p>

<p>"And what did you do with this woman?"</p>

<p>"Oh, I helped to draw her barrow, made the soup,
and carried her man his dinner; and when he came
home drunk, which happened oftener than was his turn,
I helped Mère Madeleine to keep him in order, for we
still lived in the same apartment. He was as vicious
as a sandy-haired donkey, when he was tipsy, and tried
to kill us. Once, if we had not snatched his axe from
him, he would certainly have murdered us both. Mère
Madeleine had a cut on the shoulder, which bled till the
room looked like a slaughter-house."</p>

<p>"And how did you become&mdash;what&mdash;we&mdash;are?"
said Fleur-de-Marie, hesitatingly.</p>

<p>"Why, little Charley, Madeleine's son, who was afterwards
drowned at the Ile des Cygnes, was my first lover,
almost from the time when he, his mother, and his
brother, came to lodge with us when we were but mere
children; after him the tiler was my lover, who threatened
else to turn me out-of-doors. I was afraid that
Mère Madeleine would also send me away if she discovered
anything. She did, however; but as she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span>
really a good creature, she said, 'As it is so, and you
are sixteen years old, and fit for nothing, for you are too
self-willed to take a situation or learn a business, you
shall go with me and be inscribed in the police-books;
as you have no relations, I will answer for you, as I
brought you up, as one may say; and that will give you
a position authorised by the government, and you will
have nothing to do but to be merry and dress smart. I
shall have no uneasiness about you, and you will no
longer be a charge to me. What do you say to it, my
girl?' 'Why, I think indeed you are right,' was my
answer; 'I had not thought of that.' Well, we went
to the Bureau des M&oelig;urs. She answered for me, in the
usual way, and from that time I was <i>inscrite</i>. I met
Mère Madeleine a year afterwards. I was drinking with
my man, and we asked her to join us, and she told us
that the tiler had been sentenced to the galleys.
Since then I have never seen her, but some one, I don't
remember who, declared that she had been seen at the
Morgue three months ago. If it were true, really so
much the worse, for Mère Madeleine was a good sort of
woman,&mdash;her heart was in her hand, and she had no
more gall than a pigeon."</p>

<p>Fleur-de-Marie, though plunged young in an atmosphere
of corruption, had subsequently breathed so pure
an air that she experienced a deeply painful sensation
at the horrid recital of La Louve. And if we have had
the sad courage to make it, it has been because all the
world should know that, hideous as it is, it is still
a thousand times less revolting than other countless
realities.</p>

<p>Ignorance and misery often conduct the lower classes
to these fearful degradations, human and social.</p>

<p>Yes; there is a crowd of hovels and dens, where
children and adults, girls and boys, legitimate children
and bastards, lying pell-mell on the same mattress, have
continually before their eyes these infamous examples<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>
of drunkenness, violence, debauch, and murder. Yes,
and too frequently unnatural crimes at the tenderest age
add to this accumulation of horrors.</p>

<p>The rich may shroud their vices in shadow and mystery,
and respect the sanctity of the domestic hearth,
but the most honest artisans, occupying nearly always a
single chamber with their family, are compelled, from
want of beds and space, to make their children sleep
together, sons and daughters, close to themselves, husbands
and wives.</p>

<p>If we shudder at the fatal consequences of such necessity
almost inevitably imposed on poor, but honest
artisans, what must it be with workpeople depraved
by ignorance or misconduct? What fearful examples
do they not present to unhappy children, abandoned, or
rather excited, from their tenderest youth to every
brutal impulse and animal propensity? Have they even
the idea of what is right, decent, and modest? Must
they not be as strange to social laws as the savages of
the New World? Poor creatures! Corrupted at their
very birth, who in the prisons, whither their wanderings
and idleness often lead them, are already stigmatised by
the coarse and terrible metaphor, "Graines de Bagne"
(Seeds of the Gaol)! and the metaphor is a correct
one. This sinister prediction is almost invariably accomplished:
the Galleys or the Bridewell, each sex
has its destiny.</p>

<p>We do not intend here to justify any profligacy. Let
us only compare the voluntary degradation of a female
carefully educated in the bosom of a wealthy family,
which has set her none but the most virtuous examples.
Let us compare, we say, this degradation with that of La
Louve, a creature, as it were, reared in vice, by vice,
and for vice, and to whom is pointed out, not without
reason, prostitution as a condition protected by the government!
This is true. There is a bureau where she
is registered, certificated, and signs her name. A bureau<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>
where a mother has a right to authorise the prostitution
of her daughter; a husband the prostitution of his wife.
This place is termed the "Bureau des M&oelig;urs" (the
Office of Manners). Must not society have a vice most
deeply rooted, incurable in the place of the laws which
regulate marriage, when power,&mdash;yes, power,&mdash;that
grave and moral abstraction, is obliged, not only to
tolerate, but to regulate, to legalise, to protect, to render
it less injurious and dangerous, this sale of body and
soul; which, multiplied by the unbridled appetites of
an immense population, acquires daily an almost incalculable
amount.</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>Goualeuse, repressing the emotion which this sad
confession of her companion had made in her, said to
her, timidly:</p>

<p>"Listen to me without being angry."</p>

<p>"Well, what have you to say? I think I have gossiped
enough; but it is no matter, as it is the last time
we shall talk together."</p>

<p>"Are you happy, La Louve?"</p>

<p>"What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"Does the life you lead make you happy?"</p>

<p>"Here,&mdash;at St. Lazare?"</p>

<p>"No; when you are at home and free."</p>

<p>"Yes, I am happy."</p>

<p>"Always?"</p>

<p>"Always."</p>

<p>"You would not change your life for any other?"</p>

<p>"For any other? What&mdash;what other life can there
be for me?"</p>

<p>"Tell me, La Louve," continued Fleur-de-Marie, after
a moment's silence, "don't you sometimes like to build
castles in the air? It is so amusing in prison."</p>

<p>"Castles in the air! About what?"</p>

<p>"About Martial."</p>

<p>"About my man?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"<i>Ma foi!</i> I never built any."</p>

<p>"Let me build one for you and Martial."</p>

<p>"Bah! What's the use of it?"</p>

<p>"To pass away time."</p>

<p>"Well, let's have your castle in the air."</p>

<p>"Well, then, only imagine that a lucky chance, such
as sometimes occurs, brings you in contact with a person
who says, 'Forsaken by your father and mother, your
infancy was surrounded by such bad examples that
you must be pitied, as much as blamed, for having
become&mdash;'"</p>

<p>"Become what?"</p>

<p>"What you and I have become," replied Goualeuse,
in a soft voice; and then she continued, "Suppose,
then, that this person were to say to you, 'You love
Martial; he loves you. Do you and he cease to lead an
improper life,&mdash;instead of being his mistress, become
his wife.'"</p>

<p>La Louve shrugged her shoulders.</p>

<p>"Do you think he would have me for his wife?"</p>

<p>"Except poaching, he has never committed any guilty
act, has he?"</p>

<p>"No; he is a poacher in the river, as he was in the
woods, and he is right. Why, now, ain't fish like game,
for those to have who can catch them? Where do they
bear the proprietor's mark?"</p>

<p>"Well, suppose that, having given up the dangerous
trade of marauding on the river, he desires to become
an honest man; suppose he inspires, by the frankness of
his good resolutions, so much confidence in an unknown
benefactor that he gives him a situation,&mdash;let us see,
our castle is in the air,&mdash;gives him a situation&mdash;say as
gamekeeper, for instance. Why, I should suppose that,
as he had been a poacher, nothing could better suit his
taste; it is the same occupation, but in the right way."</p>

<p>"Yes, <i>ma foi!</i> it would be still to live in the woods."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></p>

<p>"Only he would not have the situation but on condition
that he would marry you, and take you with him."</p>

<p>"I go with Martial?"</p>

<p>"Yes; why, you said you should be so happy to live
together in the depths of the forest. Shouldn't you
prefer, instead of the miserable hut of the poacher, in
which you would hide like guilty creatures, to have a
neat little cottage, which you would take care of as the
active and hard-working housekeeper?"</p>

<p>"You are making game of me. Can this be possible?"</p>

<p>"Who knows what may happen? But it's only a
castle in the air."</p>

<p>"Ah, if it's only that, all very well!"</p>

<p>"La Louve, I think that I already see you established
in your little home in the depths of the forest, with your
husband and two or three children. Children,&mdash;what
happiness! Are they not?"</p>

<p>"The children of my man!" exclaimed La Louve,
with intense eagerness. "Ah, yes! They would be
dearly loved,&mdash;they would!"</p>

<p>"How they would keep you company in your solitude!
And, then, when they grew up they would be able to
render you great service: the youngest would pick up
the dead branches for fuel; the eldest would go into the
grass of the forest to watch a cow or two, which they
would give you as a reward for your husband's activity,
for as he had been a poacher he would make a better
keeper."</p>

<p>"To be sure; that's true enough. But really your
castles in the air are very amusing. Go on, Goualeuse."</p>

<p>"They would be very much satisfied with your husband,
and you would have some allowances from your
master, a poultry-yard, a garden; and, in fact, you would
have to work very hard, La Louve, from morning till
night."</p>

<p>"Oh, if that were all, if I once had my good man near
me, I should not be afraid of work! I have stout arms."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p>

<p>"And you would have plenty to employ them, I will
answer for that. There is so much to do,&mdash;so much to
do! There is the stable to clean, the meals to get
ready, the clothes to mend; to-day is washing day, next
day there's the bread to bake, or perhaps the house to
clean from top to bottom; and, then, the other keepers
would say, 'There is no such manager as Martial's wife;
from the cellar to the garret, in her house, it is a pattern
of cleanliness, and the children are taken such care of!
But then she is so very industrious, Madame Martial.'"</p>

<p>"Really though, La Goualeuse, is it true? I should
call myself Madame Martial," said La Louve, with a sort
of pride,&mdash;"Madame Martial!"</p>

<p>"Which is better than being called La Louve,&mdash;is it
not?"</p>

<p>"<i>Pardieu!</i> Why, there's no doubt but I should rather
be called by my man's name than the name of a wild
beast; but&mdash;bah!&mdash;bah! <i>louve</i> I was born, <i>louve</i> I shall
die!"</p>

<p>"Who knows? Who can say? Not to shrink from
a life that is hard, but honest, will ensure success. So,
then, work would not frighten you?"</p>

<p>"Oh, certainly not! It is not a husband and four or
five brats to take care of that would give me any trouble!"</p>

<p>"But then it would not be all work; there are
moments for rest. In the winter evenings, when the
children were put to bed, and your husband smoked his
pipe whilst he was cleaning his gun or caressing his dogs,
you would have a little leisure."</p>

<p>"Leisure,&mdash;sit with my arms crossed before me!
<i>Ma foi!</i> No, I would rather mend the linen, by the side
of the fire in the evening. That is not a very hard job,
and in winter the days are so short."</p>

<p>As Fleur-de-Marie proceeded, La Louve forgot more
and more of the present for the dreams of the future, as
deeply interested as La Goualeuse had been before her,
when Rodolph had talked to her of the rustic delights of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span>
the Bouqueval farm. La Louve did not attempt to conceal
the wild tastes with which her lover had inspired
her. Remembering the deep and wholesome impression
which she had experienced from the smiling picture of
Rodolph in relation to a country life, Fleur-de-Marie was
desirous of trying the same means of action on La Louve,
thinking, with reason, that, if her companion was so far
affected at the sketch of a rude, poor, and solitary life,
as to desire ardently such an existence, she merited
interest and pity. Delighted to see her companion listen
to her with attention, La Goualeuse continued, smiling:</p>

<p>"And then you see, Madame Martial,&mdash;let me call
you so,&mdash;what does it matter&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Quite the contrary; it flatters me." Then La Louve
shrugged her shoulders, and, smiling, also added, "What
folly to play at madame! Are we children? Well, it's
all the same; go on,&mdash;it's quite amusing. You said&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I was saying, Madame Martial, that in speaking of
your life, the winter in the thickest of the woods, we
were only alluding to the worst of the seasons."</p>

<p>"<i>Ma foi!</i> No, that is not the worst. To hear the wind
whistle all night in the forest, and the wolves howl from
time to time far off, very far off,&mdash;I shouldn't tire of
that; provided I was at the fireside with my man and
my children, or even quite alone, if my man was going
his rounds. Ah, I am not afraid of a gun! If I had
my children to defend, I could do that,&mdash;the wolf would
guard her cubs!"</p>

<p>"Oh, I can well believe you! You are very brave&mdash;you
are; but I am a coward. I prefer spring to the
winter, when the leaves are green, when the pretty wild
flowers bloom, and they smell so sweet, so sweet that the
air is quite scented; and then your children would roll
about so merrily in the fresh grass; and then the forest
would be so thick that you could hardly see your house
in the midst of the foliage,&mdash;I can fancy that I see it
now. In front of the house is a vine full of leaves, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span>
your husband has planted, and which shades the bank
of turf where he sleeps during the noonday heat, whilst
you are going backwards and forwards desiring the children
not to wake their father. I don't know whether
you have remarked it, but in the heat of summer about
midday there is in the woods as deep silence as at
midnight, you don't hear the leaves shake, nor the birds
sing."</p>

<p>"Yes, that's true," replied La Louve, almost mechanically,
who became more and more forgetful of the
reality, and almost believed she saw before her the smiling
pictures which the poetical imagination of Fleur-de-Marie,
so instinctively amorous of the beauties of
nature, presented before her.</p>

<p>Delighted at the deep attention which her companion
lent her, La Goualeuse continued, allowing herself to be
drawn on by the charm of the thoughts which she called
up:</p>

<p>"There is one thing which I love almost as well as the
silence of the woods, and that is the noise of the heavy
drops of rain falling on the leaves; do you like that, too?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes! I am very fond of a summer shower."</p>

<p>"So am I; and when the trees, the moss, and the
grass, are all moistened, what a delightfully fresh odour
they give out! And then, how the sun, as it passes over
the trees, makes all the little drops of water glisten as
they hang from the leaves! Have you ever noticed that?"</p>

<p>"Yes; I remember it now because you tell me of it.
Yet, how droll all this is! But, Goualeuse, you talk so
well that one seems to see everything,&mdash;to see everything
just as you talk; and then, I really do not know
how to explain it all. But now, what you say seems
good, it is quite pleasant,&mdash;just like the rain we were
talking of."</p>

<p>"Oh, don't suppose that we are the only creatures
who love a summer shower! The dear little birds, how
delighted they are! How they shake their feathers, whilst<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span>
they warble so joyously; not more joyously, though,
than your children,&mdash;your children as free, and gay,
and light-hearted as they! And then, look! as the day
declines the youngest children run across the wood to
meet the elder, who brings back the two heifers from
pasture, for they have heard the tinkling of the bell in
the distance!"</p>

<p>"Yes, Goualeuse, and I think I see the smallest and
boldest, whom his brother has put astride on the back of
one of the cows."</p>

<p>"And one would say that the poor animal knows
what burden she bears, she steps so carefully. But it is
supper-time; your eldest child, whilst he has been tending
the cows at pasture, has amused himself with
gathering for you a basket of beautiful strawberries,
which he has brought quite fresh under a thick covering
of wild violets."</p>

<p>"Strawberries and violets,&mdash;ah, what a lovely smell
they have! But where the deuce did you find all these
ideas, La Goualeuse?"</p>

<p>"In the woods, where the strawberries ripen and the
violets blow, you have only to look and gather them&mdash;But
let us go on with our housekeeping. It is night, and
you must milk your heifers, prepare your supper under
the shelter of the vine, for you hear your husband's dogs
bark, and then their master's voice, who, tired as he is,
comes home singing,&mdash;and who could not sing when on
a fine summer's eve with cheerful heart you return to the
house where a good wife and five children are waiting
for you?&mdash;eh, Madame Martial?"</p>

<p>"True, true; one could not but sing," replied La
Louve, becoming more and more thoughtful.</p>

<p>"Unless one weeps for joy," continued Fleur-de-Marie,
herself much touched, "and such tears are as sweet as
songs. And then, when night has completely come,
what a pleasure to sit in the arbour and enjoy the calmness
of a fine evening, to breathe the sweet odour of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span>
forest, to hear the prattle of the children, to look at the
stars, then the heart is so full,&mdash;so full that it must
pour out its prayer; it must thank him to whom we are
indebted for the freshness of the evening, the sweet scent
of the woods, the gentle brightness of the starry sky!
After this thanksgiving or this prayer, we go to sleep
tranquilly till the next day, and then again thank our
Creator. And this poor, hard-working, but calm and
honest life, is the same each and every day."</p>

<p>"Every day!" repeated La Louve, with her head
drooping on her chest, her look fixed, her breast oppressed,
"for it is true the good God is good to give us
wherewithal to live upon, and to make us happy with so
little."</p>

<p>"Well, tell me now," continued Fleur-de-Marie, gently,&mdash;"tell
me, ought not he to be blessed, after God, who
should give you this peaceable and laborious life, instead
of the wretched existence you lead in the mud of the
streets of Paris?"</p>

<p>This word Paris suddenly recalled La Louve to reality.</p>

<p>A strange phenomenon had taken place in the mind
of this creature.</p>

<p>The simple painting of a humble and rude condition&mdash;the
mere recital by turns&mdash;lighted up by the soft
rays from the domestic hearth, gilded by some joyful
sunbeams, refreshed by the breeze of the great woods,
or perfumed by the odour of wild flowers,&mdash;this narrative
had made on La Louve a more profound or more
sensible impression than could an exhortation of the
most pious morality have effected.</p>

<p>In truth, in proportion as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La
Louve had longed to be, and meant to be, an indefatigable
manager, a worthy wife, an affectionate and devoted
mother.</p>

<p>To inspire, even for an instant, a violent, immoral,
and degraded woman with a love of home, respect for
duty, a taste for labour, and gratitude towards her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>
Creator; and that, by only promising her what God
gives to all, the sun, the sky, and the depths of the
forest,&mdash;what society owes to those who lack a roof and
a loaf,&mdash;was, indeed, a glorious triumph for Fleur-de-Marie!
Could the most severe moralist&mdash;the most
overpowering preacher&mdash;have obtained more in threatening,
in their monotonous and menacing orations, all
human vengeances&mdash;all divine thunders?</p>

<p>The painful anger with which La Louve was possessed
when she returned to the reality, after having allowed
herself to be charmed by the new and wholesome reverie
in which, for the first time, Fleur-de-Marie had plunged
her, proved the influence of her words on her unfortunate
companion. The more bitter were La Louve's
regrets when she fell back from this consoling delusion
to the horrors of her real position, the greater was La
Goualeuse's triumph. After a moment's silence and
reflection, La Louve raised her head suddenly, passed
her hand over her brow, and rose threatening and angry.</p>

<p>"See, see! I had reason to mistrust you, and to
desire not to listen to you, because it would turn to ill
for me! Why did you talk thus to me? Why make a
jest of me? Why mock me? And because I have been
so weak as to say to you that I should like to live in
the depths of a forest with my man. Who are you,
then, that you should make a fool of me in this way?
You, miserable girl, don't know what you have done!
Now, in spite of myself, I shall always be thinking of
this forest, the house, and&mdash;and&mdash;the children&mdash;and
all that happiness which I shall never have&mdash;never&mdash;never!
And if I cannot forget what you have told me,
why, my life will be one eternal punishment,&mdash;a hell,&mdash;and
that by your fault! Yes, by your fault!"</p>

<p>"So much the better! Oh, so much the better!" said
Fleur-de-Marie.</p>

<p>"You say, so much the better!" exclaimed La Louve,
with her eyes glaring.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span></p>

<p>"Yes,&mdash;so much the better! For if your present
miserable life appears to you a hell, you will prefer that
of which I have spoken to you."</p>

<p>"What is the use of preferring it, since it is not destined
for me? What is the use of regretting that I
walk the streets, since I shall die in the streets?" exclaimed
La Louve, more and more irritated, and taking
in her powerful grasp the small hand of Fleur-de-Marie.
"Answer&mdash;answer! Why do you try to make me
desire that which I cannot have."</p>

<p>"To desire an honest and industrious life is to be
worthy of that life, as I have already told you," replied
Fleur-de-Marie, without attempting to disengage her
hand.</p>

<p>"Well, and what then? Suppose I am worthy, what
does that prove? How much the better off will that
make me?"</p>

<p>"To see realised what you consider as a dream,"
answered Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so serious and full of
conviction that La Louve, again under control, let go
La Goualeuse's hand, and gazed at her in amazement.</p>

<p>"Listen to me, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie, in a
voice full of feeling; "do you think me so wicked as to
excite such ideas and hopes in you, if I were not sure
that, whilst I made you blush at your present condition,
I gave you the means to quit it?"</p>

<p>"You! You can do this?"</p>

<p>"I! No; but some one who is good, and great, and
powerful."</p>

<p>"Great and powerful?"</p>

<p>"Listen, La Louve. Three months ago I was, like
you, a lost, an abandoned creature. One day he of whom
I speak to you with tears of gratitude,"&mdash;and Fleur-de-Marie
wiped her eyes,&mdash;"one day he came to me, and
he was not afraid, abased and despised as I was, to say
comforting words to me, the first I had ever heard. I
told him my sufferings, my miseries, my shame; I concealed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span>
nothing from him, just as you have related to me
all your past life, La Louve. After having listened to
me with kindness, he did not blame, but pitied me; he
did not even reproach me with my disgraceful position,
but talked to me of the calm and pure life which was
found in the country."</p>

<p>"As you did just now?"</p>

<p>"Then my situation appeared to me the more frightful,
in proportion as the future he held out to me seemed
more beautiful."</p>

<p>"Like me?"</p>

<p>"Yes, and so I said as you did,&mdash;What use, alas! is
it to make me fancy this paradise,&mdash;me, who am
chained to hell? But I was wrong to despair; for he
of whom I speak is so good, so just, that he is incapable
of making a false hope shine in the eyes of a poor creature
who asked no one for pity, happiness, or hope."</p>

<p>"And what did he do for you?"</p>

<p>"He treated me like a sick child. I was, like you,
immersed in a corrupted air, and he sent me to breathe
a wholesome and reviving atmosphere. I was also living
amongst hideous and criminal beings, and he confided
me to persons as good as himself, who have purified my
soul and elevated my mind; for he communicates to all
those who love and respect him a spark of his own refined
intelligence. Yes, if my words move you, La
Louve, if my tears make your tears flow, it is that his
mind and thought inspire me. If I speak to you of the
happier future which you will obtain by repentance, it is
because I can promise you this future in his name, although,
at this moment, he is ignorant of the engagement
I make. In fact, I say to you, Hope! because he
always listens to the voice of those who desire to become
better; for God sent him on earth to make people believe
in his providence!"</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 329px;"><a name="image279" id="image279"></a>
<img src="images/i006.jpg" width="329" height="500" alt="La Goualeuse in the prison.
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel." title="La Goualeuse in the prison." />
<span class="caption"><i>La Goualeuse in the prison.</i><br />
<span class="artist">Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.</span></span>
</div>

<p>As she spoke, Fleur-de-Marie's countenance became
radiant, and her pale cheeks suffused with a delicate carnation;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>
her beautiful eyes sparkled, and she appeared
so touchingly beautiful that La Louve gazed on her
with respectful admiration, and said:</p>

<p>"Where am I? Do I dream? Who are you, then?
Oh, I was right when I said you were not one of us!
But, then, you talk so well,&mdash;you, who can do so much,
you, who know such powerful people, how is it that you
are here, a prisoner with us?"</p>

<p>Fleur-de-Marie was about to reply, when Madame
Armand came up and interrupted her, to conduct her
to Madame d'Harville. La Louve remained overwhelmed
with surprise, and the inspectress said to
her:</p>

<p>"I see, with pleasure, that the presence of La Goualeuse
in the prison has brought good fortune to you and
your companions. I know you have made a subscription
for poor Mont Saint-Jean; that is kind and charitable,
La Louve, and will be of service to you. I was
sure that you were better than you allowed yourself to
appear. In recompense for this kind action, I think I
can promise you that the term of your imprisonment
shall be shortened by several days."</p>

<p>Madame Armand then walked away, followed by
Fleur-de-Marie.</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>We must not be astonished at the almost eloquent language
of Fleur-de-Marie, when we remember that her
mind, so wonderfully gifted, had rapidly developed itself,
thanks to the education and instruction she had received
at Bouqueval farm.</p>

<p>The young girl was, indeed, strong in her experience.</p>

<p>The sentiments she had awakened in the heart of La
Louve had been awakened in her own heart by Rodolph,
and under almost similar circumstances.</p>

<p>Believing that she detected some good instincts in her
companion, she had endeavoured to lure her back to
honesty, by proving to her (according to Rodolph's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span>
theory, applied to the farm at Bouqueval) that it was
her interest to become honest, by pointing out to her
restitution to the paths of rectitude in smiling and
attractive colours.</p>

<p>And here let us repeat that, in our opinion, an incomplete
as well as stupid and inefficacious mode is employed
to inspire the poor and ignorant classes with a
hatred of evil and a love of good.</p>

<p>In order to turn them away from the bad path, they
are incessantly threatened with divine and human vengeance;
incessantly a sinister clank is sounded in their
ears: prison-keep, fetters, handcuffs; and, in the distance,
in dark shadow, at the extreme horizon of crime,
they have their attention directed to the executioner's
axe glittering amidst the glare of everlasting flames.
We observe that the intimidation is constant, fearful,
and appalling. To him who does ill, imprisonment, infamy,
punishment. This is just. But to him who does
well does society award noble gifts, glorious distinctions?
No.</p>

<p>Does society encourage resignation, order, probity, in
that immense mass of artisans who are for ever doomed
to toil and privation, and almost always to profound
misery, by benevolent rewards? No.</p>

<p>Is the scaffold which the criminal ascends a protection
for the man of integrity? No.</p>

<p>Strange and fatal symbol! Justice is represented as
blind, bearing in one hand a sword to punish, and in the
other scales in which she weighs accusation and defence.
This is not the image of Justice. This is the image of
Law, or, rather, of the man who condemns or acquits
according to his conscience. Justice should hold in one
hand a sword, and in the other a crown,&mdash;one to strike
the wicked, and the other to recompense the good. The
people would then see that, if there is a terrible punishment
for evil, there is a brilliant recompense for good;
whilst as it is, in their plain and simple sense, the people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span>
seek in vain for the contrary side of tribunals, gaols,
galleys, and scaffolds. The people see plainly a criminal
justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, enlightened men,
always employed in searching out, detecting, and punishing
the evil-doers. They do not see the virtuous
justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, and enlightened
men, always searching out and rewarding the honest
man. All says to him, Tremble! Nothing says to him,
Hope! All threatens him; nothing consoles him!</p>

<p>The state annually expends many millions for the
sterile punishment of crimes. With this enormous sum
it keeps prisoners and gaolers, galley-slaves and galley-sergeants,
scaffolds and executioners. This is necessary?
Agreed. But how much does the state disburse
for the rewards (so salutary, so fruitful) for honest
men? Nothing. And this is not all, as we shall demonstrate
when the course of this recital shall conduct us
to the state prison; how many artisans of irreproachable
honesty would attain the summit of their wishes if they
were assured of enjoying one day the bodily comforts of
prisoners, always certain of good food, good bed, and
good shelter? And yet, in the name of their dignity,
as honest men, long and painfully tried, have they not
a right to claim the same care and comforts as criminals,&mdash;such,
for instance, as Morel, the lapidary, who
had toiled for twenty years, industrious, honest, and
resigned, in the midst of bitter misery and sore temptations?
Do not such men deserve sufficiently well of
society, that society should try and find them out, and
if not recompense them, for the honour of humanity, at
least support them in the painful and difficult path which
they tread so courageously? Is the man of worth so
modest that he finds greater security than the thief or
assassin? and are not these always detected by criminal
justice? Alas, it is a utopia, but it is consoling!</p>

<p>Suppose, for the moment, a society were so organised
that it would hold an assizes of virtue, as we have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span>
assizes of crime,&mdash;a public ministry pointing out noble
actions, disclosing them to the view of all, as we now
denounce crimes to the avenging power of the laws.
We will give two instances&mdash;two justices&mdash;and let
our readers say which is most fruitful in instruction, in
consequences, in positive results. One man has killed
another, for the purpose of robbing him; at break of
day they stealthily erect the guillotine in an obscure
corner of Paris and cut off the assassin's head before
the dregs of the populace, which laughs at the judge,
the sufferer, and the executioner. This is the last resort
of society. This is the chastisement she bestows on
the greatest crime which can be committed against her.
This is the most terrible, the most wholesome warning
she can give to her population,&mdash;the only one, for there
is no counterpoise to this keen axe, dripping with blood;
no, society has no spectacle, mild and benevolent, to
oppose to this funereal scene.</p>

<p>Let us go on with our utopia. Would it not be otherwise
if almost every day the people had before their
eyes some illustrious virtues greatly glorified and substantially
rewarded by the state? Would it not be to
encourage good continually, if we often saw an august,
imposing, and venerable tribunal summon before it, in
presence of an immense multitude, a poor and honest
artisan, whose long, intelligent, and enduring life should
be described, whilst he was thus addressed:</p>

<p>"For twenty years you have manfully struggled
against misfortune, your family has been brought up
by you in the principles of honour and rectitude, your
superior virtues have greatly distinguished you,&mdash;you
merit praise and recompense. Society, always vigilant,
just, and all-powerful, never leaves in oblivion either
good or evil. Every man is recompensed according to
his works. The state assures to you a pension sufficient
for your wants. Obtaining this deserved mark of public
notice, you will end in leisure and ease a life which is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span>
an example to all; and thus are and will be exalted
those who, like yourself, shall have struggled for many
years with an admirable persistence in good, and given
proof of rare and grand moral qualities. Your example
will encourage a great many to imitate you; hope will
lighten the painful burden which their destiny imposes
on them for so many years of their life. Animated by
a salutary emulation, they will energetically struggle to
accomplish the most arduous duties, in order that one
day they may be distinguished from the rest, and rewarded
as you are."</p>

<p>We ask, which of the two sights&mdash;the beheaded
assassin, or the good man rewarded&mdash;would act on the
million with more salutary and more fruitful effect?</p>

<p>No doubt many delicate minds will be indignant at
the bare thought of these ignoble substantial rewards
awarded to the most ethereal thing in the world,&mdash;Virtue!
They will find all sorts of arguments, more or
less philosophical, platonic, theological, and especially
economic, against such a proposition; such as, "Virtue
is its own reward;" "Virtue is a priceless gem;" "The
satisfaction of the conscience is the noblest of recompenses;"
and, finally, this triumphant and unanswerable
objection, "The eternal happiness which awaits the just
in another life ought to be sufficient to encourage mankind
to do well." To this we reply that society, in
order to intimidate and punish the guilty, does not
appear to us to rely entirely and exclusively on the
divine vengeance, which they tell us will visit them in
another world. Society anticipates the last judgment
by human judgments. Awaiting the inexorable hour
of the archangels in armour, with sounding trumpets
and fiery swords, society modestly comforts herself
with&mdash;<i>gens-d'armes</i>.</p>

<p>We repeat, to terrify the wicked, we materialise, or
rather we reduce to human, perceptible, and visible
proportions, the anticipated effects of divine wrath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>
Why should we not do the same with the divine
rewards to worthy and virtuous people?</p>

<hr style="width: 15%;" />

<p>But let us leave these mad, absurd, stupid, impracticable
utopianisms, like real utopianisms, as they are.
Society is as well as it is. Ask those merry souls, who,
with uncertain step, stupid look, and noisy laugh, have
just quitted the gay banquet, if it is not.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER XII.</h3>

<h5>THE PROTECTRESS.</h5>


<p>The inspectress soon entered with Goualeuse into the
little room where Clémence was staying. The pale cheek
of the young girl was still slightly coloured in consequence
of her conversation with La Louve.</p>

<p>"Madame la Marquise, pleased with the excellent
character I have given of you," said Madame Armand
to Fleur-de-Marie, "has desired to see you, and will,
perhaps, be so good as to have you released from here
before the expiration of your time."</p>

<p>"I thank you, madame," replied Fleur-de-Marie,
timidly, to Madame Armand, who left her alone with
the marchioness.</p>

<p>The latter, struck by the candid expression of her
protégée's features, and by her carriage, so full of grace
and modesty, could not help remembering that La
Goualeuse had pronounced the name of Rodolph in her
sleep, and that the inspectress believed the youthful
prisoner to be a prey to deep and hidden love. Although
perfectly convinced that it could not be a question as to
the Grand Duke Rodolph, Clémence acknowledged to
herself that, with regard to beauty, La Goualeuse was
worthy of a prince's love.</p>

<p>At the sight of her protectress, whose physiognomy,
as we have said, displayed excessive goodness, Fleur-de-Marie
felt herself sympathetically attracted towards
her.</p>

<p>"My girl," said Clémence to her, "whilst commending<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span>
the gentleness of your disposition and the discreetness
of your behaviour, Madame Armand complains of
your want of confidence in her."</p>

<p>Fleur-de-Marie bowed her look, but did not reply.</p>

<p>"The peasant's dress in which you were clad when
you were apprehended, your silence on the subject of
the place where you resided before you were brought
here, prove that you conceal certain particulars from us."</p>

<p>"Madame&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I have no right to your confidence, my poor child,
nor would I ask you any question that would distress
you; but, as I am assured that if I request your discharge
from prison it will be accorded to me, before I
do so I should wish to talk to you of your own plans,
your resources for the future. Once free, what do you
propose to do? If, as I doubt not, you decide on following
the good path you have already entered upon, have
confidence in me, and I will put you in the way of
gaining an honest subsistence."</p>

<p>La Goualeuse was moved to tears at the interest
which Madame d'Harville evinced for her. After a
moment's hesitation, she replied:</p>

<p>"You are very good, madame, to show so much
benevolence towards me,&mdash;so generous, that I ought,
perhaps, to break the silence which I have hitherto kept
on the past, to which I was forced by an oath&mdash;"</p>

<p>"An oath?"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame, I have sworn to be secret to justice,
and the persons employed in this prison, as to the
series of events by which I was brought hither. Yet,
madame, if you will make me a promise&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Of what nature?"</p>

<p>"To keep my secret. I may, thanks to you, madame,
without breaking my oath, comfort most worthy persons
who, no doubt, are excessively uneasy on my account."</p>

<p>"Rely on my discretion. I will only say what you
authorise me to disclose."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span></p>

<p>"Oh, thanks, madame! I was so fearful that my
silence towards my benefactors would appear like
ingratitude!"</p>

<p>The gentle accents of Fleur-de-Marie, and her well-selected
phrases, struck Madame d'Harville with fresh
surprise.</p>

<p>"I will not conceal from you," said she, "that your
demeanour, your language, all surprise me in a remarkable
degree. How could you, with an education which
appears polished,&mdash;how could you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Fall so low, you would say, madame?" said Goualeuse,
with bitterness. "Alas! It is but a very short
time that I have received this education. I owe this
benefit to a generous protector, who, like you, madame,
without knowing me, without even having the favourable
recommendation which you have received in my favour,
took pity upon me&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And who is this protector?"</p>

<p>"I do not know, madame."</p>

<p>"You do not know?"</p>

<p>"He only makes himself known, they tell me, by his
inexhaustible goodness. Thanks be to Heaven, he found
me in his path!"</p>

<p>"And when did you first meet?"</p>

<p>"One night,&mdash;in the Cité, madame," said Goualeuse,
lowering her eyes, "a man was going to beat me; this
unknown benefactor defended me courageously; this was
my first meeting with him."</p>

<p>"Then he was one of the people?"</p>

<p>"The first time I saw him he had the dress and
language; but afterwards&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Afterwards?"</p>

<p>"The way in which he spoke to me, the profound
respect with which he was treated by the persons to
whom he confided me, all proved to me that he had
only assumed the exterior disguise of one of the men
who are seen about the Cité."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p>

<p>"But with what motive?"</p>

<p>"I do not know."</p>

<p>"And do you know the name of this mysterious
protector?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, madame," said La Goualeuse, with excitement;
"thank Heaven! For I can incessantly bless and
adore that name. My preserver is called M. Rodolph,
madame."</p>

<p>Clémence blushed deeply.</p>

<p>"And has he no other name," she asked, quickly,
of Fleur-de-Marie.</p>

<p>"I know no other, madame. In the farm, where he
sent me, he was only known as M. Rodolph."</p>

<p>"And his age?"</p>

<p>"Still young, madame."</p>

<p>"And handsome?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes! Handsome,&mdash;noble as his own heart."</p>

<p>The grateful and impassioned accent with which
Fleur-de-Marie uttered these words caused a deeply
painful sensation in Madame d'Harville's bosom. An
unconquerable and inexplicable presentiment told her
that it was indeed the prince. "The remarks of the
inspectress were just," thought Clémence. "Goualeuse
loves Rodolph; that was the name which she pronounced
in her sleep. Under what strange circumstance had the
prince and this unfortunate girl met? Why did Rodolph
go disguised into the Cité?"</p>

<p>The marquise could not resolve these questions.
She only remembered what Sarah had wickedly and
mendaciously told her as to the pretended eccentricities
of Rodolph. Was it not, in fact, strange that he
should have extricated from the dregs of society a girl
of such excessive loveliness, and evidently so intelligent
and sensible?</p>

<p>Clémence had noble qualities, but she was a woman,
and deeply loved Rodolph, although she had resolved to
bury that secret in her heart's very core.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span></p>

<p>Without reflecting that this was unquestionably but
one of those generous actions which the prince was
accustomed to do by stealth, without considering that
she was, perchance, confounding with love a sentiment
that was but excess of gratitude, without considering
that, even if this feeling were more tender, Rodolph
must be ignorant of it, the marchioness, in the first
moment of bitterness and injustice, could not help looking
on Goualeuse as her rival. Her pride revolted when
she believed she was suffering, in spite of herself, with
such a humiliating rivalry; and she replied, in a tone
so harsh as to contrast cruelly with the affectionate
kindness of her first words:</p>

<p>"And how is it, then, mademoiselle, that your protector
leaves you in prison? How comes it that you
are here?"</p>

<p>"Oh, madame," said Fleur-de-Marie, struck at this
sudden change of tone, "have I done anything to
displease you?"</p>

<p>"In what could you have displeased me?" asked
Madame d'Harville, haughtily.</p>

<p>"It appeared to me just now that you spoke to me so
kindly, madame."</p>

<p>"Really, mademoiselle, is it necessary that I should
weigh every word I utter? Since I take an interest
in you, I have, I think, a right to ask you certain
questions!"</p>

<p>Scarcely had Clémence uttered these words, than she
regretted their severity; first from a praiseworthy return
of generosity, and then because she thought by being
harsh with her rival she might not learn any more of
what she was so anxious to know. In fact, Goualeuse's
countenance, just now so open and confiding, became
suddenly alarmed. Like the sensitive plant, which, on
the first touch, curls up its leaves and withdraws within
itself, the heart of Fleur-de-Marie became painfully contracted.
Clémence replied, gently, in order that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span>
might not awaken her protégée's suspicions by too
sudden a return to a milder tone:</p>

<p>"Really I must repeat that I cannot understand why,
having so much to praise your benefactor for, you are
left here a prisoner. How is it that, after having returned
with all sincerity to the paths of rectitude, you could
have been apprehended, at night, in a forbidden place?
All this, I confess to you, appears to me very extraordinary.
You speak of an oath, which has bound you
to silence; but this very oath is so strange!"</p>

<p>"I have spoken the truth, madame&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I am sure of that; it is only to see and hear you to
be convinced that you are incapable of falsehood; but
what is so incomprehensible in your situation makes me
the more curious and impatient to have it cleared up;
and to this alone must you attribute the abruptness of
my language just now. I was wrong, I feel I was, for,
although I have no claim to your confidence beyond my
anxious desire to be of service to you, yet you have
offered to disclose to me what you have not yet told to
any person; and I can assure you, my poor girl, that
this proof of your confidence in the interest I feel for
you touches me very nearly. I promise you to keep
your secret most scrupulously, if you confide it to me,
and I will do everything in my power to effect what
you may wish to have done."</p>

<p>Thanks to this skilful patching up (the phrase will be
excused, we trust), Madame d'Harville regained La
Goualeuse's confidence, which had been for a moment
repressed. Fleur-de-Marie, in her candour, reproached
herself for having wrongly interpreted the words which
had wounded her.</p>

<p>"Excuse me, madame," she said to Clémence; "I
was, no doubt, wrong not to tell you at once what you
desired to know, but you asked me for the name of my
preserver, and, in spite of myself, I could not resist the
pleasure of speaking of him."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span></p>

<p>"Nothing could be more praiseworthy, and it proves
how truly grateful you are to him. Tell me how it was
that you left the worthy people with whom you were, no
doubt, placed by M. Rodolph? Is it to this event that
the oath you were compelled to take, refers?"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame; but, thanks to you, I think I may
still keep my word faithfully, and, at the same time,
inform my benefactors as to my disappearance."</p>

<p>"Now, then, my poor girl, I am all attention to you."</p>

<p>"It is three months nearly since M. Rodolph placed
me at a farm, which is situated four or five leagues from
Paris&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Did M. Rodolph take you there himself?"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame, and confided me to the charge of a
worthy lady, as good as she was venerable; and I loved
her like my mother. She and the curé of the village, at
the request of M. Rodolph, took charge of my education."</p>

<p>"And M.&mdash;Rodolph,&mdash;did he often come to the
farm?"</p>

<p>"No, madame, he only came three times during the
whole time I was there."</p>

<p>Clémence's heart throbbed with joy.</p>

<p>"And when he came to see you that made you very
happy, did it not?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, madame! It was more than happiness to
me; it was a feeling mingled with gratitude, respect,
adoration, and even a degree of fear."</p>

<p>"Of fear?"</p>

<p>"Between him and me, between him and others, the
distance is so great!"</p>

<p>"But what, then, was his rank?"</p>

<p>"I do not know that he had any rank, madame."</p>

<p>"Yet you allude to the distance which exists between
him and others."</p>

<p>"Oh, madame, what places him above all the rest of
the world is the elevation of his character, his inexhaustible
generosity towards those who suffer, the enthusiasm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span>
which he inspires in every one. The wicked, even,
cannot hear his name without trembling, and respect
as much as they dread him! But forgive me, madame,
for still speaking of him. I ought to be silent, for I
seek to give you an adequate idea of him who ought to
be adored in silence. I might as well try to express by
words the goodness of Heaven!"</p>

<p>"This comparison&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Is, perhaps, sacrilegious, madame; but will it offend
the good God to compare to him one who has given me
the consciousness of good and evil, one who has snatched
me from the abyss, one, in fact, to whom I owe a new
existence?"</p>

<p>"I do not blame you, my child; I can understand all
your noble exaggerations. But how was it that you
abandoned this farm, where you must have been so
happy?"</p>

<p>"Alas, not voluntarily, madame!"</p>

<p>"Who, then, forced you away?"</p>

<p>"One evening, some days since," said Fleur-de-Marie,
trembling even as she spoke, "I was going towards the
parsonage-house in the village, when a wicked woman,
who had used me very cruelly during my infancy, and a
man, her accomplice, who had concealed themselves in
a ravine, threw themselves upon me, and, after having
gagged me, carried me off in a hackney-coach."</p>

<p>"For what purpose?"</p>

<p>"I know not, madame. My ravishers, as I think,
were acting in conformity to orders from some powerful
personages."</p>

<p>"What followed this?"</p>

<p>"Scarcely was the hackney-coach in motion, than the
wicked creature, who is called La Chouette, exclaimed,
'I have some vitriol here, and I'll rub La Goualeuse's
face, to disfigure her with it!'"</p>

<p>"Oh, horrible! Unhappy girl! And who has saved
you from this danger?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span></p>

<p>"The woman's confederate, a blind man called the
Schoolmaster."</p>

<p>"And he defended you?"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame, this and another time also. On this
occasion there was a struggle between him and La
Chouette: exerting his strength, the Schoolmaster compelled
her to throw out of window the bottle which held
the vitriol. This was the first service he rendered me,
after having, however, aided in carrying me off. The
night was excessively dark. At the end of an hour and
a half the coach stopped, as I think, on the highroad
which traverses the Plain St. Denis, and here was a
man on horseback, evidently awaiting us. 'What!'
said he, 'have you got her at last?' 'Yes, we've got
her,' answered La Chouette, who was furious because
she had been hindered from disfiguring me. 'If you
wish to get rid of the little baggage at once, it will
be a good plan to stretch her on the ground, and let
the coach wheels pass over her skull. It will appear as
if she had been accidentally killed.'"</p>

<p>"You make me shudder."</p>

<p>"Alas, madame, La Chouette was quite capable of
doing what she said! Fortunately, the man on horseback
replied that he would not have any harm done to
me, and all he wanted was to have me confined somewhere
for two months in a place whence I could neither
go out nor be allowed to write to any one. Then La
Chouette proposed to take me to a man's called Bras
Rouge, who keeps a tavern in the Champs Elysées. In
this tavern there are several subterranean chambers, and
one of these, La Chouette said, would serve me for a
prison. The man on horseback agreed to this proposition;
and he promised me that, after remaining two
months at Bras Rouge's, I should be properly taken care
of, and not be sorry for having quitted the farm at
Bouqueval."</p>

<p>"What a strange mystery!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span></p>

<p>"This man gave money to La Chouette, and promised
her more when she should bring me from Bras Rouge's,
and then galloped away. Our hackney-coach continued
its way on to Paris; and a short time before we reached
the barrier the Schoolmaster said to La Chouette, 'You
want to shut Goualeuse up in one of Bras Rouge's cellars,
when you know very well that, being so close to
the river's side, these cellars are always under water in
the winter! Do you wish to drown her?' 'Yes,' replied
La Chouette."</p>

<p>"Poor girl! What had you ever done to this horrid
woman?"</p>

<p>"Nothing, madame; and from my very infancy she
had always been so full of hatred towards me. The
Schoolmaster replied, 'I won't have Goualeuse drowned!
She sha'n't go to Bras Rouge's!' La Chouette was as
astonished as I was, madame, to hear this man defend
me thus, and she flew into a violent rage, and swore she
would take me to Bras Rouge's in spite of the Schoolmaster.
'I defy you!' said he, 'for I have got Goualeuse
by the arm, and I will not let go my hold of her;
and, if you come near her, I'll strangle you!' 'What
do you mean, then, to do with her,' cried La Chouette,
'since she must be concealed somewhere for two months,
so that no one may know where she is?' 'There's a
way,' said the Schoolmaster. 'We are going by the
Champs Elysées; we will stop the coach a little way off
the guard-house, and you shall go to Bras Rouge's tavern.
It is midnight, and you will be sure to find him;
bring him here, and he shall lead La Goualeuse to the
guard-house, declaring that she is a <i>fille de la Cité</i>, whom
he has found loitering about his house. As girls are
sentenced to three months' imprisonment if found in the
Champs Elysées, and as La Goualeuse is still on the
police books, she will be apprehended and sent to St.
Lazare, where she will be better taken care of and concealed
than in Bras Rouge's cellar.' 'But,' answered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span>
La Chouette, 'Goualeuse will not allow herself to be
arrested even at the <i>corps-de-garde</i>. She will declare
that we have carried her off, and give information
against us; and, supposing even that she goes to prison,
she will write to her protectors, and all will be discovered.'
'No, she will go to prison willingly,' answered
the Schoolmaster; 'and she shall take an oath not to
give any information against any person as long as she
is in St. Lazare, nor afterwards, either. This is a debt
she owes me, for I prevented you from disfiguring her,
La Chouette, and saved her from being drowned at Bras
Rouge's; but if, after having sworn not to speak, she
dares to do so, we will attack the farm at Bouqueval
with fire and blood!' Then, addressing me, the Schoolmaster
added,'Decide, then: take the oath I demand of
you, and you shall get off for three months in prison;
if not, I abandon you to La Chouette, who will take
you to Bras Rouge's, where you will be drowned,
and we will set Bouqueval farm on fire. So, come,
decide. I know, if you take the oath, you will keep
it.'"</p>

<p>"And you did swear?"</p>

<p>"Alas, yes, madame! I was so fearful they would do
my protectors at the farm an injury, and then I so much
dreaded being drowned by La Chouette in a cellar, it
seemed so frightful to me; another death would have
seemed to me less horrid, and, perhaps, I should not
have tried to escape it."</p>

<p>"What a dreadful idea at your age!" said Madame
d'Harville, looking at La Goualeuse with surprise.
"When you have left this place, and have been restored
to your benefactors, shall you not be very happy? Has
not your repentance effaced the past?"</p>

<p>"Can the past ever be effaced? Can the past ever be
forgotten? Can repentance kill memory, madame?"
exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so despairing that
Clémence shuddered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span></p>

<p>"But all faults are retrieved, unhappy girl!"</p>

<p>"And the remembrance of stain, madame, does not
that become more and more terrible in proportion as the
soul becomes purer, in proportion as the mind becomes
more elevated? Alas, the higher we ascend, the deeper
appears the abyss which we have quitted!"</p>

<p>"Then you renounce all hope of restoration&mdash;of
pardon?"</p>

<p>"On the part of others&mdash;no, madame, your kindness
proves to me that remorse will find indulgence."</p>

<p>"But you will be pitiless towards yourself?"</p>

<p>"Others, madame, may not know, pardon, or forget
what I have been, but I shall never forget it!"</p>

<p>"And do you sometimes desire to die?"</p>

<p>"Sometimes!" said Goualeuse, smiling bitterly. Then,
after a moment's silence, she added, "Sometimes,&mdash;yes,
madame."</p>

<p>"Still you were afraid of being disfigured by that
horrid woman; and so you wish to preserve your beauty,
my poor little girl. That proves that life has still some
attraction for you; so courage! Courage!"</p>

<p>"It is, perhaps, weakness to think of it, but if I were
handsome, as you say, madame, I should like to die
handsome, pronouncing the name of my benefactor."</p>

<p>Madame d'Harville's eyes filled with tears. Fleur-de-Marie
had said these last words with so much simplicity;
her angelic, pale, depressed features, her melancholy
smile, were all so much in accord with her words, that it
was impossible to doubt the reality of her sad desire.
Madame d'Harville was endued with too much delicacy
not to feel how miserable, how fatal, was this thought of
La Goualeuse: "I shall never forget what I have been!"&mdash;the
fixed, permanent, incessant idea which controlled
and tortured Fleur-de-Marie's life. Clémence, ashamed
at having for an instant misconstrued the ever disinterested
generosity of the prince, regretted also that she
had for a moment allowed herself to be actuated by any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span>
feeling of absurd jealousy against La Goualeuse, who,
with such pure excitement, expressed her gratitude
towards her protector. It was strange that the admiration
which this poor prisoner felt so deeply towards
Rodolph perhaps increased the profound love which
Clémence must for ever conceal from him. She said, to
drive away these thoughts:</p>

<p>"I trust that, for the future, you will be less severe
towards yourself. But let us talk of this oath, for now
I can explain your silence. You will not denounce these
wretches?"</p>

<p>"Although the Schoolmaster shared in my carrying
off, yet he twice defended me, and I would not be
ungrateful towards him."</p>

<p>"Then you lent yourself to the plans of these
monsters?"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame, I was so frightened! The Chouette
went to seek for Bras Rouge, who conducted me to the
guard-house, saying he had found me roving near his
cabaret. I did not deny it, and so they took me into
custody and brought me here."</p>

<p>"But your friends at the farm must be in the utmost
anxiety about you!"</p>

<p>"Alas, madame, in my great alarm, I did not reflect
that my oath would prevent me from assuring them of
my safety. Now that makes me wretched! But I think
(and hope you think so, too) that, without breaking my
word, I may beg of you to write to Madame Georges at
the farm of Bouqueval, and assure her that she need have
no fears for me, without informing her where I am; for
I have promised to be silent."</p>

<p>"My child, these precautions will be useless if, at my
recommendation, you are pardoned. To-morrow you
will return to the farm without having betrayed your
oath by that; and you may consult your friends hereafter
to know how far you are bound by a promise which
was extorted from you by a threat."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p>

<p>"You believe then, madame, that, thanks to your
kindness, I may hope to leave here very soon?"</p>

<p>"You deserve my interest so much that I am sure I
shall succeed, and I have no doubt but that the day after
to-morrow you may rely on going in person to your
benefactors."</p>

<p>"So soon! Madame, how have I deserved so much
goodness on your part? How can I ever repay your
kindness?"</p>

<p>"By continuing to behave as you have done. I only
regret that I cannot do anything towards your future
existence; that is a pleasure which your friends have
reserved for themselves."</p>

<p>At this moment Madame Armand entered abruptly,
and with a troubled air.</p>

<p>"Madame la Marquise," she said, addressing Clémence
with hesitation, "I am deeply pained with a message I
have to convey to you."</p>

<p>"What do you mean, madame?"</p>

<p>"The Duke de Lucenay is below, just come from your
house, madame."</p>

<p>"La, how you frighten me! What's the matter?"</p>

<p>"I do not know, madame; but M. de Lucenay
has, he told me, some very distressing information
to communicate to you. He learnt from the duchess,
his lady, that you were here, and has come in great
haste."</p>

<p>"Distressing information!" said Madame d'Harville
to herself; then she suddenly shrieked out, in agonised
accents, "My daughter, my daughter, my daughter,
perhaps! Oh, speak, madame!"</p>

<p>"I do not know, your ladyship."</p>

<p>"Oh, for mercy's sake&mdash;for mercy's sake, take me
to M. de Lucenay!" cried Madame d'Harville, rushing
out with a bewildered air, followed by Madame
Armand.</p>

<p>"Poor mother! She fears for her child!" said La<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span>
Goualeuse, following Clémence with her eyes. "Oh,
no, it is impossible! At the very moment when
she was so benevolent and kind to me such a blow
could not strike her! No, no; once again I say it
is impossible!"</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER XIII.</h3>

<h5>THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP.</h5>


<p>We shall now conduct the reader to the house in the
Rue du Temple, about three o'clock on the day in which
M. d'Harville terminated his existence. At the time
mentioned, the conscientious and indefatigable M. Pipelet
sat alone in his lodge, occupied in repairing the boot
which had, more than once, fallen from his hand during
Cabrion's last attack; the physiognomy of the delicate-minded
porter was dejected, and exhibited a more than
usually melancholy air.</p>

<p>All at once a loud and shrill voice was heard calling
from the upper part of the house, exclaiming, in tones
which reëchoed down the staircase:</p>

<p>"M. Pipelet! M. Pipelet! Make haste! Come up as
fast as you can! Madame Pipelet is taken very ill!"</p>

<p>"God bless me!" cried Alfred, rising from his stool.
"Anastasie ill!" But, quickly resuming his seat, he
said to himself, "What a simpleton I must be to believe
such a thing! My wife has been gone out more than an
hour! Ah, but may she not have returned without my
observing it? Certainly, such a mode of proceeding
would be somewhat irregular, but I am not the less
bound to admit that it is possible."</p>

<p>"M. Pipelet!" called out the up-stairs voice again.
"Pray come as quickly as you can; I am holding your
wife in my arms!"</p>

<p>"Holloa!" said Pipelet, springing up abruptly.
"Somebody got my wife in his arms!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span></p>

<p>"I really cannot manage to unlace Madame Pipelet's
stays by myself!" screamed out the voice, in tones
louder than before.</p>

<p>These words perfectly electrified Alfred, and the
blush of offended modesty empurpled his melancholy
features.</p>

<p>"Sir-r-r!" cried he in a stentorian voice, as he
rushed frantically from his lodge. "Sir-r-r! I adjure
you, in the name of Honour, to leave my wife and
her stays alone! I come! I come!"</p>

<p>And so saying, Alfred dashed into the dark labyrinth
called a staircase, forgetting, in his excitement, to close
the door of the lodge after him.</p>

<p>Scarcely had he quitted it than an individual entered
quickly, snatched from the table the cobbler's hammer,
sprung on the bed, and, by means of four small tacks,
previously inserted into each corner of a thick cardboard
he carried with him, nailed the cardboard to the back of
the dark recess in which stood Pipelet's bed; then disappeared
as quickly as he had come. So expeditiously
was the operation performed, that the porter, having
almost immediately recollected his omission respecting
the closing the lodge door, hastily descended, and both
shut and locked it; then putting the key in his pocket,
returned with all speed to succour his wife above-stairs,
without the slightest suspicion crossing his mind that
any foot had trod there since his own. Having taken
this precautionary measure, Alfred again darted off to
the assistance of Anastasie, exclaiming, with all the
power of his lungs:</p>

<p>"Sir-r-r! I come! Behold me! I place my wife
beneath the safeguard of your delicacy!"</p>

<p>But a fresh surprise awaited the worthy porter, and
had well-nigh caused him to fall from the height he had
ascended to the sill of his own lodge,&mdash;the voice of
her he expected to find fainting in the arms of some
unknown individual was now heard, not from the upper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span>
part of the house, but at the entrance! In well-known
accents, but sharper and shriller than usual, he heard
Anastasie exclaim:</p>

<p>"Why, Alfred! What do you mean by leaving the
lodge? Where have you got to, you old gossip?"</p>

<p>At this appeal, M. Pipelet managed to descend as far
as the first landing, where he remained petrified with
astonishment, gazing downwards with fixed stare, open
mouth, and one foot drawn up in the most ludicrous
manner.</p>

<p>"Alfred, I say!" screamed Madame Pipelet, a second
time, in a voice loud enough to awake the dead.</p>

<p>"Anastasie down there? Then it is impossible she
can be ill up-stairs," said Pipelet, mentally, faithful to his
system of close and logical argumentation. "Whose,
then, was the manly voice that spoke of her illness, and
of his undoing her stays? An impostor, doubtless, to
whom my distraction and alarm have been a matter
of amusement; but what motive could he have had in
thus working upon my susceptible feelings? Something
very extraordinary is going on here. However, as soon
as I have been to answer my wife's inquiry, I will return
to clear up this mystery, and to discover the person
whose voice summoned me in such haste."</p>

<p>In considerable agitation did M. Pipelet descend, and
find himself in his wife's presence.</p>

<p>"It is you, then, this time?" inquired he.</p>

<p>"Of course it is me; who did you expect it was?"</p>

<p>"'Tis you, indeed! My senses do not deceive me!"</p>

<p>"Alfred, what is the matter with you? Why do you
stand there, staring and opening your mouth, as if
you meant to swallow me?"</p>

<p>"Because your presence reveals to me that strange
things are passing here, so strange that&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, stuff and nonsense! Give me the key of the
lodge! What made you leave it when I was out?
I have just come from the office where the diligence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span>
starts from for Normandy. I went there in a coach to
take M. Bradamanti's trunk, as he did not wish that
little rascal, Tortillard, to know anything about it,
since, it seems, he had rather no one should be
acquainted with the fact of his leaving Paris this
evening; and, as for his mistrusting the boy, why, I
don't wonder at it."</p>

<p>Saying these words, Madame Pipelet took the key
from her husband's hand, opened the lodge, and entered
it before her partner; but scarcely were they both safe
within its dark recesses, than an individual, lightly
descending the staircase, passed swiftly and unobserved
before the lodge. This personage was Cabrion, who,
having managed to steal up-stairs, had so powerfully
worked upon the porter's tender susceptibilities. M.
Pipelet threw himself into his chair, saying to his
wife, in a voice of deep emotion:</p>

<p>"Anastasie; I do not feel myself comfortable to-day;
strange and mysterious things are going on in this
house."</p>

<p>"What! Are you going to break out again? What
an old fool you are! Why, strange things happen in
every house. What has come over you? Come, let's
look at you! Well, I declare, you are all of a sweat,
just as if you had been dragged out of the water! What
have you been doing since I left you? Overexerting
yourself, I am sure, and I forbid you ever doing so.
La! Look how the great drops pour from him, poor
old chick!"</p>

<p>"And well they may!" exclaimed M. Pipelet, passing
his hand over his face, bathed in its own dew; "well
may I sweat,&mdash;ay, even blood and water,&mdash;for there
are facts connected with this house past belief or comprehension.
First, you summon me up-stairs, and, at
the same moment, I find you waiting below! Oh, it is
too, too much for my poor brain!"</p>

<p>"Deuce take me, if I can comprehend one word of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span>
you are saying! Lord, help us! It is to be hoped your
poor old brain is not cracked. I tell you what, if you
go on so, I shall just set you down for cracked; and all
through that scamp of a Cabrion,&mdash;the devil take him!
Ever since that last trick he played the other day, I
declare you have not been yourself, so flustered and
bewildered! Do you mean to live in fear and dread of
that abominable painter all your days?"</p>

<p>But scarcely had Anastasie uttered these words than
a fearful thing occurred. Alfred continued sitting, with
his face turned towards the bed, while the lodge was
dimly illumined by the faint glimmer of a winter's
afternoon and a lamp that stood burning on the table,
near Alfred's work. By these doubtful lights, M. Pipelet,
just as his wife pronounced the name of Cabrion,
imagined he saw, in the shadow of the recess, the half
stolid, half chuckling features of his enemy. Alas! Too
truly, there he was. His steeple-crowned hat, his flowing
locks, thin countenance, sardonic smile, pointed
beard, and look of fiendish malice, all were there, past
all mistake. For a moment, M. Pipelet believed himself
under the influence of a dream, and passed his hand
across his eyes, in hopes that the illusion might disperse;
but no; there was nothing illusive in what his
eyes glared so fearfully upon,&mdash;nothing could be more
real or positive. Yet, horror of horrors! This object
seemed merely to possess a head, which, without allowing
any part of the body to appear, grinned a satanic
smile from the dark draperies of the recess in which
stood the bed. At this horrific vision M. Pipelet fell
back, without uttering a word. With uplifted arm he
pointed towards the source of his terrors, but with so
strong a manifestation of intense alarm that Madame
Pipelet, spite of her usual courage and self-possession,
could not help feeling a dread of&mdash;she knew not what.
She staggered back a few steps, then, seizing Alfred by
the hand, exclaimed:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span></p>

<p>"Cabrion!"</p>

<p>"I know it!" groaned forth M. Pipelet, in a deep,
hollow voice, shutting his eyes to exclude the frightful
spectre.</p>

<p>Nothing could have borne more flattering tribute to
the talent which had so admirably delineated the features
of Cabrion than the overwhelming terror his pasteboard
likeness occasioned to the worthy couple in
the lodge; but the first surprise of Anastasie over, she,
bold as a lioness, rushed to the bed, sprang upon it,
and, though not without some trepidation, tore the
painting from the wall, against which it had been
nailed; then, crowning her valiant deed by her accustomed
favourite expression, the amazon triumphantly
exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Get along with you!"</p>

<p>Alfred, on the contrary, remained with closed eyes
and extended hands, fixed and motionless, according to
his wont during the most critical passages of his life;
the continued oscillation of his bell-crowned hat alone
revealing, from time to time, the violence of his internal
emotions.</p>

<p>"Open your eyes, my old duck!" cried Madame Pipelet,
triumphantly. "It is nothing to be afraid of, only
a picture, a portrait of that scoundrel Cabrion. Look
here, lovey,&mdash;look at 'Stasie stamping on it!" continued
the indignant wife, throwing the painting on the ground,
and jumping upon it with all her force; then added,
"Ah, I wish I had the villain here, to serve the same!
I'll warrant I'd mark him for life!" Then, picking up
the portrait, she said, "Well, I've served you out, anyhow!
Just look, old dear, if I haven't!"</p>

<p>But poor Alfred, with a disconsolate shake of the
head, made signs that he had rather not, and further
intimating, by expressive gestures, his earnest desire
that his wife would remove the detested likeness of his
bitter foe far from his view.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span></p>

<p>"Well," cried the porteress, examining the portrait by
the aid of the lamp, "was there ever such imperance?
Why, Alfred, the vile feller has presumed to write in red
letters at the bottom of the picture, 'To my dear friend
Pipelet; presented by his friend for life, Cabrion!'"</p>

<p>"For life!" groaned Pipelet; then, heaving a deep
sigh, he added, "Yes, 'tis my life he aims at; and he
will finish by taking it. I shall exist, from this day forward,
in a state of continual alarm, believing that the
fiend who torments me is ever near,&mdash;hid, perhaps, in
the floor, the wall, the ceiling, and thence watches me
throughout the day; or even at night, when sleeping in
the chaste arms of my wife, his eye is still on me. And
who can tell but he is at this very instant behind me,
gazing with that well-known sardonic grin; or crouched
down in some corner of the room, like a deadly reptile!
Say, you monster, are you there? Are you there, I
demand?" cried M. Pipelet, accompanying this furious
adjuration by a sort of circular motion of the head, as
though wishing to interrogate every nook and corner of
the lodge.</p>

<p>"Yes, dear friend, here I am!" answered the well-known
voice of Cabrion, in blandly affectionate tones.</p>

<p>By a simple trick in ventriloquism, these words were
made to appear as though issuing from the recess in
which stood the bed; but the malicious joker was
in reality close to the door of the lodge, enjoying every
particular look and word that passed within. However,
after uttering the last few words, he prudently disappeared
with all haste, though not (as will be seen)
without leaving his victim a fresh subject for rage,
astonishment, and meditation.</p>

<p>Madame Pipelet, still skeptical and courageous, carefully
examined under the bed, as well as in every corner
of the lodge, but, discovering no trace of the enemy,
actually went out into the alley to prosecute her researches;
while M. Pipelet, completely crushed by this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span>
last blow, fell back into his chair in a state of boundless
despair.</p>

<p>"Never mind, Alfred!" said Anastasie, who always
exhibited great determination upon all critical occasions.
"Bless you! The villain had managed to hide
himself somewhere near the door, and, while we were
looking in one direction, he managed to slip out in
another. But just wait a bit: I shall catch him one of
these days, and then see if I don't make him taste my
broomstick! Let him take care, that's all!"</p>

<p>The door opened as she concluded this animating
address, and Madame Séraphin, the housekeeper of the
notary, Jacques Ferrand, entered the lodge.</p>

<p>"Good day, Madame Séraphin," said Madame Pipelet,
who, in her extreme anxiety to conceal her domestic
troubles from a stranger, assumed all at once a most
gracious and winning manner; "what can I have the
pleasure of doing for you?"</p>

<p>"Why, first of all, tell me what is the meaning of
your new sign?"</p>

<p>"Our new sign?"</p>

<p>"Yes; the small printed board."</p>

<p>"Printed board!"</p>

<p>"To be sure; that black board with red letters,
hung over the door leading from the alley up to your
lodge."</p>

<p>"What, out in the street?"</p>

<p>"In the street, I tell you, precisely over your door."</p>

<p>"I wish I may die if I understand a single word of
what you are talking about! Do you, old dear?"</p>

<p>Alfred spoke not.</p>

<p>"Certainly," continued Madame Séraphin, "since it
relates to M. Pipelet, he can best explain to me what
this board means."</p>

<p>Alfred uttered a sort of heavy, inarticulate groan,
while his bell-crowned hat recommenced its convulsive
agitations. This pantomimic action was meant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span>
to express that Alfred was in no condition to explain
anything to anybody, having his mind already sufficiently
burdened with an infinity of problematical
questions he sought in vain to solve.</p>

<p>"Don't take any notice of poor dear Alfred, Madame
Séraphin; he has got the cramp in his stomach, and
that makes him so very&mdash;But what is this board of
which you were speaking? Very likely it has just been
put up by the man who keeps the wine-shop at the
corner."</p>

<p>"I tell you again it is no such thing. It is a small
painted board, hung up over your door,&mdash;I mean the
door leading from the alley to the street."</p>

<p>"Ah, you are laughing at us!"</p>

<p>"Indeed I am not. I saw it just now, as I came in;
on it is written, in large letters, 'Pipelet and Cabrion,
dealers in Friendship and similar Articles. Inquire of
the Porter.'"</p>

<p>"Gracious goodness! Do you hear that, Alfred? Do
you hear what is written up over our door?"</p>

<p>Alfred gazed at Madame Séraphin with a bewildered
look, but he neither understood nor sought to understand
her meaning.</p>

<p>"Do you mean to say," continued Madame Pipelet,
confounded by this fresh audacity, "that you positively
saw a little board out in the street with all that about
Alfred and Cabrion, and dealing in friendship?"</p>

<p>"I tell you I have just seen it, and read with my own
eyes what I described to you. 'Well,' said I to myself,
'this is droll enough! M. Pipelet is a shoemaker by
trade, but here he writes up publicly that he is a dealer
in friendship along with a M. Cabrion! What can all this
mean? There is something meant more than meets the
eye!' Still, as the board further directed all persons
desirous of knowing more to apply to the porter, 'Oh,'
thinks I, 'Madame Pipelet can explain all this to me!'
But, look, look!" cried Madame Séraphin, suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span>
breaking off in her remarks. "Your husband is taken ill!
Mind what you are about, or he will fall backwards!"</p>

<p>Madame Pipelet flew to her afflicted partner, and was
just in time to receive him, half fainting, in her arms.
The last blow had been too overwhelming,&mdash;the man
in the bell-crowned hat had but just strength left to
murmur forth, "The scoundrel has, then, publicly
placarded me!"</p>

<p>"I told you, Madame Séraphin, that poor Alfred was
suffering dreadful with the cramp in his stomach, besides
being worried to death by a crack-brained vagabond, who
is at him night and day: he'll be the death of my poor
old duck at last. Never mind, darling, I've got a nice
little drop of aniseed to give you; so drink it, and see if
you can't shake your old feathers and be yourself again!"</p>

<p>Thanks to the timely application of Madame Pipelet's
infallible remedy, Alfred gradually recovered his senses;
but, alas, scarcely was he restored to full consciousness
ere he was subjected to another and equally cruel trial
of his feelings!</p>

<p>An individual of middle age, respectably dressed, and
possessing a countenance so simple, or rather so silly, as
to render it impossible to suspect him of any malice prepense
or intended irony, opened the upper and glazed
part of the lodge door, saying, with the most genuine
air of mystification:</p>

<p>"I have just read on a small board placed over the
door, at the entrance to the alley, the following words:
'Pipelet and Cabrion, dealers in Friendship and similar
Articles. Inquire of the Porter.' Will you oblige me
by explaining the meaning of those words, if you are, as
I presume you to be, the porter in question?"</p>

<p>"The meaning!" exclaimed M. Pipelet, in a voice
of thunder, and giving vent at length to his so long
restrained indignation; "the meaning is simply,
sir-r-r, that M. Cabrion is an infamous scoundrel,&mdash;an
impostor!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span></p>

<p>The simple-looking interrogator drew back, in dread
of the consequences that might follow this sudden and
furious burst of wrath, while, wrought up to a state of
fury, Alfred leaned over the half door of the lodge, his
glaring eyeballs and clenched hands indicating the intensity
of his feelings; while the figures of Madame Séraphin
and Anastasie were dimly revealed amid the murky
shades of the small room.</p>

<p>"Let me tell you, sir-r-r!" cried M. Pipelet, addressing
the placid-looking man at the door, "that I have no
dealings with that beggar Cabrion, and certainly none
in the way of friendship!"</p>

<p>"No, that I'm sure you have not!" screamed out
Madame Pipelet, in confirmation of her husband's
words; adding, as she displayed her forbidding countenance
over her husband's shoulder, "and I wonder
very much where that old dunderhead has come from
to ask such a stupid question?"</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon, madame," said the guileless-looking
individual thus addressed, again withdrawing another
step to escape the concentrated anger of the enraged pair;
"placards are made to be read,&mdash;you put out a board,
which I read,&mdash;now allow me to say that I am not to
blame for perusing what you set up purposely to attract
attention, but that you are decidedly wrong to insult
me so grossly when I civilly come to you, as your own
board desires, for information."</p>

<p>"Oh, you old fool! Get along with you!" exclaimed
Anastasie, with a most hideous distortion of visage.</p>

<p>"You are a rude, unmannerly woman!"</p>

<p>"Alfred, deary, just fetch me your boot-jack: I'll give
that old chatterer such a mark that his own mother shall
not know her darling again!"</p>

<p>"Really, madame, I can't say I understand receiving
such rough treatment when I come, by your own directions,
to make inquiries respecting what you or your
husband have publicly notified in the streets."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span></p>

<p>"But, sir-r-r&mdash;!" cried the unhappy porter.</p>

<p>"Sir!" interrupted the hitherto placid inquirer, now
worked up into extreme rage, "Sir! You may carry
your friendship with your M. Cabrion as far as you
please, but, give me leave to tell you, you have no business
to parade yourself or your friendships in the face
of everybody in the streets. And I think it right, sir, to
let you know a bit of my mind; which is, that you are
a boasting braggart, and that I shall go at once and lay
a formal complaint against you at the police office."
Saying which, the individual departed in an apparently
towering passion.</p>

<p>"Anastasie," moaned out poor Pipelet, in a dolorous
voice, "I shall never survive all this! I feel but too
surely that I am struck with death,&mdash;I have not a hope
of escape! You hear my name is publicly exposed in
the open streets, in company with that scoundrel's! He
has dared to placard the hideous tale of my having
entered into a treaty of friendship with him! And the
innocent, unsuspecting public will read the hateful statement&mdash;remember
it&mdash;repeat it&mdash;spread the detestable
report! Oh, monstrous, enormous, devilish invention!
None but a fiend could have had such a thought. But
there must be an end to this. The measure is full,&mdash;ay,
to overflowing; and things have come to such a pass
that either this accursed painter or myself must perish
in the deadly struggle!" And, wrought up to such a
state of vigorous resolution as to completely conquer his
usual apathy, M. Pipelet seized the portrait of Cabrion
and rushed towards the door.</p>

<p>"Where are you going, Alfred?" screamed the wife.</p>

<p>"To the commissary of police, and, at the same time,
to tear down that vile board! Then, bearing the board
in one hand and the portrait in the other, I will cry
aloud to the commissary, 'Defend, avenge an injured
man! Deliver me from Cabrion!'"</p>

<p>"So do, old darling! There, hold up your head and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span>
pluck up courage! And I tell you what, if the board is
too high for you to reach, ask the man at the wine-shop
to lend you his small ladder. That blackguard of a
Cabrion! I only wish I had him in my power, I'd fry
him for half an hour in my largest stew-pan! Why,
scores of people have been publicly executed who did not
deserve death a quarter as much as he does! The villain!
I should like to see him just ready to have the
guillotine dropped upon his head. Wouldn't I give him
my blessing in a friendly way? A rascal!"</p>

<p>Alfred, amid all his woes, yet displayed a rare magnanimity,
contrasting strongly with the vindictive spirit
of his partner.</p>

<p>"No, no," said he; "spite of the wrongs he has done
me, I would not, even if his life were in my power,
'demand his head!'"</p>

<p>"But I would! I would! I would!" vociferated the
ferocious Anastasie. "If he had fifty heads, I would
demand every one of them! I would not leave him one!
But go along; make haste, Alfred, and set the commissary
of police to work upon him."</p>

<p>"No," cried Alfred, "I desire not his blood; but I
have a right to demand the perpetual imprisonment of
this malicious being. My repose requires it,&mdash;my health
peremptorily calls for it. The laws of my country must
either grant me this reparation for all I have suffered, or
I quit France. Yes, beautiful and beloved France! I turn
my back on you for ever! And that is all an ungrateful
nation would gain by neglecting to heal the wounds
of my tortured mind;" and, bending beneath the weight
of his grief, Alfred majestically quitted the lodge, like
one of the ancient victims of all-conquering Fatality.</p>



<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER XIV.</h3>

<h5>CECILY.</h5>


<p>Before we introduce the reader to the conversation
between Madame Séraphin and Madame Pipelet, we must
premise that Anastasie, without entertaining the very
slightest suspicion of the virtue and piety of the notary,
felt the greatest indignation at the severity manifested
by him in the case both of Louise Morel and M. Germain;
and, as a natural consequence, the angry porteress
included Madame Séraphin in the same censure; but
still, like a skilful politician, Madame Pipelet, for reasons
we shall hereafter explain, concealed her dislike to
the <i>femme-de-charge</i> under the appearance of the greatest
cordiality. After having explicitly declared her extreme
disapprobation of the conduct pursued by Cabrion, Madame
Séraphin went on to say:</p>

<p>"By the way, what has become of M. Bradamanti
Polidori? I wrote to him yesterday evening, but got no
reply; this morning I came to see him, but he was not
to be found. I trust I shall be more fortunate this
time."</p>

<p>Madame Pipelet affected the most lively regret.</p>

<p>"Really," cried she, "you are doomed to be unlucky!"</p>

<p>"How so?"</p>

<p>"M. Bradamanti has not yet returned."</p>

<p>"Upon my word, this is enough to tire a saint!"</p>

<p>"So it is, I declare, Madame Séraphin. I'm sure I'm
as sorry about it as if it was my own self."</p>

<p>"I had so much to say to him."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span></p>

<p>"It is all for the world as though you were
bewitched!"</p>

<p>"Why, yes, it is so much the more vexatious, because
I have to find all manner of excuses to run down here;
for, if once M. Ferrand were to find out that I came to
consult a quack doctor, he who is so devout, so scrupulous
in all things, we should have a fearful scene!"</p>

<p>"La! He is just like Alfred, who is so silly that
really he is afraid of everything and everybody!"</p>

<p>"And you do not know, I suppose, when M. Bradamanti
will return home?"</p>

<p>"No, not precisely; but I know very well that he
expects some one about six or seven o'clock this evening,
for he told me to request the person to call again, should
he not be at home at the time mentioned. So, if you will
call again in the evening, you will be sure to see him."</p>

<p>But, as Anastasie said these words, she mentally
added, "I would not have you too sure of that; in an
hour's time he will be on his road to Normandy!"</p>

<p>"Very well, then," said Madame Séraphin, with an air
of considerable chagrin. Then, pausing a brief space,
she added, "I had also something to say to you, my
dear Madame Pipelet. You know, I suppose, what happened
to that girl, Louise Morel, whom everybody
thought so good and virtuous&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, pray don't mention her!" replied Madame Pipelet,
rolling her eyes with affected horror. "It makes one's
hair stand on end."</p>

<p>"I merely alluded to her by way of saying that we
are now quite without a servant, and that, if you should
chance to hear of a well-disposed, honest, and industrious
young person, I should take it as a favour if you would
send her to us. Upon my word, girls of good character
are so difficult to be met with that one had need search
in twenty places at once to find one."</p>

<p>"Depend upon it, Madame Séraphin, that, should I
hear of anybody likely to suit you, I will let you know;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span>
but, in my opinion, good situations are more rare even
than good servants." Then, again relapsing into a fit
of abstraction, Anastasie added, though mentally, "A
likely story that I should send any young girl to be
starved to death in your dungeon of a house; your master
is too stingy and hard-hearted! The idea of throwing
that poor Louise and M. Germain both in prison!"</p>

<p>"I need not tell you," continued Madame Séraphin,
"what a still, quiet house ours is; any young person
must be improved by living in a family where there is
continually something to be learned; and that Louise
must have been naturally a depraved creature, to turn
out badly spite of the good and religious advice bestowed
on her by M. Ferrand."</p>

<p>"No doubt; but depend upon it that, directly I hear
of a young person likely to suit you, I will be sure to let
you know."</p>

<p>"There is just one thing more I should like to mention,"
resumed Madame Séraphin, "and that is, that
M. Ferrand would greatly prefer taking a person who
had no relatives or friends, because then, you understand,
having no motive for wishing to go out, she would
be less exposed to danger, neither would her mind be so
likely to be upset; so that, if you should happen to
meet with an orphan, I think M. Ferrand would prefer
taking her, in the first place, because it would be doing
a good action; and, secondly, as, having neither friends
nor followers, she could not have any excuse for wishing
to go out. I assure you that wretched girl, Louise, gave
M. Ferrand a severe lesson, I can tell you, Madame
Pipelet, and one that will make him very careful what
sort of a servant he engages. Only imagine such a
scandalous affair occurring in a house like ours! Dreadful!
Well, then, I will call again this evening to see
M. Bradamanti, and, at the same time, I can have a
little conversation with Mother Burette."</p>

<p>"Then I will say adieu, Madame Séraphin, till this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span>
evening, when you will be quite sure of finding
M. Bradamanti."</p>

<p>Madame Séraphin returned the salutation, and quitted
the lodge.</p>

<p>"What a deuce of a worry she is in about Bradamanti!"
said Madame Pipelet, when her visitor had
disappeared. "I wonder what she wants with him? And
then, too, M. Bradamanti is just as anxious to avoid seeing
her before he starts for Normandy. I was dreadfully
afraid she meant to stick here till he did return
home, and that would have been the more awkward, as
M. Bradamanti expects the same lady who came last
night; I could not manage to have a squint at her then,
but I am determined to-night to stare her regularly out
of countenance, like I did the lady who came on the sly
to visit my five-farthing commandant. Ah, the screw!
the nipcheese! He has never ventured to show his face
here since. However, by way of teaching him better, I
shall make good use of his wood; yes, yes, my fine
gentleman, it shall keep the lodge warm, as well as air
your shut-up apartments. A disappointed puppy! Ha, ha,
ha! Go, and be hanged with your paltry twelve francs
a month! Better learn to pay people honest wages, than
go flaunting about in a bright green dressing-gown, like
a great lanky grasshopper! But who the plague can
this lady of M. Bradamanti's be, I wonder? Is she
respectable, or t'other? I should like to know, for I
am as curious as a magpie; but that is not my fault;
I am as God made me, so I can't help it. I know one's
disposition is born with us, and so the blame does not
lie at my door. Stop a bit; I've just thought of a capital
plan to find out who this lady really is; and, what's
more, I'll engage it turns out successful. Who is that I
see coming? Ah, my king of lodgers! Your servant,
M. Rodolph!" cried Madame Pipelet, saluting him, after
the military fashion, by placing the back of her left hand
to her wig.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span></p>

<p>It was, in truth, Rodolph, who, as yet ignorant of the
death of M. d'Harville, approached gaily, saying:</p>

<p>"Good day to you, Madame Pipelet! Can you tell
me if Mlle. Rigolette is at home? I have something
to say to her, if she is."</p>

<p>"At home, poor girl! Why, when is she ever out?
When does she lose an hour, or idle instead of working?"</p>

<p>"And how gets on Morel's unfortunate wife? Does
she appear more reconciled to her misfortunes?"</p>

<p>"Yes, M. Rodolph, I am glad to say she does; and
how can she be otherwise, when, thanks to you, or the
generous friend whose agent you are, she is supplied
with every comfort, both for herself and her children,
who are as happy as fishes in the sea? Why, they want
for nothing; they have good air, good food, good fires,
and good beds, with a nurse to take care of them, besides
Mlle. Rigolette, who, although working like a little busy
bee, and without seeming to take part in their proceedings,
never loses sight of them, bless you! And they have
had a black doctor to see them, who says he comes from
you. 'Well,' says I, when I looked at him, 'you are a
funny one for a doctor, you are! I suppose, Mr. Nigger,
you are physician to a company of charcoalmen, because
there is no fear of your blacking your hands when you
feel their pulse?' But la, M. Rodolph, I'm only joking!
For what difference does colour make? Leastways
your blacky seems to be a first-rate clever man, spite
of his dingy face, for the first thing he did was to order
a composing draught for Morel's wife, which did her a
world of good!"</p>

<p>"Poor thing! I doubt not she is still very miserable?"</p>

<p>"Why, yes, M. Rodolph, naturally enough she is, for
she has plenty of grief before her: her husband in a
madhouse, and her daughter in prison! Ah, that poor
Louise! That is the sorest of her heartaches; such
a blow as that to an honest family, such as theirs has
always been, is not to be got over so easily. And that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span>
Madame Séraphin, housekeeper to the notary, who has
caused all this misery, has just been here, saying all
manner of cruel things about the poor girl. If I had
not had my own game to play, she should not have told
the tale quite her own way; but I've got a pill for her
to swallow by and by, so I'll let her off easy. Why, only
conceive her assurance in coming to ask me if I could
not recommend her some young person to supply the
place of Louise in the establishment of that old brute of
a notary. What a blessed pair the master and his housekeeper
are! Just fancy their preferring an orphan, if
they can obtain one, to be their servant! Don't you see
through that, M. Rodolph? They pretend that their
reason for wishing for an orphan is, because, having
neither parents nor friends, she would never wish to go
out, and would be more free from interruption; but that
is not it, that is all a fudge; the truth is, they think
that, if they could get a poor, friendless girl into their
clutches, having nobody to see her righted, they could
cheat her out of her wages as much as they liked. Now
is not that true, M. Rodolph?"</p>

<p>"No doubt," replied the person addressed, with the
air of one who is thinking deeply on a subject.</p>

<p>The information thus afforded him as to Madame
Séraphin seeking an orphan girl, to replace Louise as
servant in the family of M. Ferrand, appeared to present
the almost certain means of accomplishing the just punishment
of the notary; and, while Madame Pipelet was
yet speaking, he was arranging every point of the part
he had mentally destined for Cecily, whom he purposed
making the principal instrument in effecting the retributive
justice he meant to inflict on the vile persecutor of
Louise Morel.</p>

<p>"Oh, I was quite sure you would be of my opinion,"
continued Madame Pipelet, "and that you would agree
with me in thinking that their only reason for desiring
to engage an orphan girl is, that they may do her out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span>
her wages; and, I can tell you, I would sooner drop down
dead than send any poor, friendless creature to such a
house! Certainly, I don't happen to know of any one,
but, if I knew of fifty, they should not enter into such
a wretched house, if I could hinder them. Don't you
think I'm right, M. Rodolph?"</p>

<p>"Madame Pipelet, will you do me a great favour?"</p>

<p>"Do you a favour, M. Rodolph? Lord love your
heart and soul! Just say what there is I can do for
you, and then see whether I will or no. Come, what
is it? Shall I jump into the fire? or curl my best wig
with boiling oil? or is there anybody I can worry, bite,
pinch, or scold for you? Only say the word. I am
wholly at your service, heart and body, your most
humble slave; always stipulating that in my service
there shall be no offence to Alfred's prior claims
on me."</p>

<p>"Oh, my dear Madame Pipelet, make yourself perfectly
easy! I want you to manage a little affair for
me, which is this: I have got to place out a young
orphan girl, who is utterly a stranger to Paris; and
I wish very much, with your assistance, to obtain for
her the situation vacant in M. Ferrand's establishment."</p>

<p>"You don't mean it? La, I never can think you are
in earnest! What! Send a poor, friendless girl to live
with such a miserly wretch as that hard-hearted old
notary? No, no, M. Rodolph, that was not what you
wanted me to do, I'm sure!"</p>

<p>"But, indeed, it is; why, a place is a place, and, if
the young person I mentioned to you should not like
it, she is not obliged to stay there; and then, don't you
see, she would at once be able to maintain herself, while
I should have no further uneasiness about her?"</p>

<p>"Oh, as far as that goes, M. Rodolph, it is your affair, not
mine; and, whatever happens, remember I warned you.
If, after all you have heard, you still think the place would
suit your young friend, why, of course, you can please<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span>
yourself; and, then, to be sure, as far as regards the
notary, there are always two sides to every picture, a for
and against to every tale; he is hard-hearted as a flint-stone,
obstinate as a jackass, bigoted as a Jesuit, that's
true enough; but then he is of the most scrupulous
punctuality in all his affairs; he gives very low wages,
but, then, he pays on the nail; the living is very bad at
his house, still it is the same one day as another. In
a word, though it is a house where a servant must work
like a horse, yet, at the same time, it is one of those dull,
quiet, stupid places, where there is certainly nothing to
tempt a girl to get into mischief. Certainly, Louise
managed to go wrong, but that was all a chance."</p>

<p>"Madame Pipelet, I am going to confide a great secret
to your honour."</p>

<p>"Well, then, upon the word and honour of Anastasie
Pipelet, whose maiden name was Gulimard, as true as
there is a God and heaven, and that Alfred always wears
green coats, I will be silent as a stockfish!"</p>

<p>"You must not breathe a word to M. Pipelet."</p>

<p>"That I won't, I swear by the head of that dear old
duck himself, if it relates to a proper and correct
affair."</p>

<p>"Surely, Madame Pipelet, you have too good an
opinion of me to suppose, for a minute, that I would
insult your chaste ears with anything that was not?"</p>

<p>"Well, then, go it! Let's know all about it, and,
I promise you, Alfred shall never be the wiser, be it
what it may. Bless you! he is as easy to cheat as
a child of six years old."</p>

<p>"I rely implicitly on you; therefore listen to my
words."</p>

<p>"I will, my king of lodgers; and remember that we
are now sworn friends for life or for death. So go on
with your story."</p>

<p>"The young person I spoke to you about has, unfortunately,
committed one serious fault."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span></p>

<p>"I was sure of it! Why, Lord bless you, if I had not
married Alfred when I was fifteen years of age, I dare
say I should have committed, fifties and hundreds of
faults! I? There, just as you see. I was like a barrel
of gunpowder at the very sight or mention of a smart
young fellow. Luckily for me, Pipelet extinguished the
warmth of my nature in the coolness of his own virtue;
if he had not, I can't say what might have happened, for
I did dearly love the gay deceivers! I merely mention
this to say that, if the young person has only done wrong
once, then there are great hopes of her."</p>

<p>"I trust, indeed, she will atone for her past misconduct.
She was living in service, in Germany, with a
relation of mine, and the partner of her crime was the
son of this relative. Do you understand?"</p>

<p>"Do I? Don't I? Go along with you! I understand
as well as though I had committed the fault myself."</p>

<p>"The angry mistress, upon discovering her servant's
guilt, drove her from her house; but the young man
was weak enough to quit his paternal roof, and to bring
the unfortunate girl to Paris."</p>

<p>"Well, la, M. Rodolph! What else could you expect?
Why, young people will be young people. I'm sure I&mdash;"</p>

<p>"After this act of folly came stern reflection, rendered
still more severe by the fact of the slender stock
of money he possessed being exhausted. In this dilemma,
my young relation applied to me; and I consented
to furnish him with the means of returning home,
on condition of his leaving behind him the companion
of his flight, whom I undertook to place out in some
respectable capacity."</p>

<p>"Well, I declare, I could not have done more for a
son, if it had pleased Heaven&mdash;and Pipelet&mdash;that I
should have had one!"</p>

<p>"I am delighted that you approve of my conduct;
still, as the young girl is a stranger, and has no one to
give her a recommendation, I fear it will be rather difficult<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span>
to get her placed. Now, if you would tell Madame
Séraphin that a relation of yours, living in Germany,
has sent her to you, with a very excellent character, the
notary would, possibly, take her into his service; and I
should be doubly delighted. Cecily (for that is her
name), having only once gone astray, would, doubtless,
soon regain the right path in a house as severe and
saintly as that of the notary's; and it is for that reason
I am desirous of seeing the poor girl enter into the service
of M. Ferrand; and, of course, if introduced by so
respectable a person as yourself, Madame Pipelet, there
would be no fear of her obtaining the place."</p>

<p>"Oh, M. Rodolph!"</p>

<p>"Yes, indeed, my good madame, I am sure that one
word from so justly esteemed an individual as you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, my king of lodgers!"</p>

<p>"I repeat that, if you would patronise the young girl
so far as to introduce her to Madame Séraphin, I have
no fears but that she would be accepted; whereas, you
know, if I were to accompany her to the notary's
house&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I see what you mean; to be sure, it would look just
as queer as if I were to introduce a young man. Well,
I will do what you wish; it will be serving old Séraphin
out as she deserves. I can tell you I have had a crow
to pluck with her a long time, and this seems a famous
way of serving her out; besides, it's a good lark, any
way. So look upon the thing as done, M. Rodolph. I'll
cram the old woman well. I will tell her that a relation
of my own, long established in Germany, has just
died, as well as her husband, leaving a daughter wholly
dependent on me."</p>

<p>"Capital! Well, then, without saying anything more
to Madame Séraphin, you shall take Cecily to M. Ferrand.
All you will have to say is, that, not having seen or
heard anything of your relation during the last twenty
years, you consider it best to let her speak for herself."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span></p>

<p>"Ah, but then, if the girl only jabbers German?"</p>

<p>"I assure you she speaks French perfectly well. I
will give her proper instructions, therefore you need do
nothing more than strongly recommend her to Madame
Séraphin,&mdash;or, stay, upon second thoughts, perhaps
you had better not say any more than you have done
on the subject, for fear she should suspect you want to
force the girl upon her. You know that, frequently,
the very asking a thing produces a refusal."</p>

<p>"I should think I did, too! Why, that was the way I
got rid of all the flattering lovers that came about me.
If they had never asked me a favour, I don't know what
I might have done."</p>

<p>"It is always the case; therefore say nothing more
to Madame Séraphin than just this, that Cecily is an
orphan, and a stranger here, very young and very pretty,
that she will be a heavy burden to you, and that you are
not particularly fond of her, in consequence of having
long since quarrelled with her mother, and, consequently,
not retaining a very great affection for the
charge bequeathed to your care."</p>

<p>"What a deep one you are! But never mind, there's
a pair of us! I say, M. Rodolph, is it not odd you and
I should understand each other so well? Ah, we two
should have suited one another to a hair! Gracious,
M. Rodolph, when I think what might have happened,
if we had chanced to have met when I was such a tender-hearted,
susceptible young creature, and so fond of
handsome young men,&mdash;don't you fancy we should have
seemed like made for one another,&mdash;eh, M. Rodolph?"</p>

<p>"Hush! Suppose M. Pipelet&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I forgot him, poor old duck! His brain is half
turned since this last abominable prank of Cabrion's;
but I'll tell you about that another time. As for your
young relation, make yourself quite easy; I will undertake
to play my part so well that old Séraphin shall
come to me, and beg to have her as a servant."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span></p>

<p>"And if you succeed, Madame Pipelet, I have one
hundred francs quite at your service. I am not rich,
but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Are you making fun of me, M. Rodolph, or do you
imagine I am doing what I do for the sake of gain? I
declare to God it's out of nothing but pure friendship!
One hundred francs! That's handsome, however!"</p>

<p>"Why, I consider it but an act of justice, as well as
gratitude, to offer you a sum which, if left several
months on my hands, the girl must soon have cost me."</p>

<p>"Ah, well, then, since I can serve you by accepting
your hundred francs, of course I have no further objection,
M. Rodolph; but we drew a famous prize in the
lottery when you came into the house, and I don't care
who hears me say it, for I'd as lief cry it on the housetops.
You are the very prince and king of good lodgers!
Halloa, there is a hackney-coach! No doubt, the lady
M. Bradamanti expects; I could not manage to see her
well when she came yesterday, but I'll have a precious
good stare at her this time; added to which, I've got
a capital plan for finding out her name. Come, you
shall see me go to work; it will be a famous lark for
us!"</p>

<p>"No, I thank you, Madame Pipelet; I have not the
slightest curiosity respecting either the name or features
of this lady," returned Rodolph, withdrawing to the very
end of the lodge.</p>

<p>"Where do you wish to go, madame?" cried Anastasie,
rushing towards the female, who was entering.</p>

<p>"I am going to M. Bradamanti's," returned the person
addressed, visibly annoyed at having her progress thus
arrested.</p>

<p>"He is not at home."</p>

<p>"You are mistaken."</p>

<p>"Oh, no, I am not!" said the porteress, skilfully contriving
so to place herself as to command a perfect view
of the stranger's features. "M. Bradamanti has gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span>
out, positively, absolutely gone out; that is to say, he is
not at home, except to one lady."</p>

<p>"'Tis I, he expects me; and pray, my good woman,
allow me to pass; you are really troublesome!"</p>

<p>"Your name, madame, if you please? I shall soon
see if it is the name of the person M. Bradamanti desired
me to admit. Should yours not be the right name,
you don't go up-stairs, unless you first trample on my
body!"</p>

<p>"Is it possible he could be so imprudent as to tell you
my name?" cried the female, with as much surprise as
uneasiness.</p>

<p>"Certainly he did, madame, or how should I know
it?"</p>

<p>"How very thoughtless!" murmured the stranger.
Then, after a momentary hesitation, she said, impatiently,
in a low voice, and as if fearful of being overheard,
"My name is D'Orbigny."</p>

<p>Rodolph started at the word, as it reached his ear, for
it was the name of Madame d'Harville's mother-in-law.
Advancing, therefore, from the dark corner in which he
stood, he managed, by the light of the lamp, to obtain a
clear view of the stranger, in whose features he easily
traced the portrait so skilfully drawn by Clémence of
the author of all her sufferings.</p>

<p>"Madame d'Orbigny!" repeated Madame Pipelet, in a
loud tone. "Ah, then you may go up-stairs; that is the
name M. Bradamanti gave me."</p>

<p>Madame d'Harville's mother-in-law waited for no second
bidding, but rapidly passed by the lodge.</p>

<p>"Well done us!" shouted the porteress, with a triumphant
air; "I have caught my fish, done the great lady!
Now, then, I know her name,&mdash;she is Madame d'Orbigny.
That wasn't a bad scheme of mine, was it,
M. Rodolph? But what the plague is the matter with
you? How sad and thoughtful you have grown all of a
minute!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span></p>

<p>"This lady has been to see M. Bradamanti before, has
she not?"</p>

<p>"Yes, she was here yesterday evening; and, directly
she was gone, M. Bradamanti went out, most probably,
to take his place in the diligence for to-day, because,
when he came back, he asked me to take his trunk to
the coach office, as he could not trust that little rascal,
Tortillard."</p>

<p>"And do you know where M. Bradamanti is going?"</p>

<p>"To Normandy, by way of Alençon."</p>

<p>Rodolph called to his remembrance that Aubiers, the
seat of M. d'Orbigny, was situated in Normandy. There
was no longer a doubt that the charlatan was proceeding
to the paternal home of Clémence, and, as a matter of
course, to aid and assist in some scheme of wickedness.</p>

<p>"The departure of M. Bradamanti will put old Séraphin
out preciously!" resumed Madame Pipelet. "I
can't make out what she wants with him; but she seems
as much bent upon seeing him as he is on avoiding her;
for he charged me particularly not to tell her that he
leaves Paris to-night at six o'clock. So, when she calls
again, she will find nobody at home; that will give me
an opportunity of talking to her about your young person.
Let's see, what is her name? Cissy&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Cecily!"</p>

<p>"Ah, I see! Just clap two more letters to the word
I said,&mdash;that'll do. I must tie a knot in the corner of
my handkerchief, that I may be able to recollect this
bother of a name. Ciss&mdash;Cissy&mdash;Cecily&mdash;I've got
it!"</p>

<p>"Well, now, I think it is time for me to visit Mlle.
Rigolette," said Rodolph to Madame Pipelet, as he
quitted the lodge.</p>

<p>"And when you come down-stairs, M. Rodolph, I hope
you will just speak a word or two to my dear old darling
of a husband. He has had a deal of trouble lately, and
I know it will be a great relief to him to tell you all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span>
about it. That beast of a Cabrion has been at his old
tricks again!"</p>

<p>"Be assured, Madame Pipelet, I shall always be ready
to sympathise with your worthy husband in all his
troubles."</p>

<p>And with these words Rodolph, strangely preoccupied
with the recent visit of Madame d'Orbigny to Polidori,
slowly pursued his way to the apartment of Mlle.
Rigolette.</p>

<p class="ending">END OF VOLUME III.</p>

<div class="tr">
<h4>Transcriber's Notes:</h4>

<p>This e-text was prepared from numbered edition 505 of the 1000 printed.</p>

<p>In the original text the title "The Mysteries of Paris" and the "Edition
de Luxe" are printed in Bold Gothic Font.</p>

<p>Minor punctuation and capitalization corrections have been made
without comment.</p>

<p>Minor typographical errors of single words, otherwise spelled
correctly throughout the text have been made without comment.</p>

<p>Contents, corrected printers error of Chapter III page reference
from page 109 to page 108.</p>

<p>p. 26, removed duplicate "and" (strictly and expressly forbidden)</p>

<p>p. 86, changed "ask" to "asked" ("...on the spot?" asked Rodolph.)</p>

<p>Word Variations appearing in the original text which have been
retained:</p>

<div class="tns">
<p>"Duchess" and "Duchesse"<br />
"good-by" and "good-bye"<br />
"Halloa" and "Holloa"<br />
"Saint-Remy" and "Saint Rémy"</p>
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Footnotes, originally at the bottom of a printed page, have been placed
directly below the paragraph in which their anchor symbol appears.</p>
</div>








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