Sue_Mysteries_of_Paris.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
THE TAPIS - FRANC.^
It was on a cold and rainy night, towards the end of
October, 1838, that a tall and powerful man, with an old
broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head, and clad in a
blue cotton carter's frock, which hung loosely over trou-
sers of the same material, crossed the Pont au Change,
and darted with a hasty step into the Cit^, that labyrinth
of obscure, narrow, and winding streets which extends
from the Palais de Justice to Notre Dame.
Although limited in space, and carefully watched, this
quarter serves as the lurking-place, or rendezvous, of a
vast number of the very dregs of society in Paris, who
flock to the tapis-franc. This word, in the slang of theft
and murder, signifies a drinking-shop of the lowest class.
A returned convict, who, in this foul phraseology, is called
an " ogre," or a woman in the same degraded state, who
is termed an " ogress," generally keep such " cribs," fre-
quented by the refuse of the Parisian population ; freed
felons, thieves, and assassins are there familiar guests.
If a crime is committed, it is here, in this filthy sewer,
that the police throws its cast-net, and rarely fails to
catch the criminals it seeks to take.
Tapis-franc : literally, a " free carpet ; " a low haunt equivalent to
what in English slang is termed " a boozing ken."
11
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
On the night in question, the wind howled fiercely in
the dark and dirty gullies of the Cit^ ; the blinking and
uncertain light of the lamps which swung to and fro in
the sudden gusts were dimly reflected in pools of black
slush, which flowed abundantly in the midst of the filthy
pavement.
The murky-coloured houses, which were lighted within
by a few panes of glass in the worm-eaten casements,
overhung each other so closely that the eaves of each
almost touched its opposite neighbour, so narrow were
the streets. Dark and noisome alleys led to stair-
cases still more black and foul, and so perpendicular
that they could hardly be ascended by the help of a
cord fixed to the dank and humid walls by holdfasts of
iron.
Stalls of charcoal-sellers, fruit-sellers, or venders of
refuse meat occupied the ground floor of some of these
wretched abodes. Notwithstanding the small value of
their commodities, the fronts of nearly all these shops
were protected by strong bars of iron, a proof that
the shopkeepers knew and dreaded the gentry who
infested the vicinity.
The man of whom we have spoken, having entered the
Rue aux Feves, which is in the centre of the Cit^, slack-
ened his pace : he felt he was on his own soil. The night
was dark, and strong gusts of wind, mingled with rain,
dashed against the walls. Ten o'clock struck by the dis-
tant dial of the Palais de Justice. Women were huddled
together under the vaulted arches, deep and dark, like
caverns ; some hummed popular airs in a low key ; others
conversed together in whispers ; whilst some, dumb and
motionless, looked on mechanically at the wet, which fell
and flowed in torrents. The man in the carter's frock,
stopping suddenly before one of these creatures, silent
and sad as she gazed, seized her by the arm, and said,
" Ha ! good evening. La Goualeuse." ^
1 Sweet-throated : in reference to the tone of her voice.
12
THE TAPIS -FRANC.
The girl receded, saying, in a faint and fearful tone,
" Good evening, Chourineur.^ Don't hurt me."
This man, a liberated convict, had been so named at
the hulks.
" Now I have you," said the fellow ; " you must pay
me the glass of 'tape' (eau d^aff), or I'll make you
dance without music," he added, with a hoarse and
brutal laugh.
" Oh, Heaven ! I have no money," replied Goualeuse,
trembling from head to foot, for this man was the dread
of the district.
" If you're stumped, the ogress of the tapis-franc will
give you tick for your pretty face."
" She won't ; I already owe her for the clothes I'm
wearing."
" What, you want to shirk it ? " shouted the Chouri-
neur, darting after La Goualeuse, who had hid herself in
a gully as murk as midnight.
" Now, then, my lady, I've got you ! " said the vaga-
bond, after groping about for a few moments, and grasp-
ing in one of his coarse and powerful hands a slim and
delicate wrist ; " and now for the dance I promised
you."
" No, it is 1/ou who shall dance ! " was uttered by a
masculine and deep voice.
" A man ! Is't you, Bras Rouge ? Speak, why don't
you ? and don't squeeze so hard. I am here in the
entrance to your ' ken,' and you it must be.'*
" 'Tis not Bras Rouge ! " said the voice.
" Oh ! isn't it ? Well, then, if it is not a friend, why,
here goes at you," exclaimed the Chourineur. " But
whose bit of a hand is it I have got hold of ? It must
be a woman's ! "
" It is the fellow to this," responded the voice.
And under the delicate skin of this hand, which
grasped his throat with sudden ferocity, the Chourineur
1 One who strikes with the knife ; the stabber, or slasher.
13
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
felt himself held by nerves of iron. The Goualeuse, who
had sought refuge in this alley, and lightly ascended a
few steps, paused for an instant, and said to her un-
known defender, " Thanks, sir, for having taken my
part. The Chourineur said he would strike me because
I could not pay for his glass of brandy ; but I think he
only jested. Now I am safe, pray let him go. Take
care of yourself, for he is the Chourineur."
" If he be the Chourineur, I am a bully boy who never
knuckles down," exclaimed the unknown.
All was then silent for a moment, and then were heard
for several seconds, in the midst of the pitchy darkness,
sounds of a fierce struggle.
" Who the devil is this ? " then said the ruffian, mak-
ing a desperate effort to free himself from his adversary,
whose extraordinary power astonished him. " Now, then,
now you shall pay both for La Goualeuse and yourself ! "
he shouted, grinding his teeth.
" Pay ! yes, I will pay you, but it shall be with my
fists; and it shall be cash in full," replied the un-
known.
" If," said the Chourineur, in a stifled voice, " you do
but let go my neckcloth, I will bite your nose off."
" My nose is too small, my lad, and you haven't light
enough to see it."
" Come under the ' hanging glim ' ^ there."
"That I will," replied the unknown, "for then we
may look into the whites of each other's eyes."
He then made a desperate rush at the Chourineur,
whom he still held by the throat, and forced him to the
end of the alley, and then thrust him violently into
the street, which was but dimly lighted by the suspended
street-lamp. The bandit stumbled ; but, rapidly recover-
ing his feet, he threw himself furiously upon the un-
known, whose slim and graceful form appeared to
belie the possession of the irresistible strength he had
1 Under the lamp, called reverb^re.
14
THE TAPLS- FRANC.
displayed. After a struggle of a few minutes, the
Chourineur, although of athletic build, and a first-rate
champion in a species of pugilism vulgarly termed the
savate, found that he had got what they call his master.
The unknown threw him twice with immense dexterity,
by what is called, in wrestling, the leg-pass, or crook.
Unwilling, however, to acknowledge the superiority of
his adversary, the Chourineur, boiling with rage, re-,
turned again to the charge. Then the defender of La
Goualeuse, suddenly altering his mode of attack, rained
on the head and face of the bandit a shower of blows
with his closed fist, as hard and heavy as if stricken by
a steel gauntlet. These blows, worthy of the admira-
tion of Jem Belcher, Dutch Sam, Tom Cribb, or any
other celebrated English pugilist, were so entirely differ-
ent from the system of the savate, that the Chourineur
dropped like an ox on the pavement, exclaiming, as he
fell, " I'm floored ! " (^Mon linge est lave ! )
" Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! Have pity on him ! " ex-
claimed La Goualeuse, who, during the contest, had
ventured on the threshold of the alley, adding, with an
air of astonishment, " But who are you, then ? Except
the Schoolmaster and Skeleton, there is no one, from the
Rue Saint Eloi to Notre Dame, who can stand against
the Chourineur. I thank you very, very much, sir, for,
indeed, I fear that, without your aid, he would have
beaten me."
The unknown, instead of replying, listened with much
attention to the voice of this girl. Perhaps a tone more
gentle, sweet, and silvery never fell on human ear. He
endeavoured to examine the features of La Goualeuse ;
but the night was too dark, and the beams of the street-
lamp too flickering and feeble. After remaining for
some minutes quite motionless, the Chourineur shook his
legs and arms, and then partly rose from the ground.
" Pray be on your guard ! " exclaimed the Goualeuse,
retreating again into the dark passage, and taking her
15
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
champion by the arm ; " take care, or he will have his
revenge on you."
" Don't be frightened, my child ; if he has not had
enough, I have more ready for him."
The brigand heard these words.
"Thanks," he murmured; "I'm half throttled, and
one eye is closed, that is quite enough for one day.
Some other time, perhaps, when we may meet again "
" What ! not content yet, grumbling still ? " said
the unknown, with a menacing tone.
" No, no, not at all ; I do not grumble in the least.
You have regularly served me out, you are a lad of
mettle," said the Chourineur, in a coarse tone, but still
with that sort of deference which physical superiority
always finds in persons of his grade. " You are the
better man, that's clear. Well, except the Skeleton,
who seems to have bones of iron, he is so thin and
powerful, and the Schoolmaster, who could eat three
Plerculeses for his breakfast, no man living could boast
of having put his foot on my neck."
" Well, and what then ? "
" Why, now I have found my master, that's all ; you
will find yours some day sooner or later, everybody
does. One thing, however, is certain ; now that you are
a better man than the Chourineur, you may ' go your
length ' in the Cit^. All the women will be your slaves;
ogres and ogresses will give you credit, if it is only for
fear ; you may be a king in your way ! But who and
what are you ? You ' patter flash ' like a family man !
If you are a ' prig ' I'll have nothing to do with you. I
have used the knife, it is true, because, when the blood
comes into my eyes, I see red, and I must strike, in
spite of myself; but I have paid for my slashing, by
going to the hulks for fifteen years. My time is up, and
I am free from surveillance. I can now live in the
capital, without fear of the ' beaks ; ' and I have never
prigged, have I, La Goualeuse ?"
16
THE TAPIS -FRANC.
" No, he was never a thief," said the girl.
" Come along, then, and let us have a glass of some-
thing together, and I'll tell you who I am," said the
unknown. " Come, don't let us bear malice."
" Bear malice ! Devil a bit ! You are master, 1
confess it. You do know how to handle your fists ;
I never knew anything like it. Thunder and light-
ning! how your thumps fell on my sconce, I never
felt anything like it. Yours is a new game, and you
must teach it to me."
" I will recommence whenever you like."
"Not on me, though, thank ye, not on me," ex-
claimed the Chourineur, laughing ; " your blows fell as if
from a sledge-hammer; I am still giddy from them.
But do you know Bras Rouge, in whose passage you
were ? "
" Bras Rouge ? " said the unknown, who appeared dis-
agreeably surprised at the question ; adding, however,
with an indifferent air, " I do not know Bras Rouge.
Is he the only person who inhabits this abode ? It
rained in torrents, and I took shelter in the alley. You
meant to beat this poor girl, and I have thrashed you,
that's all."
"You're right; I have nothing to do with your af-
fairs. Bras Rouge has a room here, but does not occupy
it often. He is usually at his estaminet in the Champs
Elys^es. But what's the good of talking about him ? "
Then turning to the Goualeuse, " On my word, you are a
good wench, and I would not have beaten you; you
know I would not harm a child, it was only my joke.
Never mind ; it was very good of you not to set on this
friend of yours against me when I was down, and at his
mercy. Come and drink with us ; he pays for all. By
the way, my trump," said he to the unknown, " what say
you, instead of going to tipple, shall we go and have
a crust for supper with the ogress at the White Rabbit ?
It is a tapis-franc,'*^
17
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
"With all my heart. I will pay for the supper.
You'll come with us, Goualeuse ? " inquired the un-
known.
" Thanks, sir," she replied, " but, after having seen
your struggle, it has made my heart beat so that I have
no appetite."
" Pooh ! pooh ! one shoulder of mutton pokes the
other down," said the Chourineur; "the cookery at
the White Rabbit is first-rate."
The three personages then, in perfect amity, bent
their steps together towards the tavern.
During the contest between the Chourineur and the
unknown, a charcoal-seller, of huge size, ensconced in
another passage, had contemplated with much anxiety
the progress of the combat, but without attempting to
offer the slightest assistance to either antagonist. When
the unknown, the Chourineur, and the Goualeuse pro-
ceeded to the public-house, the charcoal-man followed
them.
The beaten man and the Goualeuse first entered the
tapis-franc ; the unknown was following, when the char-
coal-man accosted him, and said, in a low voice, in the
German language, and in a most respectful tone of
remonstrance, " Pray, your highness, be on your guard."
The unknown shrugged his shoulders, and rejoined
his new companion. The charcoal-dealer did not leave
the door of the cabaret, but listened attentively, and
gazed from time to time through a small hole which
had been accidentally made in the thick coat of whiten-
ing, with which the windows of such haunts as these are
usually covered on the inside.
18
CHAPTER 11.
THE OGRESS.
The White Babbit is situated in the centre of the Rue
aux Feves. This tavern occupies the ground floor of a
lofty house, the front of which is formed by two windows,
which are styled " a guillotine." Hanging from the front
of the door leading to a dark and arched passage, was an
oblong lamp, on the cracked panes of which were written,
in red letters, " Nightly Lodgings Here."
The Chourineur, the unknown, and the Goualeuse
entered into a large but low apartment, with the ceiling
smoked, and crossed by black rafters, just visible by the
flickering light of a miserable suspended lamp. The
cracked walls, formerly covered with plaster, were now
ornamented in places with coarse drawings, or sentences
of flash and obscenity.
The floor, composed of earth beaten together with
saltpetre, was thick with dirt ; an armful of straw an
apology for a carpet was placed at the foot of the
ogress's counter, which was at the right hand of the door,
just beneath the dim lantern.
On each side of this room there were six tables, one
end of each of which was nailed to the wall, as well as
the benches on either side of them. At the farther end
was a door leading to a kitchen ; on the right, near the
counter, was a passage which led into a den where
persons slept for the night at three halfpence a head.
A few words will describe the ogress and her guests.
The lady was called Mother Ponisse; her triple trade
19
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
consisted in letting furnished apartments, keeping a
public-house, and lending clothes to the miserable
creatures who infest these foul streets.
The ogress was about forty years of age, bulky, fat,
and heavy. She had a full colour, and strong symptoms
of a beard. Her deep voice, her enormous arms, and
coarse hands betokened uncommon strength. She wore
on her cap a large red and yellow handkerchief ; a shawl
of rabbit-skin was crossed over her bosom, and tied
behind ; her woollen gown fell upon black wooden shoes,
scorched almost black by the small stove at which she
warmed her feet ; and, to crown her beauty, she had a
copper complexion, which the use of strong liquors had
materially tended to heighten.
The counter, covered with lead, was decked with jugs
with iron hoops, and various pewter measures. In an
open cupboard, fastened to the wall, there were several
flasks of glass, so fashioned as to represent the pedestrian
figure of the Emperor. These bottles contained sundry
cordials, red and green in colour, and known by the
names of '' Drops for the Brave," " Ratafia of the Column,"
etc., etc.
A large black cat, with green eyes, was sitting near
the ogress, and seemed the familiar demon of the place.
Then, in strange contrast, a holy branch of boxwood,
bought at church by the ogress, was suspended at the
back of an old cuckoo clock.
Two marvellously ill-favoured fellows, with unshaven
beards, and their garb all in tatters, hardly tasted of the
pitcher of wine before them, and conversed together in
low voices, and with uneasy aspect. One of the two,
very pale and livid, pulled, from time to time, his shabby
skull-cap over his brows, and concealed as much as pos-
sible his left hand, and, even when compelled to use it,
he did so with caution.
Purther on there was a young man, hardly sixteen
years of age, with beardless chin, and a countenance
20
THE OGRESS.
wan, wrinkled, and heavy, his eye dull, and his long
black hair straggling down his neck. This youthful
rake, the emblem of precocious vice, was smoking a short
black pipe. His back was resting against the wall, and
his two hands were in the pockets of his blouse, and his
legs stretched along the bench. He did not cease smok-
ing for a moment, unless it was to drink from a cannikin
of brandy placed before him.
The other inmates of the tapis-franc^ men and women,
presented no remarkable characteristics. There was the
ferocious or embruted face, the vulgar and licentious
mirth ; but from time to time there was a deep and dull
silence. Such were the guests of the tapis-franc when
the unknown, the Chourineur, and the Goualeuse
entered.
These three persons play such important parts in our
recital, that we must put them in relief.
The Chourineur was a man of lofty stature and athletic
make, with hair of a pale brown, nearly white ; thick
eyebrows, and enormous whiskers of deep red. The
sun's rays, misery, and the severe toil of the galleys
had bronzed his skin to that deep and olive hue which
is peculiar to convicts. In spite of his horrible nick-
name, his features did not express ferocity, but a sort of
coarse familiarity and irrepressible audacity. We have
said already that the Chourineur was clothed in trousers
and frock of blue cotton, and on his head he had one
of those large straw hats usually worn by workmen in
timber-yards, and barge-emptiers.
The Goualeuse was, perhaps, about sixteen and a half
years old. A forehead, of the purest and whitest, sur-
mounted a face of perfect oval and angel-like expression ;
a fringe of eyelids, so long that they curled slightly, half
veiled her large blue eyes, which had a melancholy ex-
pression. The down of early youth graced cheeks lightly
coloured with a scarlet tinge. Her small and rosy
mouth, which hardly ever smiled, her nose, straight,
21
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
and delicately chiselled, her rounded chin, had, in their
combined expression, a nobility and a sweetness such
as we can only find in the most beautiful of Raphael's
portraits. On each side of her fair temples was a band
of hair, of the most splendid auburn hue, which de-
scended in luxuriant ringlets half way down her cheeks,
and was then turned back behind the ear, a portion of
which ivory shaded with carnation was thus visible,
and was then lost under the close folds of a large cotton
handkerchief, with blue checks, tied, as it is called, en
marmotte. Her graceful neck, of dazzling whiteness, was
encircled by a small necklace of grains of coral. Her
gown, of brown stuff, though much too large, could not
conceal a charming form, supple and round as a cane ;
a worn-out small orange-coloured shawl, with green
fringe, was crossed over her bosom.
The lovely voice of the Goualeuse had made a strong
impression on her unknown defender, and, in sooth, that
voice, so gentle, so deliciously modulated and harmoni-
ous, had an attraction so irresistible that the horde of
villains and abandoned women, in the midst of whom
this unfortunate girl lived, often begged her to sing, and
listened to her with lapture.
The Goualeuse had another name, given, doubtless, to
the maiden sweetness of her countenance, she was also
called Fleur-de-Marie.
The defender of La Goualeuse (we shall call the
unknown Rodolph) appeared about thirty-six years
of age ; his figure, tall, graceful, and admirably pro-
portioned, yet did not betoken the astonishing vigour
which he had displayed in his rencounter with the
Chourineur.
It would have been difficult to assign a decided char-
acter to the physiognomy of Rodolph. Certain wrinkles
in his forehead betokened a man of meditation ; and yet
the firm expression of his mouth, the dignified and bold
carriage of the head, assured us of the man of action,
22
THE OGRESS.
whose physical strength and presence of mind would
always command an ascendancy over the multitude.
In his struggle with the Chourineur, Rodolph had
neither betrayed anger nor hatred. Confident in his
own strength, his address, and agility, he had only
shown a contempt for the brute beast which he
subdued.
We will finish this bodily picture of Rodolph by say-
ing that his features, regularly handsome, seemed too
beautiful for a man. His eyes were large, and of a
deep hazel, his nose aquiline, his chin rather projecting,
his hair bright chestnut, of the same shade as his
eyebrows, which were strongly arched, and his small
moustache, which was fine and silky. Thanks to the
manners and the language which he assumed with so
much ease, Rodolph was exactly like the other guests
of the ogress. Round his graceful neck, as elegantly
modelled as that of the Indian Bacchus, he wore a black
cravat, carelessly tied, the ends of which fell on the
collar of his blue blouse. A double row of nails deco-
rated his heavy shoes, and, except that his hands were
of most aristocratic shape, nothing distinguished him
from the other guests of the tapis-franc ; though, in a
moral sense, his resolute air, and what we may term
his bold serenity, placed an immense distance between
them.
On entering the tapis-franc, the Chourineur, laying
one of his heavy hands on the shoulders of Rodolph,
cried, " Hail the conqueror of the Chourineur ! Yes,
my boys, this springald has floored me ; and if any
young gentleman wishes to have his ribs smashed, or
his ' nob in Chancery,' even including the Schoolmaster
and the Skeleton, here is their man ; I will answer for
him, and back him ! "
At these words, all present, from the ogress to the
lowest ruffian of the tapis-franc, contemplated the victor
of the Chourineur with respect and fear. Some, moving
23
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
their glasses and jugs to the end of the table at which
they were seated, offered Rodolph a seat, if he were
inclined to sit near them ; others approached the Chou-
rineur, and asked him, in a low voice, for the particulars
of this unknown, who had made his entrance into their
world in so striking a manner.
Then the ogress, accosting Rodolph with one of her
most gracious smiles, a thing unheard of, and almost
deemed fabulous, in the annals of the White Rabbit,
rose from the bar to take the orders of her guest, anci
know what he desired to have for the refreshment of
his party, an attention which she did not evince
either to the Schoolmaster or the Skeleton, two fearful
ruffians, who made even the Chourineur tremble.
One of the men with the villainous aspect, whom we
have before described as being very pale, hiding his left
hand, and continually pulling his cap over his brows,
leaned towards the ogress, who was carefully wiping the
table where Rodolph had taken his seat, and said to her,
in a hoarse tone, " Hasn't the Gros-Boiteux been here
to-day?"
" No," said Mother Ponisse.
" Nor yesterday ? "
" Yes, he came yesterday."
" Was Calebasse with him, the daughter of Martial,
who was guillotined ? You know whom I mean, the
Marti als of the He de Ravageur ? "
" What ! do you take me for a spy, with your ques-
tions ? Do you think I watch my customers ? " said the
ogress, in a brutal tone.
" I have an appointment to-night with the Gros-
Boiteux and the Schoolmaster," replied the fellow ; " we
have some business together."
" That's your affair, a set of ruffians, as you are,
altogether."
" Ruffians ! " said the man, much incensed ; " it is
such ruffians you get your living by."
24
THE OCxRESS.
" Will you hold your jaw ? " said the Amazon, with
a threatening gesture, and lifting, as she spoke, the
pitcher she held in her hand.
The man resumed his place, grumbling as he did
so.
" The Gros-Boiteux has, perhaps, stayed to give that
young fellow Germain, who lives in the Rue du Temple,
his gruel," said he, to his companion.
" What, do they mean to do for him ? "
"No, not quite, but to make him more careful in
future. It appears he has * blown the gaff ' in the job at
Nantes, so Bras Rouge declares."
" Why, that is Gros-Boiteux's affair ; he has only just
left prison, and has his hands full already."
Fleur-de-Marie had followed the Chourineur into the
tavern of the ogress, and he, responding to a nod given
to him by the young scamp with the jaded aspect, said,
" Ah, Barbillon ! what, pulling away at the old stuff ? "
"Yes; I would rather fast, and go barefoot any day, than
be without my drops for my throttle, and the weed for my
pipe," said the rapscallion, in a thick, low, hoarse voice,
without moving from his seat, and puffing out volumes
of tobacco-smoke.
" Good evening, Fleur-de-Marie," said the ogress,
looking with a prying eye on the clothes of the poor
girl, clothes which she had lent her. After her
scrutiny, she said, in a tone of coarse satisfaction, " It's
really a pleasure so it is to lend one's good clothes
to you ; you are as clean as a kitten, or else I would
never have trusted you with that shawl. Such a beauty
as that orange one is, I would never have trusted it to
such gals as Tourneuse and Boulotte ; but I have taken
every care on you ever since you came here six weeks
ago ; and, if the truth must be said, there is not a tidier
nor more nicer girl than you in all the Cit^ ; that
there ain't; though you be al'ays so sad like, and too
particular."
25
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
The Goualeuse sighed, turned her head, and said
nothing.
" Why, mother," said Rodolph to the old hag, " you
have got some holy boxwood, I see, over your cuckoo,"
and he pointed with his finger to the consecrated bough
behind the old clock.
" Why, you heathen, would you have us live like
dogs ? " replied the ogress. Then addressing Fleur-de-
Marie, she added, " Come, now, Goualeuse, tip us one of
your pretty little ditties" (gouala^ites^.
" Supper, supper first, Mother Ponisse," said the
Chourineur.
" Well, my lad of wax, what can I do for you ? " said
the ogress to Rodolph, whose good-will she was desirous
to conciliate, and whose support she might, perchance,
require.
" Ask the Chourineur ; he orders, I pay."
" Well, then," said the ogress, turning to the bandit,
" what will you have for supper, you ' bad lot ? ' "
" Two quarts of the best wine, at twelve sous, three
crusts of wheaten bread, and a harlequin," ^ said the
Chourineur, after considering for a few moments what he
should order.
" Ah ! you are a dainty dog, I know, and as fond as
ever of them harlequins."
" Well, now, Goualeuse," said the Chourineur, " are
you hungry ? "
" No, Chourineur."
" Would you like anything better than a harlequin,
my lass ? " said Rodolph.
" No, I thank you ; I have no appetite.' *
" Come, now," said the Chourineur, with a brutal grin,
" look my master in the face like a jolly wench. You
have no objection, I suppose ? "
The poor girl blushed, and did not look at Rodolph.
1 A "harlequin" is a collection of odds and ends of fish, flesh, and fowl,
after they come from table, which the Parisian, providing for the class to
which the Chourineur belongs, finds a profitable and popular composition.
26
THE OGEESS.
A few moments afterwards, and the ogress herself placed
on the table a pitcher of wine, bread, and a harlequin, of
which we will not attempt to give an idea to the reader,
but which appeared most relishing to the Chourineur ;
for he exclaimed, '^Dieu de Dieu ! what a dish ! What
a glorious dish ! It is a regular omnibus ; there is some-
thing in it to everybody's taste. Those who like fat can
have it ; so can they who like lean ; as well as those who
prefer sugar, and those who choose pepper. There's
tender bits of chicken, biscuit, sausage, tarts, mutton-
bones, pastry crust, fried fish, vegetables, woodcock's
heads, cheese, and salad. Come, eat, Goualeuse, eat ; it
is so capital ! You have been to a wedding breakfast
somewhere this morning."
" No more than on other mornings. I ate this morn-
ing, as usual, my ha'porth of milk, and my ha'porth of
bread."
The entrance of another personage into the cabaret in-
terrupted all conversation for a moment, and everybody
turned his head in the direction of the newcomer, who
was a middle-aged man, active and* powerful, wearing a
loose coat and cap. He was evidently quite at home in
the tapis-franc^ and, in language familiar to all the guests,
requested to be supplied with supper. He was so placed
that he could observe the two ill-looking scoundrels who
had asked after Gros-Boiteux and the Schoolmaster.
He did not take his eyes off them ; but in consequence
of their position, they could not see that they were the
objects of such marked and constant attention.
The conversation, momentarily interrupted, was re-
sumed. In spite of his natural audacity, the Chourineur
showed a deference for Rodolph, and abstained from
familiarity.
" By Jove," said he to Rodolph, " although I have
smarted for it, yet I am very glad to have met with you."
" What ! because you relish the harlequin ? "
" Why, may be so ; but more because I am all on the
27
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
fret to see you 'serve out' the Schoolmaster. To see
him who has always crowed over me, crowed over in his
turn would do me good."
" Do you suppose, then, that for your amusement I
mean to spring at the Schoolmaster, and pin him like a
bull-dog ? "
" No, but he'll have at you in a moment, when he
learns that you are a better man than he," replied the
Chourineur, rubbing his hands.
" Well, I have coin enough left to pay him in full,"
said Rodolph, in a careless tone ; " but it is horrible
weather ; what say you to a cup of brandy with sugar
in it?"
" That's the ticket ! " said the Chourineur.
" And, that we may be better acquainted, we will tell
each other who we are," added Rodolph.
" The Albinos called the Chourineur a freed convict,
worker at the wood that floats at St. Paul's Quay ; frozen
in the winter, scorched in the summer, from twelve to
fifteen hours a day in the water; half man, half frog;
that's my description," said Rodolph's companion, mak-
ing him a military salute with his left hand. " Well,
now, and you, my master, this is your first appearance in
the Cite. I don't mean anything to offend; but you
entered head foremost against my skull, and beating the
drum on my carcass. By all that's ugly, what a rattling
you made, especially with these blows with which you
doubled me up ! I never can forget them thick as but-
tons what a torrent ! But you have some trade besides
' polishing off ' the Chourineur ? "
" I am a fan-painter, and my name is Rodolph."
" A fan-painter ! Ah ! that's the reason, then, that your
hands are so white," added the Chourineur. ' If all
your fellow workmen are like you, there must be a tidy
lot of you. But, as you are a workman, what brings you
to a tapis-franc in the Cit^, where there are only prigs,
cracksmen or freed convicts like myself, and who only
28
THE OGRESS.
come here because we cannot go elsewhere ? This is no
place for you. Honest mechanics have their coffee-
shops, and don't talk slang."
" I come here because I like good company."
" Gammon ! " said the Chourineur, shaking his head
with an air of doubt. " I found you in the passage of
Bras Rouge. Well, man, never mind. You say you
don't know him ? "
" What do you mean with all your nonsense about
your Bras Rouge ? Let him go to the "
" Stay, master of mine. You, perhaps, distrust me ;
but you are wrong, and if you like I will tell you my
history; but that is on condition that you teach me how
to give those precious thumps which settled my business
so quickly. What say you ? "
" I agree, Chourineur ; tell me your story, and Goua-
leuse will also tell hers."
" Very well," replied the Chourineur ; " it is not
weather to turn a mangy cur out-of-doors, and it will be
an amusement. Do you agree, Goualeuse ? "
' Oh, certainly ; but my story is a very short one,"
said Fleur-de-Marie.
" And you will have to tell us your history, comrade
Rodolph," added the Chourineur.
Well, then, I'll begin."
" Fan-painter ! " said Goualeuse, " what a very pretty
trade ! "
" And how much can you earn if you stick close to
work ? " inquired the Chourineur.
" I work by the piece," responded Rodolph ; " my
good days are worth three francs, sometimes four, in
summer, when the days are long."
" And you are idle sometimes, you rascal ? "
" Yes, as long as I have money, though I do not
waste it. First, I pay ten sous for my night's lodg-
ing."
" Your pardon, monseigneur ; you sleep, then, at ten
29
THE MYSTERIES OF PARI^.
sous, do you?" said the Chourineur, raising his hand
to his cap.
The word monseigneur, spoken ironically by the Chou-
rineur, caused an almost imperceptible smile on the lips
of Rodolph, who replied, " Oh, I like to be clean and
comfortable."
" Here's a peer of the realm for you ! a man with
mines of wealth ! " exclaimed the Chourineur ; " he pays
ten sous for his bed ! "
" Well, then," continued Rodolph, " four sous for to-
bacco ; that makes fourteen sous ; four sous for break-
fast, eighteen ; fifteen sous for dinner ; one or two sous
for i3randy ; that all comes to about thirty-four or thirty-
five sous a day. I have no occasion to work all the
week, and so the rest of the time I amuse myself."
" And your family ? " said the Goualeuse.
" Dead," replied Rodolph.
" Who were your friends ? " asked the Goualeuse.
" Dealers in old clothes and marine stores under the
pillars of the market-place."
" How did you spend what they left you ? " inquired
the Chourineur.
" I was very young, and my guardian sold the stock ;
and, when I came of age, he brought me in his debtor
for thirty francs ; that was my inheritance."
"And who is now your employer?" the Chourineur
demanded.
" His name is Gauthier, in the Rue des Bourdonnais,
a beast brute thief miser ! He would almost as
soon lose the sight of an eye as pay his workmen. Now
this is as true a description as I can give you of him ; so
let's have done with him. I learrad my trade under
him from the time when I was fifteen years of age ; I
have a good number in the Conscription, and my name
is Rodolph Durand. My history is told."
" Now it's your turn, Goualeuse," said the Chourineur ;
" I keep my history till last, as a honne louche.''^
30
CHAPTER III.
HISTORY OF LA GOUALEUSE.
"Let us begin at the beginning," said the Chourineuro
" Yes ; your parents ? " added Rodolph.
" I never knew them," said Fleur-de-Marie.
" The deuce ! " said the Chourineur. " Well, that is
odd, Goualeuse ! you and I are of the same family."
" What ! you, too, Chourineur ? "
" An orphan of the streets of Paris like you, my girl."
" Then who brought you up, Goualeuse ? " asked
Rodolph.
" I don't know, sir. As far back as I can remember
I was, I think, about six or seven years old I was
with an old one-eyed woman, whom they call the
Chouette,^ because she had a hooked nose, a green eye
quite round, and was like an owl with one eye out."
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! I think I see her, the old night-bird ! "
shouted the Chourineur, laughing.
" The one-eyed woman," resumed Fleur-de-Marie,
" made me sell barley-sugar in the evenings on the
Pont Neuf ; but that was only an excuse for asking
charity ; and when I did not bring her in at least ten
sous, the Chouette beat me instead of giving me any
supper."
"Are you sure the woman was not your mother?'*
inquired Rodolph.
" Quite sure ; for she often scolded me for being
1 The Screech-owl.
31
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
fatherless and motherless, and said she picked me up
one day in the street."
" So," said the Chourineur, " you had a dance instead
of a meal, if you did not pick up ten sous ?"
" Yes. And after that I went to lie down on some
straw spread on the ground ; when I was cold very
cold."
" I do not doubt it, for the feather of beans (straw) is
a very cold sort of stuff," said the Chourineur. " A dung-
heap is twice as good ; but then people don't like your
smell, and say, ' Oh, the blackguard ! where has he
been ? ' "
This remark made Rodolph smile, whilst Fleur-de-
Marie thus continued : " Next day the one-eyed woman
gave me a similar allowance for breakfast as for supper^
and sent me to Montfaugon to get some worms to bait
for fish; for in the daytime the Chouette kept her
stall for selling fishing-lines, near the bridge of Notre
Dame. For a child of seven years of age, who is half
dead with hunger and cold, it is a long way from the
Rue de la Mortellerie to Montfau9on."
" But exercise has made you grow as straight as an
arrow, my girl ; you have no reason to complain of
that," said the Chourineur, striking a light for his pipe.
" Well," said the Goualeuse, " I returned very, very
tired ; then, at noon, the Chouette gave me a little bit
of bread."
" Ah, eating so little has kept your figure as fine as a
needle, girl ; you must not find fault with that," said
Chourineur, puffing out a cloud of tobacco-smoke. " But
what ails you, comrade I mean. Master Rodolph ? You
seem quite down like ; are you sorry for the girl and her
miseries ? Ah, we all have, and have had, our miseries ! "
" Yes, but not such miseries as mine, Chourineur,''
said Fleur-de-Marie.
" What ! not I. Goualeuse ? Why, my lass, you were a
queen to me ! At least, when you were little you slept
32
HISTORY OF LA GOUALEUSE.
on straw and ate bread ; I passed my most comfortable
nights in the lime-kilns at Clichy, like a regular vaga-
bond ; I fed on cabbage-stumps and other refuse vege-
tables, which I picked up when and where I could ; but
very often, as it was so far to the lime-kilns at Clichy,
and I was tired after my work, I slept under the large
stones at the Louvre ; and then, in winter, I had white
sheets, that is, whenever the snow fell."
"A man is stronger; but a poor little girl " said
Fleur-de-Marie. " And yet, with all that, I was as plump
as a skylark."
" What ! you remember that, eh ? "
" To be sure I do. When the Chouette beat me I fell
always at the first blow; then she stamped upon me,
screaming out, ' Ah, the nasty little brute ! she hasn't a
farden's worth of strength, she can't stand even two
thumps ! ' And then she called me Pegriotte (little
thief). I never had any other name, that was my
baptismal name."
" Like me. I had the baptism of a dog in a ditch,
and they called me ' Fellow,' or ' You, sir,' or ' Albino.'
It is really surprising, my wench, how much we resemble
each other ! " said the Chourineur.
"That's true, in our misery," said Fleur-de-Marie,
who addressed herself to the Chourineur almost always,
feeling, in spite of herself, a sort of shame at the pres-
ence of Rodolph, hardly venturing to raise her eyes to
him, although in appearance he belonged to that class
with whom she ordinarily lived.
" And when you had fetched the worms for the
Chouette, what did you do ? " inquired the Chourineur.
" Why, she made me beg until night ; then, in the
evening, she went to sell fried fish on the Pont Neuf.
Oh, dear! at that time it was a long while to wait for
my morsel of bread ; and if I dared to ask the Chouette
for something to eat, she beat me and said, ' Get ten sous,
and then you shall have your supper.' Then I, being
33
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
very hungry, and as she hurt me very much, cried with
a very full heart and sore body. The Chouette tied my
little basket of barley-srgar round my neck, and stationed
me on the Pont Neuf, where, in winter, I was frozen to
death. Yet sometimes, in spite of myself, I slept as I
stood, but not long ; for the Chouette kicked me until
I awoke. I remained on the bridge till eleven o'clock,
my stock of barley-sugar hanging round my neck, and
often crying heartily. The passengers, touched by my
tears, sometimes gave me a sou ; and then I gained ten
and sometimes fifteen sous, which I gave to the Chouette,
who searched me all over, and even looked in my mouth,
to see if I had kept back anything."
" Well, fifteen sous was a good haul for a little bird
like you."
" It was. And then the one-eyed woman seeing
that "
" With her one eye ? " said the Chourineur, laughing.
" Of course, because she had but one. Well, then,
she finding that when I cried I got most money, always
beat me severely before she put me on the bridge."
" Brutal, but cunning."
" Well, at last I got hardened to blows ; and as the
Chouette got in a passion when I did not cry, why I, to
be revenged upon her, the more she thumped me the
more I laughed, although the tears came into my eyes
with the pain."
" But, poor Goualeuse, did not the sticks of barley-
sugar make you long for them ? "
" Ah, yes, Chourineur ; but I never tasted them. It
was my ambition, and my ambition ruined me. One
day, returning from Montfaugon, some little boys beat
me and stole my basket. I came back, well knowing
what was in store for me ; and I had a shower of thumps
and no bread. In the evening, before going to the
bridge, the Chouette, savage because I had not brought
in anything the evening before, instead of beating me as
34
HISTORY OF LA GOUALEUSE.
usual to make me cry, made me bleed by pulling my
hair from the sides of the temples, where it is most
tender."
" Tonnerre ! that was coming it too strong," said the
bandit, striking his fist heavily on the table, and frown-
ing sternly. " To beat a child is no such great thing,
but to ill-use one so Heaven and earth ! "
Rodolph had listened attentively to the recital of
Fleur-de-Marie, and now looked at the Chourineur with
astonishment : the display of such feeling quite surprised
him.
" What ails you, Chourineur?" he inquired.
" What ails me ? Ails me ? Why, have you no feel-
ing ? That devil's dam of a Chouette who so brutally
used this girl ! Are you as hard as your own fists ? "
" Go on, my girl," said Rodolph to Fleur-de-Marie,
without appearing to notice the Chourineur's appeal.
" I have told you how the Chouette ill-used me to
make me cry. I was then sent on to the bridge with
my barley-sugar. The one-eyed was at her usual spot,
and from time to time shook her doubled fist at me.
However, as I had not broken my fast since the night
before, and as I was very hungry, at the risk of putting
the Chouette in a passion, I took a piece of barley-sugar,
and began to eat it."
" Well done, girl ! "
" I ate another piece "
" Bravo ! go it, my hearties ! "
" I found it so good, not from daintiness, but real hun-
ger. But then a woman, who sold oranges, cried out to
the one-eyed woman, ^ Look ye there, Chouette ; Pegriotte
is eating the barley-sugar ! ' "
" Oh, thunder and lightning ! " said the Chourineur ;
" that would enrage her, make her in a passion ! Poor
little mouse, what a fright you were in when the Chouette
saw you ! eh ? "
" How did you get out of that affair, poor Goua-
35
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
leuse?" asked Rodolph, with as much interest as the
Chourineur.
" Why, it was a serious matter to me, but that was
after wardr ; for the Chouette, although boiling over with
rage at seeing me devour the barley-sugar, could not
leave her stove, for the fish was frying."
'' Ha ! ha ! ha ! True, true, that was a difficult posi-
tion for her," said the Chourineur, laughing heartily.
" At a distance, the Chouette threatened me with her
long iron fork ; but when her fish was cooked, she came
towards me. I had only collected three sous, and I had
eaten six sous' worth. She did not say a word, but took
me by the hand and dragged me away with her. At
this moment, I do not know how it was that I did not
die on the spot with fright. I remember it as well as if
it was this very moment, it was very near to New Year's
day, and there were a great many shops on the Pont
Neuf, all filled with toys, and I had been looking at them
all the evening with the greatest delight, beautiful
dolls, little furnished houses, you know how very
amusing such things are for a child."
" You had never had any playthings, had you, Goua-
leuse ? " asked the Chourineur.
" I ? Mon Bieu ! who was there to give me any play-
things ?" said the girl, in a sad tone. " Well, the even^
ing passed. Although it was in the depth of winter, 1
only had on a little cotton gown, no stockings, no shift,
and with wooden shoes on my feet : that was not enough
to stifle me with heat, was it? Well, when the old
woman took my hand, 1 burst out into a perspiration
from head to foot. What frightened me most was, that,
instead of swearing and storming as usual, she only kept
on grumbling between her teeth. She never let go my
hand, but made me walk so fast so very fast that 1
was obliged to run to keep up with her, and in running
I had lost one of my wooden shoes ; and as 1 did not
dare to say so, I followed her with one foot naked on the
36
HISTORY OF LA GOUALEUSE.
bare stones. Wlieri we reached home it was covered
with blood."
" A one-eyed old devil's kin ! " said the Chourineur,
again thumping the table in his anger. " It makes my
heart quite cold to think of the poor little thing trotting
along beside that cursed old brute, with her poor little
foot all bloody ! "
" We lived in a garret in the Rue de la Montellerie ;
beside the entrance to our alley there was a dram-shop,
and there the Chouette went in, still dragging me by the
hand. She then had a half pint of brandy at the bar."
" The deuce ! Why, I could not drink that without
being quite fuddled ! "
" It was her usual quantity ; perhaps that was the
reason why she beat me of an evening. Well, at last we
got up into our cock-loft; the Chouette double-locked
the door ; I threw myself on my knees, and asked her
pardon for having eaten the barley-sugar. She did not
answer me, but I heard her mumbling to herself, as she
walked about the room, ' What shall I do this evening
to this little thief, who has eaten all that barley-sugar?
Ah, I see ! ' And she looked at me maliciously with her
one green eye. I was still on my knees, when she sud-
denly went to a shelf and took down a pair of pincers.'*
" Pincers ! " exclaimed the Chourineur.
" Yes, pincers."
" What for ? "
" To strike you ? " inquired Rodolph.
" To pinch you ? " said the Chourineur.
'' No, no," answered the poor girl, trembling at the
very recollection.
" To pull out your hair ? "
" No ; to take out one of my teeth."
The Chourineur uttered a blasphemous oath, accom-
panied with such furious imprecations that all the guests
in the tapis-franc looked at him with astonishment.
" Why, what is the matter with you ? " asked Rodolph.
87
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" The matter ! the matter ! I'll skin her alive, that
infernal old hag, if I can catch her ! Where is she ? Tell
me, where is she ? Let me find her, and I'll throttle the
old"
"And did she really take out your tooth, my poor
child, that wretched monster in woman's shape ? "
demanded Rodolph, whilst the Chourineur was venting
his rage in a volley of the most violent reproaches.
" Yes, sir ; but not at the first pull. How I suffered !
She held me with my head between her knees, where
she hsld it as if in a vice. Then, half with her pincers,
half with her fingers, she pulled out my tooth, and then
said, ' Now I will pull out one every day, Pegriotte ; and
when you have not a tooth left I will throw you into the
river, and the fish shall eat you.' "
" The old devil ! To break and pull out a poor child's
teeth in that way ! " exclaimed the Chourineur, with
redoubled fury.
"And how did you escape her then?" inquired
Rodolph of the Goualeuse.
" Next day, instead of going to Montfau^on, I went on
the side of the Champs Elys^es, so frightened was I of
being drowned by the Chouette. I would have run to
the end of the woild, rather than be again in the Chou-
ette' s hands. After walking and walking, I fairly lost
myself ; I had not begged a farthing, and the more I
thought the more frightened did I become. At night
I hid myself in a timber-yard, under some piles of wood.
As I was very little, I was able to creep under an old
door and hide myself amongst a heap of logs. I was so
hungry that I tried to gnaw a piece of the bark, but I
could not bite it, it was too hard. At length I fell
asleep. In the morning, hearing a noise, I hid myself
still further back in the wood-pile. It was tolerably
warm, and, if I had had something to eat, I could not
have been better off for the winter."
" Like me in fche lime-kiln."
38
HISTORY OF LA GOUALEUSE.
" I did not dare to quit the timber-yard, for I fancied
that the Chouette would seek for me everywhere, to pull
out my teeth and drown me, and that she would be sure
to catch me if I stirred from where I was."
" Stay, do not mention that old beast's name again,
it makes the blood come into my eyes ! The fact is, that
you have known misery, bitter, bitter misery. Poor
little mite ! how sorry I am that I threatened to beat you
just now, and frightened you. As I am a man, I did not
mean to do it."
" Why, would you not have beaten me ? I have no
one to defend me."
" That's the very reason, because you are not like the
others, because you have no one to take your part,
that I would not have beaten you. When I say no one,
I do not mean our comrade Rodolph ; but his coming was
a chance, and he certainly did give me my full allowance
when we met."
" Go on, my child," said Rodolph. " How did you get
away from the timber-yard ? "
"Next day, about noon, I heard a great dog barking
under the wood-pile. I listened, and the bark came
nearer and nearer ; the n a deep voice exclaimed, ' My
dog barks, somebody is hid in the yard ! ' ' They are
thieves,' said another voice ; and the men then began to
encourage the dog, and cry, ' Find 'em ! find 'em, lad ! '
The dog ran to me, and, for fear of being bitten, I began
to cry out with all my might and main. ' Hark ! ' said
one of them; 'I hear the cry of a child.' They called
back the dog ; I came out from the pile of wood, and saw
a gentleman and a man in a blouse. ' Ah, you little
thief ! what are you doing in my timber-yard ? ' said the
gentleman, in a cross tone. I put my hands together
and said, ' Don't hurt me, pray. I have had nothing to
eat for two days, and I've run away from the Chouette,
who pulled out my tooth, and said she would throw me
over to the fishes. Not knowing where to sleep, I was
39
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
passing before your door, and I slept for the night
amongst these logs, under this heap, not thinking I hurt
anybody.'
" ' I'm not to be gammoned by you, you little hussy !
You came to steal my logs. Go and call the watch,'
said the timber-merchant to his man."
" Ah, the old vagabond ! The old reprobate ! Call the
watch ! Why didn't he send for the artillery ? " said
the Chourineur. " Steal his logs, and you only eight
years old ! What an old ass ! "
" ' Not true, sir,' his man replied. ' Steal your logs,
master ! How can she do that ? She is not so big as
the smallest piece ! ' ' You are right,' replied the timber-
merchant ; ' but if she does not come for herself, she
does for others. Thieves have a parcel of children,
whom they send to pry about and hide themselves to
open the doors of houses. She must be taken to the
commissary, and mind she does not escape.' "
" Upon my life, this timber-merchant was more of a
log than any log in his own yard," said the Chourineur.
" I was taken to the commissary," resumed Goualeuse.
" I accused myself of being a wanderer, and they sent
me to prison. I was sent before the Tribunal, and
sentenced, as a rogue and vagabond, to remain until
I was sixteen years of age in a house of correction. I
thank the judges much for their kindness ; for in prison
I had food, I was not beaten, and it was a paradise after
the cock-loft of the Chouette. Then, in prison I learned
to sew ; but, sad to say, I was idle : I preferred
singing to work, and particularly when I saw the sun
shine. Ah, when the sun shone on the walls of the
prison I could not help singing ; and then, when I could
sing, I seemed no longer to be a prisoner. It was after I
began to sing so much that they called me Goualeuse,
instead of Pegriotte. Well, when I was sixteen, I left
the gaol. At the door, I found the ogress here, and two
or three old women, who had come to see my fellow
40
HISTORY OP LA GOUALEUSE.
prisoners, and who had always told me that when 1 left
the prison they would find work for me."
" Yes, yes, 1 see," said the Chourineur.
'' ^ My pretty little maid,' said the ogress and her old
companions, ' come and lodge with us ; we will give you
good clothes, and then you may amuse yourself.' I
didn't like them, and refused, saying to myself, ' I know
how to sew very well, and I have two hundred francs in
hand. I have been eight years in prison, I should like
to enjoy myself a bit, that won't hurt anybody ; work
will come when the money is spent.' And so I began to
spend my two hundred francs. Ah, that was my mis-
take," added Fleur-de-Marie, with a sigh. " I ought
first to have got my work ; but I hadn't a soul on earth
to advise me. At sixteen, to be thrown on the city of
Paris, as I was, one is so lonely ; and what is done is
done. I have done wrong, and I have suffered for it.
I began then to spend my money : first, I bought flowers
to put in my room, I do love flowers ! then I bought
a gown, a nice shawl, and I took a walk in the Bois de
Boulogne, and I went to St. Germains, Vincennes, and
other country places. Oh, how I love the country ! "
" With a lover by your side, my girl ? " asked the
Chourineur.
" Oh, mon Dieu! no ! I like to be my own mistress.
I had my little excursions with a friend who was in
prison with me, a good little girl as can be : they call
her Rigolette, because she is always laughing."
" Rigolette ! Rigolette ! I don't know her," said the
Chourineur, who appeared to be appealing to his memory.
" I didn't think you knew her. I am sure Rigolette
was very well behaved in prison, and always so gay and
so industrious, she took out with her when she left
the prison at least four hundred francs that she had
earned. And then she is so particular! you should
see her ! When I say I had no one to advise me, 1 am
wrong : I ought to have listened to her ; for, after having
41
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
had a week's amusement together, she said to me, ' Now
we have had such a holiday, we ought to try for work,
and not spend our money in waste.' I, who was so
happy in the fields and the woods, it was just at the
end of spring, this year, I answered, ' Oh, I must be
idle a little longer, and then I will work hard.' Since
that time I have not seen Rigolette, but I heard a few
days since that she was living near the Temple, that
she was a famous needlewoman, and earned at least
twenty-five sous a-day, and has a small workroom of her
own ; but now I could not for the world see her again,
I should die with shame if I met her."
" So, then, my poor girl," said Rodolph, " you spent
your money in the country, you like the country, do
you ?"
" Like it ? I love it ! Oh, what would I not give to
live there? Rigolette, on the contrary, prefers Paris^
and likes to walk on the Boulevards ; but she is so nice
and so kind, she went into the country only to* please
me."
" And you did not even leave yourself a few sous to
live upon whilst you found work ? " said the Chourineur.
" Yes, I had reserved about fifty francs ; but it hap-
pened that I had for my washerwoman a woman called
Lorraine, a poor thing, with none but the good God tci
protect her. She was then very near her confinement,
and yet was obliged all day long to be with her hands
and feet in her washing-tubs. She fell sick, and, not
being able to work, applied for admittance to a lying-in
hospital, but there was no room. She could not work,
and her time was very near at hand, and she had not a
sou to pay for the bed in a garret, from which they
drove her. Fortunately, she met one day, at the end of
the Pont Notre-Dame, with Goubin's wife, who had been
hiding for four days in a cellar of a house which was
being pulled down behind the H6tel Dieu "
" But why was- Goubin's wife hiding ? "
42
HISTORY OF LA GOUALEUSE.
" To escape from her husband, who threatened to kill
her ; and she only went out at night to buy some bread,
and it was then she met with the poor Lorraine, ill, and
hardly able to drag herself along, for she was expecting
to be brought to bed every hour. Well, it seems this
Goubin's wife took her to the cellar where she was
hiding, it was just a shelter, and no more. There she
shared her bread and straw with the poor Lorraine, who
was confined in this cellar of a poor little infant ; her
only covering and bed was straw ! Well, it seems that
Goubin's wife could not bear it, and so, going out at all
risks, even of being killed by her husband, who was
looking for her everywhere, she left the cellar in open
day, and came to me. She knew I had still a little
money left, and that I could assist her if I would; so,
when Helmina had told me all about poor Lorraine, who
was obliged to lie with her new-born babe on straw, I
told her to bring them both to my room at once, and I
would take a chamber for her next to mine. This I did ;
and, oh, how happy she was, poor Lorraine, when she
found herself in a bed, with her babe beside her in a
little couch which I had bought for her ! Helmina and
I nursed her until she was able to get about again,
and then, with the rest of my money, I enabled her to
return to her washing-tubs."
" And when all your money was spent on Lorraine
and her infant, what did you do, my child ? " inquired
Rodolph.
" I looked out for work ; but it was too late. I can sew
very well, I have good courage, and thought that I had
only to ask for work and get it. Ah ! how I deceived
myself ! I went into a shop where they sell ready-made
linen, and asked for employment, and as I would not
tell a story, I said I had just left prison. They showed
me the door, without making me any answer. I begged
they would give me a trial, and they pushed me into the
street as if I had been a thief. Then I remembered, too
43
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
late, what Rigolette had told me. Little by little I sold
my small stock of clothes and linen, and when all was
gone they turned me out of my lodging. I had not
tasted food for two days ; I did not know where to sleep.
At this moment I met the ogress and one of her old
women who knew where I lodged, and was always
coming about me since I left prison. They told me
they would find me work, and I believed them. I went
with them, so exhausted for want of food that my senses
were gone. They gave me brandy to drink, and and
here I am ! " said the unhappy creature, hiding her
face in her hands.
" Have you lived a long time with the ogress, my
poor girl ? " asked Rodolph, in accents of the deepest
compassion.
" Six weeks, sir," replied Goualeuse, shuddering as
she spoke.
" I see, I see," said the Chourineur ; " I know you
now as well as if I were your father and mother, and
you had never left my lap. Well, well, this is a con-
fession indeed ! "
" It makes you sad, my girl, to tell the story of your
life," said Rodolph.
" Alas ! sir," replied Fleur-de-Marie, sorrowfully, " since
I was born this is the first time it ever happened to me
to recall all these things at once, and my tale is not a
merry one."
" Well," said the Chourineur, ironically, " you are
sorry, perhaps, that you are not a kitchen-wench in a
cook-shop, or a servant to some old brutes who think of
no one but themselves."
" Ah ! " said Fleur-de-Marie, with a deep sigh, " to be
quite happy, we must be quite virtuous."
" Oh, what is your little head about now ? " exclaimed
the Chourineur, with a loud burst of laughter. " Why
not count your rosary in honour of your father and
mother, whom you never knew ? "
44
HISTORY OF LA GOUALEUSE.
" My father and mother abandoned me in the street
like a puppy that is one too many in the house ; perhaps
they had not enough to feed themselves," said Goualeuse,
with bitterness. " I want nothing of them, I complain
of nothing, but there are lots happier than mine."
" Yours ! Why, what would you have ? You are as
handsome as a Venus, and yet only sixteen and a half ;
you sing like a nightingale, behave yourself very
prettily, are called Fleur-de-Marie, and yet you com-
plain ! What will you say, I should like to know, when
you will have a stove under your ' paddlers,' and a
chinchilla boa, like the ogress ? "
" Oh, I shall never be so old as she is."
" Perhaps you have a charm for never growing any
older ? "
" No ; but I could not lead such a life. I have already
a bad cough."
" Ah, I see you already in the ' cold-meat box.' Go
along, you silly child, you ! "
"Do you often have such thoughts as these, Goua-
leuse ? " said Rodolph.
" Sometimes. You, perhaps, M. Rodolph, understand
me. In the morning, when I go to buy my milk from
the milkwoman at the corner of Rue de la Vieille-Dra-
perie, with the sous which the ogress gives me, and see
her go away in her little cart drawn by her donkey, I
do envy her so, and I say to myself, ' She is going into
the country, to the pure air, to her home and her
family ; ' and then I return alone into the garret of the
ogress, where you cannot see plainly even at noonday."
" Well, child, be good laugh at your troubles be
good," said the Chourineur.
" Good ! mon Dieu f and how do you mean be good ?
The clothes I wear belong to the ogress, and I am in
debt to her for my board and lodging. I can't stir
from her ; she would have me taken up as a thief. I
belong to her, and I must pay her."
46
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
When she had uttered these last words, the unhappy-
girl could not help shuddering, and a tear trembled in
her long eyelashes.
" Well, but remain as you are, and do not compare
yourself to a country milkwoman," said the Chourineur.
" Are you taking leave of your senses ? Only think, you
may yet cut a figure in the capital, whilst the milkwoman
must boil the pot for her brats, milk her cows, gather
grass for her rabbits, and, perhaps, after all, get a black
eye from her husband when he comes home from the
pot-house. Why, it is really ridiculous to hear you talk
of envying her."
The Goualeuse did not reply ; her eye was fixed, her
heart was full, and the expression of her face was pain-
fully distressed. Rodolph had listened to the recital,
made with so painful a frankness, with deep interest.
Misery, destitution, ignorance of the world, had weighed
down this wretched girl, cast at sixteen years of age on
the wide world of Paris !
Rodolph involuntarily thought of a beloved child whom
he had lost, a girl, dead at six years of age, and who,
had she survived, would have been, like Fleur-de-Marie,
sixteen years and a half old. This recollection excited
the more highly his solicitude for the unhappy creature
whose narration he had just heard.
46
CHAPTER IV.
THE CHOURINEUR'S HISTORY.
The reader has not forgotten the two guests at the
tapis-franc who were watched so closely by the third in-
dividual who had come into the cabaret. We have said
that one of these fellows, who had on a .Greek cap, and
concealed his left hand with much care, asked the ogress
if the Schoolmaster and Gros-Boiteux had not arrived.
During the story of the Goualeuse, which they could
not overhear, they had been constantly talking in a very
low tone, throwing occasional hurried glances at the
door. He who wore the Greek cap said to his com-
rade, " The Gros-Boiteux does not ' show,' nor the
Schoolmaster."
" Perhaps the Skeleton has ' done for him,' and made
off with the ' swag.' "
" A precious ' go ' that would be for us, who ' laid the
plant,' and look out for our ' snacks,' " replied the other.
The newcomer, who observed the two men, was seated
too far off to hear a word they said, but, after having
cautiously consulted a small paper concealed at the bot-
tom of his cap, he appeared satisfied with his remarks,
rose from the table, and said to the ogress, who was
sleeping at the bar, with her feet on the stove, and her
great cat on her knee :
" I say. Mother Ponisse, I shall soon be back again ;
take care of my pitcher and my plate ; I don't want any
one to make free with them."
" Make yourself easy, my fine fellow," said Mother
47
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Ponisse ; " if your plate and pitcher are empty, no one
will touch them."
The newcomer laughed loudly at the joke of the
ogress, and then slipped out, so that his departure was
unnoticed. At that moment when this man retired, and
before the door could be shut, Rodolph saw the charcoal-
dealer, whose black face and tall form we have already
alluded to, and he had just time to manifest to him, by
an impatient gesture, how much he disliked his watchful
attendance ; but the charcoal-man did not appear to
heed this in the least, and still kept hanging about the
tapis-franc. The countenance of the Goualeuse became
still more saddened ; with her back to the wall, her head
drooping on her bosom, her full blue eyes gazing me-
chanically about her, the unfortunate being seemed
bowed down with the weight of her oppressive thoughts.
Two or three times, having met Rodolph's fixed look, she
turned away, unable to account to herself for the sin-
gular impression which the unknown had caused her.
Weighed down and abashed at his presence, she almost
regretted having made so candid a narrative to him of
her unhappy life. The Chourineur, on the contrary, was
quite in high spirits ; he had devoured the whole harle-
quin without the least assistance ; the wine and brandy
had made him very communicative ; the fact of his hav-
ing found his master, as he called him, had been forgot-
ten in the generous conduct of Rodolph ; and he also
detected so decided a physical superiority, that his
humiliation had given way to a sentiment of admiration,
mingled with fear and respect. This absence of rancour,
and the savage pride with which he boasted of never
having robbed, proved that the Chourineur was not as
yet thoroughly hardened. This had not escaped the
sagacity of Rodolph, and he awaited the man's recital
with curiosity.
" Now, my boy " said he, " we are listening."
The Chourineur emptied his glass, and thus began ;
48
THE CHOURINEUR'S HISTORY.
"You, my poor girl, were at last taken to by the
Chouette, whom the devil confound ! You never had a
shelter until the moment when you were imprisoned as
a vagabond. I can never recollect having slept in what
is called a bed before I was nineteen years of age, a
happy age ! and then I became a trooper."
" What, you have served, then, Chourineur ? " said
Rodolph.
" Three years ; but you will hear all about it : the
stones of the Louvre, the lime-kilns of Clichy, and the
quarries of Montrouge, these were the hotels of my
youth. Then I had my house in Paris and in the
country. Who but I "
" And what was your trade ? "
" Faith, master, I have a foggy recollection of having
stpolled about in my childhood with an old rag-picker,
who almost thumped me to death ; and it must be true,
for I have never since met one of these old Cupids, with
a wicker-work quiver, without a longing to pitch into
him, a proof that one of them must have thumped me
when I was a child. My first employment was to help
the knackers to cut the horses' throats at MontfauQon.
I was about ten or twelve. When I began to slash
(chouriner) these poor old beasts, it had quite an im-
pression on me. At the month's end I thought no more
about it; on the contrary, I began to like my trade.
No one had his knife so sharpened and keen-edged as
mine ; and that made me rejoice in using it. When I
had cut the animals' throats, they gave me for my
trouble a piece of the thigh of some animal that had
died of disease ; for those that they slaughter are sold
to the ' cag-mag ' shops near the School of Medicine,
who convert it into beef, mutton, veal, or game, accord-
ing to the taste of purchasers. However, when I got to
my morsel of horse's flesh, I was as happy as a king!
I went with it into the lime-kiln like a wolf to his lair,
and then, with the leave of the lime-burners, I made a
49
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
glorious fry on the ashes. When the burners were not
at work, I picked up some dry wood at Romainville, set
light to it, and broiled my steak under the walls of the
bone-house. The meat certainly was bloody, and almost
raw, but that made a change."
" And your name ? What did they call you ? " asked
Rodolph.
" I had hair much more flaxen than now, and the
blood was always in my eyes, and so they called me the
' Albino.' The Albinos are the white rabbits amongst
men ; they have red eyes," added the Chourineur, in
a grave tone, and, as it were, with a physiological
parenthesis.
" And your relations ? your family ? "
" My relations ? Oh ! they lodge at the same number
as the Goualeuse's. Place of my birth? Why, the first
corner of no-matter-what street, either on the right or
left-hand side of the way, and either going up or coming
down the kennel."
" Then you have cursed your father and mother for
having abandoned you ? "
u Why, that would not have set my leg if I had
broken it ! No matter ; though it's true they played me
a scurvy trick in bringing me into the world. But I
should not have complained if they had made me as
beggars ought to be made ; that is to say, without the
sense of cold, hunger, or thirst. Beggars who don't
like thieving would find it greatly to their advantage."
" You were cold, thirsty, hungry, Chourineur, and yet
you did not steal ? "
" No ; and yet I was horribly wretched. It's a fact,
that I have often gone with an empty bread-baskfet
(fasted) for two days at a time : that was more than my
share ; but I never stole."
" For fear of a gaol ? "
" Pooh ! " said the Chourineur, shrugging his shoul-
ders, and laughing loudly, " I should then not have stolen
50
THE CHOURINEUR'S HISTORY.
bread, for fear of getting my allowance, eh ? An hon-
est man, I was famishing ; a thief, I should have been
supported in prison, and right well, too ! But I did not
steal, because because why, because the idea of
stealing never came across me ; so that's all about
it!"
This reply, noble as it was in itself, but of the recti-
tude of which the Chourineur himself had no idea, per-
fectly astonished Rodolph. He felt that the poor fellow
w^ho had remained honest in the midst of the most cruel
privations was to be respected twofold, since the punish-
ment of the crime became a certain resource for him.
Rodolph held out his hand to this ill-used savage of
civilisation, whom misery had been unable wholly to cor-
rupt. The Chourineur looked at his host in astonish-
ment, almost with respect ; he hardly dared to touch
the hand tendered to him. He felt impressed with some
vague idea that there was a wide abyss between Rodolph
and himself.
" 'Tis well," said Rodolph to him, " you have heart
and honour."
" Heart ? honour ? what, I ? Come, now, don't chaff
me," he replied, with surprise.
" To suffer misery and hunger rather than steal, is
to have heart and honour," said Rodolph, gravely.
" Well, it may be," said the Chourineur, as if thinking,
" it may be so."
" Does it astonish you ? "
" It really does ; for people don't usually say such
things to me ; they generally treat me as they would a
mangy dog. It's odd, though, the effect what you say
has on me. Heart ! honour ! " he repeated, with an air
which was actually pensive.
" Well, what ails you ? "
" I' faith, I don't know," replied the Chourineur, in a
tone of emotion ; " but these words, do you see, they
quite make my heart beat ; and I feel more flattered
51
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
than if any one told me I was a ' better man ' than either
the Skeleton or the Schoolmaster. I never felt anything
like it before. Be sure, though, that these words, and
the blows of the fist at the end of my tussle, you did
lay 'em on like a good 'un, not alluding to what you
pay for the supper, and the words you have said in a
word," he exclaimed, bluntly, as if he could not find
language to express his thoughts, " make sure that in
life or death you may depend on the Chourineur."
Rodolph, unwilling to betray his emotion, replied in a
tone as calm as he could assume, " How long did you go
on as an amateur knacker ? "
'' Why, at first, I was quite sick of cutting up old
worn-out horses, who could not even kick ; but when I
was about sixteen, and my voice began to get rough, it
became a passion a taste a relish a rage with
me to cut and slash. I did not care for anything but
that ; not even eating and drinking. You should have
seen me in the middle of my work ! Except an old pair
of woollen trousers, I was quite naked. When, with my
large and well-whetted knife in my hand, I had about
me fifteen or twenty horses waiting their turn, by Jupi-
ter ! when I began to slaughter them, I don't know
what possessed me, I was like a fury. My ears had
singing in them, and I saw everything red, all was
red; and I slashed, and slashed, and slashed, until my
knife fell from my hands ! Thunder ! what happiness !
Had I had millions, I could have paid them to have
enjoyed my trade ! "
" It is that which has given you the habit of stabbing,"
said Rodolph.
" Very likely ; but when I was turned of sixteen, the
passion became so strong that when I once began slash-
ing, I became mad ; I spoiled my work ; yes, I spoiled
the skins, because I slashed and cut them across and
across ; for I was so furious that I could not see clearly.
At last they turned me out of the yard. I wanted
52
THE CHOURINEUR'8 HISTORY.
employment with the butchers, for I have always liked
that sort of business. Well, they quite looked down
upon me ; they despised me as a shoemaker does a cob-
bler. Then I had to seek my bread elsewhere, and I
didn't find it very readily ; and this was the time when
my bread-basket was so often empty. At length I got
employment in the quarries at Montrouge ; but, at the
end of two years, I was tired of going always around
like a squirrel in his cage, and drawing stone for twenty
sous a day. I was tall and strong, and so I enlisted in
a regiment. They asked my name, my age, and my
papers. My name ? the Albino. My age ? look at
my beard. My papers? here's the certificate of the
master quarryman. As I was just the fellow for a
grenadier, they took me."
" With your strength, courage, and taste for chopping
and slashing, you ought, in war-time, to have been made
an officer."
" Thunder and lightning ! what do you say ? What !
to cut up English or Prussians ! Why, that would have
been better than to cut up old horses ; but, worse luck,
there was no war, but a great deal of discipline. An
apprentice tries to hit his master a thump ; well, if he be
the weaker, why, he gets the worst of it ; if he be the
stronger, he has the best of it ; he is turned out-of-doors,
perhaps put into the cage, and that is all. In the
army it is quite a different thing. One day our sergeant
had bullied me a good deal, to make me more attentive,
he was right, for I was very slow ; I did not like a
poke he gave me, and I kicked at him ; he pushed me
again, I returned his poke; he collared me, and I gave
him a punch of the head. They fell on me, and then
my blood was up in my eyes, and I was enraged in a
moment. I had my knife in my hand I belonged to
the cookery and I . ' went it my hardest.' I cut,
slashed, slashed, chopped, as if I was in the slaughter-
house. I made ' cold meat ' of the sergeant, wounded
53
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
two soldiers, it was a real shambles ; I gave the three
eleven wounds, yes, eleven. Blood flowed, flowed
everywhere, blood, as though we were in the bone-house,
I swam in it "
The brigand lowered his head with a sombre, sullen
air, and was silent.
" What are you thinking of, Chourineur ? " asked
Rodolph, with interest.
" Nothing," he replied, abruptly ; and then, with an
air of brutish carelessness, he added, " At length they
handcuffed me, and brought me before the 'big wigs,*
and I was cast for death."
" You escaped, however ? "
" True ; but I had fifteen years at the galleys instead
of being ' scragged.' I forgot to tell you that whilst in
the regiment I had saved two of my comrades from
drowning in the Marne, when we were quartered at
Milan. At another time, you will laugh, and say I
am amphibious either in fire or water when saving men
or women, at another time, being in garrison at Rouen,
all the wooden houses in one quarter were on fire, and
burning like so many matches. I am the lad for a fire,
and so I went to the Dlace in an instant. They told me
that there was an old woman who was bedridden, and
could not escape from her room, which was already in
flames. I went towards it, and, by Jove ! how it did
burn ; it reminded me of the lime-kilns in my happy
days. However, I saved the old woman, although I had
the very soles of my feet scorched. Thanks to my hav-
ing done these things, and the cunning of my advocate,
my sentence was changed, and, instead of being ' scragged,'
I was only sent to the hulks for fifteen years. When I
found that my life would be spared, and I was to go to
the galleys, I would have jumped upon the babbling fool,
and twisted his neck, at the moment when he came to
wish me joy, and to tell me he had saved my life, and be
hanged to him ! only they prevented me."
54
THE CHOUlllNEUR'S HISTORY.
" Were you sorry, then, to have your sentence
commuted ?"
" Yes ; for those who -sport with the knife, the heads-
man's steel is the proper fate ; for those who steal, the
'darbies' to their heels: each his proper punishment.
But to force you to live amongst galley-slaves, when you
have a right to be guillotined out of hand, is infamous ;
and, besides, my life, when I first went to the Bagne,
was rather queer ; one don't kill a man, and soon forget
it, you must know."
" You feel some remorse, then, Chourineur ? "
" Remorse ? No ; for I have served my time," said the
savage ; " but at first, a night did not pass but I saw
like a nightmare the sergeant and soldiers whom I had
slashed and slaughtered ; that is, they were not alone,"
added the brigand, in a voice of terror ; " these were in
tens, and dozens, and hundreds, and thousands, each
waiting his turn, in a kind of slaughter-house, like the
horses whose throats I used to cut at Montfaugon, await-
ing each his turn. Then, then, I saw red, and began to
cut and slash away on these men as I used formerly to
do on the horses. The more, however, I chopped down
the soldiers, the faster the ranks filled up with others ;
and as they died, they looked at one with an air so
gentle, so gentle, that I cursed myself for killing 'em ;
but I couldn't help it. That was not all. I never had
a brother ; and yet it seemed as if every one of those
whom I killed was my brother, and I loved all of them.
At last, when I could bear it no longer, I used to wake
covered all over with sweat, as cold as melting snow."
" That was a horrid dream, Chourineur ! "
" It was ; yes. That dream, do you see, was enough
to drive one mad or foolish ; so, twice, I tried to kill
myself, once by swallowing verdigris, and another time
by trying to choke myself with my chain ; but, confound
it, I am as strong as a bull. The verdigris only made
me thirsty ; and as for the twist of the chain round my
5^
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
neck, why, that only gave me a natural cravat of a blue
colour. Afterwards, the desire of life came back to me,
my nightmare ceased to torment me, and I did as others
did."
*' At the Bagne, you were in a good school for learning
how to thieve?"
" Yes, but it was not to my taste. The other ' prigs *
bullied me ; but I soon silenced them with a few thumps
of my chain. It was in this way I first knew the School-
master ; and I must pay him the compliment due to his
blows, he paid me off as you did some little time ago."
" He is, then, a criminal who has served his time ? "
" He was sentenced for life, but escaped."
" Escaped, and not denounced ? "
" I'm not the man to denounce him. Besides, it would
seem as if I were afraid of him."
" But how is it that the police do not detect him ?
Have they not got his description ? "
" His description ? Oh ! yes, yes ; but it is long since
he has scraped out from his phiz what nature had placed
there ; now, none but the ' baker who puts the condemned
in his oven ' (the devil) could recognise him " (the School-
master).
" What has he done to himself ? "
" He began by destroying his nose, which was an ell
long ; he ate it off with vitriol."
" You jest."
" If he comes in this evening, you'll see. He had a
nose like a parrot, and now it is as fiat as in a death's
head ; to say nothing of his lips, which are as thick as
your fist, and his face, which is as wrinkled as the
waistcoat of a rag-picker."
" And so he is not recognised ? "
" It is six months since he escaped from Rochefort,
and the * traps ' have met him a hundred times without
knowing him."
" Why was he at the Bagne ? "
66
THE CHOURINEUR'S HISTORY.
" For having been a forger, thief, and assassin. He is
called the Schoolmaster because he wrote a splendid
hand, and has had a good education."
" And is he much feared ? "
" He will not be any longer, when you have given him
such a licking as you gave me. Oh, by Jove, I am
anxious to see it ! "
" What does he do for a living ? ''
" He is associated with an old woman as bad as him-
self, and as deep as the ' old one ; ' but she is never seen,
though he has told the ogress that some day or other he
would bring his * mot ' (woman) with him."
" And this women helps him in his robberies ? "
" Yes, and in his murders too. They say he brags of
having already, with her assistance, 'done for' two or
three persons ; and, amongst others, three weeks ago,
a cattle-dealer on the road to Poissy, whom they also
robbed."
" He will be taken sooner or later."
" They must be very cunning, as well as powerful, to
do that, for he always has under his blouse a brace of
loaded pistols and a dagger. He says that Chariot (the
executioner) waits for him, and he can only lose his
head once, and so he will kill all he can kill to try and
escape. Oh ! he makes no mystery of it ; and as he is
twice as strong as you and I, they will have a tough job
who take him."
" What did you do, Chourineur, when you left the
Bagne?"
" I offered myself to the master-lighterman of the
Quai St. Paul, and I get my livelihood there."
" But as you have never been a ' prig,' why do you
live in the Cit^ ? "
" Why, where else can I live ? Who likes to be seen
with a discharged criminal ? I should be tired of always
being alone, for I like company, and here I am with my
equals. I have a bit of a row sometimes, and they fear
57
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
me like fire in the Cit^ ; but the police have nothing to
say to me, except now and then for a ' shindy,' for which
they give me, perhaps, twenty -four hours at the watch-
house, and there's an end of that."
" What do you earn a day ? "
" Thirty-five sous for taking in the river foot-baths,
up to the stomach from twelve to fifteen hours a day,
summer and winter ; but let me be just, and tell the
truth ; so if, through having my toes in the water, I get
the grenouille,^ I am allowed to break my arms in
breaking up old vessels, and unloading timber on my
back. I begin as a beast of burden, and end like a fish's
tail. When I lose my strength entirely, I shall take a
rake and a wicker basket, like the old rag-picker whom
I see in the recollections of my childhood."
" And yet you are not unhappy."
" There are worse than I am ; and without my dreams
of the sergeant and soldiers with their throats cut, for
I have the dream still sometimes, I could quietly wait
for the moment when I should drop down dead at the
corner of some dunghill, like that at which I was born ;
but the dream the dream by heaven and earth ! I
don't like even to think of that," said the Chourineur,
and he emptied his pipe at the corner of the table.
The Goualeuse had hardly listened to the Chourineur ;
she seemed wholly absorbed in a deep and melancholy
reverie. Rodolph himself was pensive. A tragic incident
occurred, which brought these three personages to a
recollection of the spot in which they were.
A disease of the skin to which all who work in the water are liable.
58
CHAPTER V.
THE ARREST.
The man who had gone out for a moment, after hav-
ing requested the ogress to look after his jug and plate,
soon returned, accompanied by a tall, brawny man, to
whom he said, " It was a chance to meet in this way, old
fellow ! Come in, and let us have a glass together."
The Chourineur said, in a low voice, to Rodolph and the
Goualeuse, pointing to the newcomer, " We shall have a
row. He's a ' trap.' Look out for squalls."
The two ruffians, one of whom, with the Greek skull-
cap pulled over his brows, had inquired several times for
the Schoolmaster and the Gros-Boiteux, exchanged rapid
glances of the eye, and, rising suddenly from the table,
went towards the door ; but the two police officers, utter-
ing a peculiar note, seized them. A fierce struggle en-
sued. The door of the tavern opened, and all of the
policemen dashed into the room, whilst, outside, were
seen the muskets of the gens-d^armes. Taking advantage
of the tumult, the charcoal -seller, of whom we ha^e
spoken, advanced to the threshold of the tapis-franc, and,
meeting the eye of Rodolph, he put to his lips the fore-
finger of his right hand. Rodolph, with a gesture as
rapid as it was imperious, desired him to go, and then
turned his attention to the scene before him. The man
with the Greek skull-cap shrieked with rage, and, half
extended on a table, struggled so desperately, that three
men could scarcely hold him. His companion, enfeebled,
dejected, with livid aspect and pale lips, his lower jaw
69
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
fallen, and shaking convulsively, made no resistance, but
held out his hands to be enclasped by the handcuffs.
The ogress, seated at her bar, and used to such scenes,
remained motionless, with her hands in the pockets of
her apron.
"What have these fellows done, my dear M. Nar-
cisse Borel ? " inquired she of one of the policemen
whom she knew.
" Killed an old woman yesterday in the Rue St. Chris-
tophe, and robbed her chamber. Before she died, the
poor old thing said that she had bitten one of her
murderers in the hand. We had our eyes on these two
scoundrels ; and my comrade, having come to make sure
of his men, why, we have made free to take them."
" How lucky they paid me beforehand for their pint ! "
said the ogress. " Won't you take a dram o' nothin'
' short,' M. Narcisse ? Just a ' go ' of ' Ratifi' of the
Column.' "
"Thanks, Mother Ponisse, but I must make sure of
my game ; one fellow shows fight still."
The assassin in the Greek cap was furious with rage,
and when they tried to get him into a hackney-coach
which was waiting in the street, he resisted so stoutly
that they were obliged to carry him. His accomplice,
seized with a nervous tremor, could hardly support him-
self, and his blue lips trembled as though he were speak-
ing. They threw him, helpless and unresisting, into the
vehicle. Before he left the tapis-franc^ the head officer
looked attentively at the other guests assembled, and
said to the Chourineur, in a tone almost kind :
"What, you here, you bad lot? Why, it is a long
time since we heard anything of you. What, no more
rows ? Are you growing steady ? "
" Steady as a stone figure. Why, you know that now
I never break a head, even if I am begged to do so ! "
" Oh, I don't think that would cost you much trouble,
strong as you are."
60
THE ARREST.
" Yet here is my master," said the Choarineur, laying
his hand on Rodolph's shoulder.
" Stay, I do not know him," said the agent de police^
looking steadfastly at Rodolph.
" And I do not think we shall form an acquaintance
now," replied he.
" I hope not, for your sake, my fine fellow," said the
agent ; then, turning to the ogress, " Good night. Mother
Ponisse ; your tapis-franc is a regular mouse-trap ; this is
the third assassin I have taken here."
" I hope it won't be the last, M. Narcisse ; it is quite at
your service," said the ogress, making a very insinuating
nod with her head.
After the departure of the police, the young vagabond
with the haggard visage, who was smoking and drinking
brandy, refilled his pipe, and said in a hoarse voice to
the Chourineur :
" Didn't you ' twig ' the ' cove ' in the Greek cap ? He's
Boulotte's man. When I saw the traps walk in, I says
to myself, says I, there's something up ; and then, too, I
saw him keep his hand always under the table."
" It's lucky for the Schoolmaster and Gros-Boiteux
that they were not here," said the ogress ; " Greek cap
asked twice for him, and said they had business togetli3r ;
but I never turn ' nose ' (informer) on any customer. If
they take them, very well, every one to his trade ; but
I never sell my friends. Oh, talk of the old gentleman,
and you see his horns," added the hag, as at the moment
a man and woman entered the cabaret ; " here they are,
the Schoolmaster and his companion. Well, he was
right not to show her, for I never see such an ugly
creetur in my born days. She ought to be very much
obliged to him for having taken up with such a face."
At the name of the Schoolmaster, a sort of shudder
seemed to circulate amongst the guests of the tapis-franc.
Rodolph, himself, in spite of his natural intrepidity, could
not wholly subdue a slight emotion at the sight of this
61
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
redoubtable ruffian, whom he contemplated for some
seconds with a mixed feeling of curiosity and horror.
The Chourineur had spoken truth when he said that the
Schoolmaster was frightfully mutilated. Nothing can
be imagined more horrible than the countenance of this
man. His face was furrowed in all directions with deep,
livid cicatrices ; the corrosive action of the vitriol had
puffed out his lips ; the cartilages of his nose were
divided, and two misshapen holes supplied the loss of
nostrils. His gray eyes were bright, small, circular, and
sparkled savagely ; his forehead, as flat as a tiger's, was
half hidden beneath a fur cap, with long yellow hair,
looking like the crest of a monster.
The Schoolmaster was not more than five feet four or
five ; his head, which was disproportionately large, was
buried between two shoulders, broad, powerful, and
fleshy, displaying themselves even under the loose folds
of his coarse cotton blouse ; he had long, muscular arms,
hands short, thick, and hairy to the very fingers' end,
with legs somewhat bowed, whose enormous calves be-
tokened his vast strength. This man presented, in fact,
the exaggeration of what there is of short, thickset, and
condensed, in the type of the Hercules Farnese. As to
the expression of ferocity which suffused this hideous
mask, and the restless, wild, and glaring look, more like
a wild beast than a human being, it is impossible to
describe them.
The woman who accompanied the Schoolmaster was
old, and rather neatly dressed in a brown gown, with a
plaid shawl, of red and black check, and a white bonnet.
Rodolph saw her profile, and her green eye, hooked nose,
skinny lips, peaked chin, and countenance at once wicked
and cunning, reminded him involuntarily of La Chouette,
that horrible old wretch who had made poor Fleur-de-
Marie her victim. He was just on the point of saying
this to the girl, when he saw her suddenly turn pale with
fright, whilst looking at the hideous companion of the
62
THE ARREST.
Schoolmaster, and seizinj^ the arm of Rodolph with a
trembling hand, the Goualeuse said, in a low voice :
"Oh, the Chouette ! the Chouette ! the one-eyed
woman ! "
At this moment the Schoolmaster, after having ex-
changed a few words in an undertone with Barbillon,
came slowly towards the table where Rodolph, the Goua-
leuse, and the Chourineur were sitting, and addressing
himself to Fleur-de-Marie, in a hoarse voice, said :
" Ah, my pretty, fair miss, you must quit these two
' muffs,' and come with me."
The Goualeuse made no reply, but clung to Rodolph,
her teeth chattering with fright.
"And I shall not be jealous of my man, my little
fourline^^ (a pet word for assassin), added the Chouette,
laughing loudly. She had not yet recognised in Goua-
leuse " Pegriotte," her old victim.
" Well, my little white face, dost hear me ? " said the
monster, advancing. " If thou dost not come, I'll poke
your eye out, and make you a match for the Chouette.
And thou with the moustache," he said to Rodolph, " if
thou dost not stand from between me and the wench,
I'll crack thy crown."
" Defend me ! oh, defend me ! " cried Fleur-de-Marie
to Rodolph, clasping her hands. Then, reflecting that
she was about to expose him to great danger, she added,
in a low voice, " No, no, do not move. Mister Rodolph ;
if he comes nearer, I will cry out for help, and for fear
of the disturbance, which may call in the police, the
ogress will take my part."
" Don't be alarmed, my child," said Rodolph, looking
calmly at the Schoolmaster; "you are beside me,
don't stir ; and as this ill-looking scoundrel makes you
as well as myself feel uncomfortable, I will kick him
out."
" Thou ? " said the Schoolmaster.
" I ! " said Rodolph. And, in spite of the efforts of
63
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
the Goualeuse, he rose from the table. Despite his
hardihood, the Schoolmaster retreated a step, so threaten-
ing were the looks, so commanding the deportment, of
Rodolph. There are peculiar glances of the eye which
are irresistible, and certain celebrated duellists are said to
owe their bloody triumphs to this fascinating glance,
which unmans, paralyses, and destroys their adversaries.
The Schoolmaster trembled, retreated a step, and, for
once, distrustful of his giant strength, felt under his
blouse for his long cut~and-thrust knife. A murder
would have stained the tapis-franc no doubt, if the
Chouette, taking the Schoolmaster by the arm, had not
screamed out :
" A minute, a minute, fourline, le : me S9y a word !
You shall walk into these two ' muffs all the same,
presently."
The Schoolmaster looked at her with astonishment.
For some minutes she had been looking at Fleur-de-
Marie with fixed and increasing attention, as if trying to
refresh her memory. At length no doubt remained, and
she recognised the Goualeuse.
" Is it possible ? " she cried, clasping her hands in
astonishment. " It is Pegriotte, who stole my barley-
sugar. But where do you come from ? Is it the devil
who sends you back ? " and she shook her clenched hand
at the young girl. " You won't come into my clutch
again, eh ? But be easy ; if I do not pull out your teeth,
I will have out of your eyes every tear in your body.
Come, no airs and graces. You don't know what I
mean. Why, I have found out the people who had the
care of you before you were handed over to me. The
Schoolmaster saw at the Pre (the galleys) the man who
brought you to my ' crib ' when you were a brat, and he
has proofs that the people who had you first were ' gen-
try coves' " (rich people).
" My parents ! Do you know them ? " cried Fleur-de-
Marie.
64
THE ARREST.
" Never mind whether I know them or not, you shall
know nothing about it. The secret is mine and my
fourline^Sj and I will tear out his tongue rather than
he shall blab it. What ! it makes you snivel, does it,
Pegriotte ? "
" Oh, no," said Goualeuse, with a bitterness of accent ;
" now I do not care ever to know my parents."
Whilst La Chouette was speaking, the Schoolmaster
had resumed his assurance, for, looking at Rodolph, he
could not believe that a young man of slight and grace-
ful make could for a moment cope with him, and, confi-
dent in his brutal force, he approached the defender of
Goualeuse, and said to the Chouette, in an imperious
voice :
" Hold your jaw ! I'll tackle with this swell, and
then the fair lady may think me more to her fancy than
he is."
With one bound Rodolph leaped on the table.
" Take care of my plates ! " shouted the ogress.
The Schoolmaster stood on his guard, his two hands
in front, his chest advanced, firmly planted on his legs,
and arched, as it were, on his brawny legs, which were
like balusters of stone. At the moment when Rodolph
was springing at him, the door of the tapis-franc opened
with violence, and the charcoal-man, of whom we have
before spoken, and who was upwards of six feet high,
dashed into the apartment, pushed the Schoolmaster on
one side rudely, and coming up to Rodolph, said, in
German, in his ear :
" Monseigneur, the countess and her brother they
are at the end of the street."
At these words Rodolph made an impatient and
angry gesture, threw a louis d'or on the bar of the
ogress, and made for the door in haste. The School-
master attempted to arrest Rodolph's progress, but he,
turning to him, gave him two or three rapid blows with
his fists over the nose and eyes, and with such potent
65
THE MYSTERIES OF PARTS.
effect, that the beast staggered with very giddiness, and
fell heavily against a table, which alone prevented his
prostration on the floor.
"Vive la Charte! those are mi/ blows, I know
them," cried the Chourineur ; " two or three more les-
sons like that, and I shall know all about it."
Restored to himself after a few moments, the School-
master darted off in pursuit of Rodolph, but he had
disappeared with the charcoal-man in the dark labyrinth
of the streets of the Cite, and the brigand found it use-
less to follow.
At the moment when the Schoolmaster had returned,
foaming with rage, two persons, approaching from the
opposite side to that by which Rodolph had disappeared,
entered into the tapis-franc^ hastily, and out of breath,
as if they had been running far and fast. Their first
impulse was to look around the room.
" How unfortunate ! " said one of them ; " he has gone,
another opportunity lost."
The two newcomers spoke in English. The Goua-
leuse, horror-struck at meeting with the Chouette, and
dreading the threats of the Schoolmaster, took advantage
of the tumult and confusion caused by the arrival of the
two fresh guests in the tapis-franc, and, quietly gliding
out by the half-opened door, left the cabaret.
66
CHAPTER VI.
THOMAS SEYTON AND THE COUNTESS SARAH.
The two persons who had just entered the tapis-franc
were quite of another class from those who ordinarily
frequented it. One, tall and erect, had hair almost
white, black eyebrows and whiskers, a long and tanned
face, with a stiff, formal air. His long frock coat was
buttoned up to the throat, d la militaire. We shall call
this individual Thomas Seyton. His companion was
young, pale, and handsome, and appeared about thirty-
one or two years of age. His hair, eyebrows, and eyes
were of a deep black, which showed off the more fully
the pure whiteness of his face. By his step, the small-
ness of his stature, and the delicacy of his features, it
was easy to detect a woman in male habiliments. This
female was the Countess Sarah Macgregor. We will
hereafter inform our readers of the motives and events
which had brought the countess and her brother into
this cabaret of the Cit^.
" Call for something to drink, Thomas, and ask the
people here about him; perhaps they may give us some
information," said Sarah, still speaking English.
The man with white hair and black eyebrows sat
down at a table, whilst Sarah was wiping her forehead,
and said to the ogress, in excellent French, " Madame,
let us have something to drink, if you please."
The entrance of these two persons into the tapis-franc
had excited universal attention. Their dress, their
manners, all announced that they never frequented low
67
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
drinking-shops, whilst, by their restless looks and dis-
turbed countenances, it might be judged that some very
powerful motives had led them hither. The Chourineur,
the Schoolmaster, and the Chouette viewed them with
increasing curiosity.
Startled by the appearance of such strange customers,
the ogress shared in the general surprise. Thomas Sey-
ton, a second time, and with an impatient tone, said,
" We have called for something to drink, ma'am ; pray
let us have it."
Mother Ponisse, flattered by their courtesy of manner,
left her bar, and, coming towards her new guests, leaned
her arms on their table, and said, " Will you have a pint
of wine in measure or a bottle ?"
" A bottle of wine, glasses, and some water."
The ogress brought the supplies demanded, and Thomas
Seyton threw her a five-franc piece, and refused the
change which she offered to him.
" Keep it, my good woman, for yourself, and perhaps
you will take a glass with us."
" You're uncommon purlite, sir," looking at the
countess's brother with as much surprise as gratitude.
" But tell me, now," said he ; " we had appointed to
meet a friend in a cabaret in this street, and have, per-
haps, mistaken the house in coming here."
" This is the ' White Rabbit,' at your service, sir."
" That's right enough, then," said Thomas, making a
sign to Sarah ; " yes, it was at the ' White Rabbit ' that
he was to give us the meeting."
" There are not two ^ White Rabbits ' in this street,"
said the ogress, with a toss of her head. " But what
sort of a person was your friend ? "
" Tall, slim, and with hair and moustaches of light
chestnut," said Seyton.
" Exactly, exactly ; that's the man who has just gone
out. A charcoal-man, very tall and stout, came in and
said a few words to him, and they left together."
68
THOMAS SEYTON AND THE COUNTESS SARAH.
" The very man we want to meet," said Tom.
" Were they alone here ? " inquired Sarah.
" Why, the charcoal-man only came in for one mo-
ment ; but your comrade supped here with the Chouri-
neur and Goualeuse ; " and with a nod of her head, the
ogress pointed out the individual of the party who was
left still in the cabaret.
Thomas and Sarah turned towards the Chour incur.
After contemplating him for a few minutes, Sarah said,
in English, to her companion, " Do you know this
man? "
" No ; Karl lost all trace of Rodolph at the entrance
of these obscure streets. Seeing Murphy disguised as a
charcoal-seller, keeping watch about this cabaret, and
constantly peeping through the windows, he was afraid
that something wrong was going on, and so came to
warn us. Murphy, no doubt, recognised him."
During this conversation, held in a very low tone, and
in a foreign tongue, the Schoolmaster said to the
Chouette, looking at Tom and Sarah, " The swell has
shelled out a ' bull ' to the ogress. It is just twelve, rains
and blows like the devil. When they leave the ' crib,' we
will be on their ' lay,' and draw the ' flat ' of his ' blunt.'
As his ' mot' is with him, he'll hold his jaw."
If Tom and Sarah had heard this foul language, they
would not have understood it, and would not have
detected the plot against them.
" Be quiet, fourline, answered the Chouette ; if the
' cull ' sings out for the ' traps,' I have my vitriol in my
pocket, and will break the phial in his ' patter-box.' Noth-
ing like a drink to keep children from crying," she added.
" Tell me, darling, sha'n't we lay hands on Pegriotte the
first time we meet with her ? And only let me once get
her to our place, and I'll rub her chops with my vitriol,
and then my lady will no longer be proud of her fine skin."
" Well said, Chouette ; I shall make you my wife
some day or other," said the Schoolmaster ; " you have
69
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
no equal for skill and courage. On that night with the
cattle-dealer, I had an opportunity of judging of you ;
and I said, ' Here's the wife for me ; she works better
than a man/ "
" And you said right, fourline ; if the Skeleton had
had a woman like me at his elbow, he would not have
been nabbed with his gully in the dead man's weasand."
" He's done up, and now he will not leave the ' stone
jug,' except to kiss the headsman's daughter, and be a
head shorter."
" What strange language these people talk ! " said
Sarah, who had involuntarily heard the last few words
of the conversation between the Schoolmaster and the
Chouette. Then she added, pointing to the Chourineur,
"If we ask this man some questions about Rodolph,
perhaps he may be able to answer them."
" We can but try," replied Thomas, who said to the
Chourineur, " Comrade, we expected to find in this cab-
aret a friend of ours ; he supped with you, I find. Per-
haps, as you know him, you will tell us which way he
has gone ? "
" I know him because he gave me a precious good
hiding two hours ago, to prevent me from beating
Goualeuse."
" And have you never seen him before ? "
" Never ; we met by chance in the alley which leads
to Bras Rouge's house."
" Hostess, another bottle of the best," said Thomas
Seyton.
Sarah and he had hardly moistened their lips, and
their glasses were still full ; but Mother Ponisse, doubt-
less anxious to pay proper respect to her own cellar, had
frequently filled and emptied hers.
" And put it on the table where that gentleman sits,
if he will permit," added Thomas, who, with Sarah,
seated themselves beside the Chourineur, who was as
much astonished as flattered by such politeness.
70
THOMAS SEYTON AND THE COUNTESS SARAH.
The Schoolmaster and the Chouette were talking over
their own dark plans in low tones and " flash " language.
The bottle being brought, and Sarah and her brother
seated with the Chourineur and the ogress, who had
considered a second invitation as superfluous, the con-
versation was resumed.
" You told us, my good fellow, that you met our com-
rade Rodolph in the house where Bras Rouge lives ? "
inquired Thomas Seyton, as he hob and nobbed with the
Chourineur.
" Yes, my good fellow," replied he, as he emptied his
glass at a gulp.
" What a singidar name is Bras Rouge ! What is this
Bras Rouge ? "
'' 11 pastique la maltouze^^ (smuggles), said the Chou-
rineur, in a careless tone, and then added, " This is
jolly good wine, Mother Ponisse ! "
" If you think so, do not spare it, my fine fellow,"
said Seyton, and he filled the Chourineur's glass as he
spoke.
" Your health, mate," said he, " and the health of
your little friend, who but mum. ' If my aunt was
a man, she'd be my uncle,' as the proverb says. Ah!
you sly rogue, I'm up to you ! "
Sarah coloured slightly as her brother continued, " I
did not quite understand what you meant about Bras
Rouge. Rodolph came from his house, no doubt ? "
" I told you that Bras Rouge pastique la maltouzey
Thomas regarded the Chourineur with an air of
surprise.
" What do you mean by pastique la mal What do
you call it ?"
" Pastiquer la maltouze. He smuggles, I suppose
you would call it; but it seems you can't 'patter
flash ? ' "
" My fine fellow, I don't understand one word you
say."
71
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" I see you can't talk slang like M. Rodolph."
" Slang ? " said Thomas Seyton, looking at Sarah with
an astonished air.
" Ah ! you are yokels ; but comrade Rodolph is an
out-and-out pal, he is. Though only a fan-painter, yet
he is as ^ downy ' in ' flash ' as I am myself. Well, since
you can't speak this very fine language, I tell you, in
plain French, that Bras Rouge is a smuggler, and, be-
sides that, has a small tavern in the Champs Elysees.
I say, without breaking faith, that he is a smuggler, for
he makes no secret of it, but owns it under the very nose
of the custom-house officers. Find him out, though, if
you can ; Bras Rouge is a deep one."
" What could Rodolph want at the house of this
man ? " asked Sarah.
" Really, sir, or madam, which you please, I know
nothing about anything, as true as I drink this glass of
wine. I was chaffing to-night with the Goualeuse, who
thought I was going to beat her, and she ran up Bras
Rouge's alley, and I after her ; it was as dark as the
devil. Instead of hitting Goualeuse, however, I stum-
bled on Master Rodolph, who soon gave me better than
I sent. Such thumps! and especially those infernal
thwacks with his fist at last. My eyes ! how hot and
heavy they did fall ! But he's promised to teach me,'
and to "
" And Bras Rouge, what sort of a person is he ? "
asked Tom. " What goods does he sell ? "
" Bras Rouge ? Oh, by the Holy ! he sells everything
he is forbidden to sell, and does everything which it is
forbidden to do. That's his line, ain't it. Mother
Ponisse ? "
" Oh ! he's a boy with more than one string to his
bow," answered the ogress. " He is, besides, principal
occupier of a certain house in the Rue du Temple, a
rum sort of a house, to be sure ; but mum," added she,
fearing to have revealed too much,
72
THOMAS SEYTON AND THE COUNTESS SARAH.
" And what is the address of Bras Rouge in that
street?" asked Seyton of the Chourineur.
"No. 13, sir."
" Perhaps we may learn something there," said Sey-
ton, in a low voice, to his sister. " I will send Karl
thither to-morrow."
" As you know M. Rodolph," said the Chourineur,
" you may boast the acquaintance of a stout friend and
a good fellow. If it had not been for the charcoal-man,
he would have ' doubled up ' the Schoolmaster, who is
there in the corner with the Chouette. By the Lord ! I
can hardly contain myself, when I see that old hag, and
know how she behaved to the Goualeuse, but patience,
' a blow delayed is not a blow lost,' as the saying is."
The Hotel de Ville clock struck midnight ; the lamp
of the tavern only shed a dim and flickering light. Ex^
cept the Chourineur and his two companions, the School-
master, and the Screech-owl, all the guests of the
tapis-franc had retired one after the other.
The Schoolmaster said, in an undertone, to the Chou-
ette, " If we go and hide in the alley opposite, we shall
see the swells come out, and know which road they take.
If they turn to the left, we can double upon them at the
turning of the Rue Saint Eloi ; if to the right, we will
wait for them by the ruins close to the tripe-market.
There's a large hole close by, and I have a capital idea."
The Schoolmaster and the Chouette then went towards
the door.
" You won't, then, take a ' drain ' of nothin' to-night ? "
said the ogress.
" No, Mother Ponisse, we only came in to take shelter
from the rain," said the Schoolmaster, as he and the
Chouette went out.
73
CHAPTER YII.
" YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE."
The noise which was made by the shutting of the
door aroused Tom and Sarah from their reverie, and
they rose, and, having thanked the Chourineur for the
information he had given them, the fellow went out,
the wind blowing very strongly, and the rain falling in
torrents. The Schoolmaster and the Chouette, hidden
in an alley opposite the tapis-franc^ saw the Chourineur
go down the street, in the direction of the street in
which the house in ruins was situated. His steps,
which were somewhat irregular, in consequence of the
frequent libations of the evening, were soon unheard
amidst the whistling of the storm and the sheets of rain
which dashed against the walls. Sarah and Tom left
the tavern in spite of the tempest, and took a contrary
direction to the Chourineur.
" They're done for," said the Schoolmaster, in a low
key, to the Chouette ; " out with your vitriol, and mind
your eye."
" Let us take off our shoes, and then they won't hear
us as we follow," suggested the Chouette.
" You are right, always right ; let us tread like cats,
my old darling."
The two monsters took off their shoes, and moved
stealthily along, keeping in the shadows of the houses.
By means of this stratagem they followed so closely,
that, although within a few steps of Sarah and Tom, they
did not hear them.
74
"YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE.'^
" Fortunately our hackney-coach is at the end of the
street ; the rain falls in torrents. Are you not cold,
Sarah?"
" Perhaps we shall glean something from this smug-
gler, this Bras Rouge," said Sarah, in a thoughtful
tone, and not replying to her brother's inquiry.
He suddenly stopped, and said, " I have taken a
wrong turning ; I ought to have gone to the right when
I left the tavern ; we must pass by a house in ruins to
reach the fiacre. We must turn back."
The Schoolmaster and the Chouette, who followed on
the heels of their intended victims, retreated into the
dark porch of a house close at hand, so that they might
not be perceived by Tom and Sarah, who, in passing,
almost touched them with their elbows.
" I am glad they have gone that way," said the
Schoolmaster, " for if the ' cove ' resists, I have my own
idea."
Sarah and her brother, having again passed by the
tapis-franc, arrived close to the dilapidated house, which
was partly in ruins, and its opened cellars formed a kind
of gulf, along which the street ran in that direction. In
an instant, the Schoolmaster, with a leap resembling in
strength and agility the spring of a tiger, seized Seyton
with one hand by the throat, and exclaimed, " Your
money, or I will fling you into this hole ! "
Then the brigand, pushing Seyton backwards, shoved
him off his balance, and with one hand held him sus-
pended over the mouth of the deep excavation ; whilst,
with his other hand, he grasped the arm of Sarah, as if
in a vice. Before Tom could make the slightest struggle,
the Chouette had emptied his pockets with singular dex-
terity. Sarah did not utter a cry, nor try to resist ; she
only said, in a calm tone, " Give up your purse, brother ; "
and then accosting the robber, " We will make no noise ;
do not do us any injury."
The Chouette, having carefully searched the pockets
75
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
of the two victims of this ambush, said to Sarah, "Let's
see your hands, if you've got any rings. No," said the
old brute, grumblingly, "no, not one ring. What a
shame ! "
Tom Seyton did not lose his presence of mind dur-
ing this scene, rapidly and unexpectedly as it had
occurred.
" Will you strike a bargain ? My pocketbook con-
tains papers quite useless to you ; return it to me, and
to-morrow I will give you twenty-five louis d'ors," said
Tom to the Schoolmaster, whose hand relaxed something
of its fierce gripe.
" Oh ! ah ! to lay a trap to catch us," replied the thief.
" Be off, without looking behind you, and be thankful
that you have escaped so well."
" One moment," said the Chouette ; " if he behaves
well, he shall have his pocketbook. There is a way."
Then, addressing Thomas Seyton, " You know the plain
of St. Denis?"
" I do."
" Do you know where St. Ouen is ? "
" Yes."
" Opposite St. O'len, at the end of the road of La
Revolte, the plain is wide and open. Across the fields,
one may see a long way. Come there to-morrow, quite
alone, with your money in your hand ; you will find me
and the pocketbook ready. Hand me the cash, and I
will hand you the pocketbook."
" But he'll trap you, Chouette."
" Oh, no, he won't ; I'm up to him or any of his
dodges. We can see a long way off. I have only one
eye, but that is a piercer ; and if the ' cove ' comes with
a companion, he won't find anybody ; I shall have
' mizzled.' "
A sudden idea seemed to strike Sarah, and she said
to the brigand, " Will you like to gain some money ? "
" Yes."
76
"YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE.'*
" Did you see, in the cabaret we have just left for
I know you again the man whom the charcoal-man
came to seek ? "
" A dandy with moustaches ? Yes, I would have
stuck it into the fellow, but he did not give me time.
He stunned me with two blows of his fists, and upset
me on the table, for the first time that any man ever
did so. Curses on him ! but I will be revenged."
" He is the man I mean," said Sarah.
" He ? " cried the Schoolmaster, " a thousand francs,
and ril kill him."
" Wretch ! I do not seek his life," replied Sarah to
the Schoolmaster.
" What, then, would you have ? "
" Come to-morrow to the plain of St. Denis ; you will
there find my companion," she replied ; " you will see
that he is alone, and he will tell you what to do. I will
not give you one thousand, but two thousand, francs, if
you succeed."
" Fourline,^^ said the Chouette, in a low tone, to the
Schoolmaster, " there's ' blunt ' to be had ; these are a
' swell ' lot, who want to be revenged on an enemy, and
that enemy is the beggar that you wished to ' floor.'
Let's go and meet him. I would go, if I were you.
Fire and smoke ! Old boy, it will pay for looking
after."
" Well, my wife shall be there," said the School-
master ; " you will tell her what you want, and I shall
see "
" Be it so ; to-morrow at one."
" At one o'clock."
" In the plain of St. Denis ? "
" In the plain of St. Denis."
" Between St. Ouen and the road of La Revolte, at
the end of the road ? "
" Agreed."
" I will bring your pocketbook."
77
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" And you shall have the five hundred francs I
promised you, and we will agree in the other matter, if
you are reasonr,ble."
" Now, you go to the right, and we to the left hand.
Do not follow us, or else "
The Schoolmaster and the Chouette hurried off,
whilst Tom and the countess went in the other direc-
tion, towards Notre Dame.
A concealed witness had been present at this trans-
action; it was the Chourineur, who had entered the
cellars of the house to get shelter from the rain. The
proposal which Sarah made to the brigand respecting
Rodolph deeply interested the Chourineur, who, alarmed
for the perils which appeared about to beset his new
friend, regretted that he could not warn him of them.
Perhaps his detestation of the Schoolmaster and the
Chouette might have something to do with this feel-
ing.
The Chouriner resolved to inform Rodolph of the dan-
ger which threatened him ; but how ? He had forgot-
ten the address of the self-styled fan-painter. Perhaps
Rodolph would never again come to the tapis-franc,
and then how could he warn him ? Whilst he was
conning all this over in his mind, the Chourineur had
mechanically followed Tom and Sarah, and saw them
get into a coach which awaited them near Notre
Dame.
The fiacre started. The Chourineur got up behind,
and at one o'clock it stopped on the Boulevard de I'Ob-
servatoire, and Thomas and Sarah went down a nar-
row entrance, which was close at hand. The night was
pitch dark, and the Chourineur, that he might know
the next day the place where he then was, drew from
his pocket his clasp-knife, and cut a deep notch in one
of the trees at the corner of the entrance, and then
returned to his resting-place, which was at a consider-
able distance.
78
"YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE."
For the first time for a very long while, the Chouri-
neur enjoyed in his den a comfortable sleep, which was
not once interrupted by the horrible vision of the " Ser-
geant's slaughter-house," as, in his coarse language, he
styled it.
79
CHAPTER VIII.
THE WALK.
On the day after the evening on which the various
events we have described had passed, a bright autumnal
sun shone from a pure sky ; the darkness of the night
had wholly disappeared. Although always shaded by
the height of the houses, the disreputable neighbourhood
into which the reader has followed us seemed less hor-
rible when viewed in the light of open day.
Whether Rodolph no longer feared meeting with the
two persons whom he had evaded the over-night, or did
not care whether he faced them or not, about eleven
o'clock in the morning he entered the Rue aux Feves,
and directed his steps towards the tavern of the ogress.
Rodolph was still in a workman's dress ; but there
was a decided neatnoss in his costume. His new blouse,
open on his chest, showed a red woollen shirt, closed by
several silver buttons ; whilst the collar of another shirt,
of white cotton, fell over a black silk cravat, loosely
tied around his neck. From under his sky blue velvet
cap, with a bright leather peak, several locks of chestnut
hair were seen ; and his boots, cleaned very brightly, and
replacing the heavy iron shoes of the previous evening,
showed off to advantage a well-formed foot, which
seemed all the smaller from appearing out of a loose
pantaloon of olive velveteen. The costume was well cal-
culated to display the elegant shape and carriage of Ro-
dolph, which combined so much grace, suppleness, and
power. The ogress was airing herself at her door when
Rodolph presented himself.
ao
THE WALK.
" Your servant, young man ; you have come, no doubt,
for your change of the twenty francs," she said, with
some show of respect, not venturing to forget that the
conqueror of the Chourineur had handed her a louis d'or
the previous evening. " There is seventeen francs ten
sous coming to you ; but that's not all. There was
somebody here asking after you last night, a tall gent,
well dressed, and with him a young woman in men's
clothes. They drank my best wine along with the
Chourineur."
" Oh, with the Chourineur, did they ? And what
could they have to say to him ? "
" When I say they drank, I make a mistake ; they only
just sipped a drain or so, and "
" But what did they say to the Chourineur ? "
" Oh, they talked of all manner of things, of Bras
Rouge, and the rain, and fine weather."
"Do they know Bras Rouge ? "
" Not by no means ; the Chourineur told 'em all about
him, and as how as you "
" Well, well, that is not what I want to know."
" You want your change."
" Yes, and I want to take Goualeuse to pass the day
in the country."
" Oh, that's impossible ! "
u Why ? "
" Why ? Because she may never come back again.
Her things belong to me, not including as she owes me
a matter of ninety francs as a balance for her board and
lodging, for the six weeks as she has lodged with me ;
and if I didn't know her to be as honest a gal as is, I
should never let her go out of sight."
" Goualeuse owes you ninety francs ? "
" Ninety francs ten sous ; but what's that to you, my
lad'? Are you a-going to come ' my lord,' and pay it for
her?"
" Yes," said Rodolph, throwing five louis on the
81
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
ogress's bar, " and what's your price for the clothes she
wears ?"
The old hag, amazed, looked at the louis one after the
other, with an air of much doubt and mistrust. .
" What ! do you think I have given you bad money ?
Send and get change for one of them ; but make haste
about it. I say, again, how much for the garments the
poor girl is wearing ? "
The ogress, divided between her desire to make a
good harvest, her surprise to see a workman with so
much money, the fear of being cheated, and the hopes of
still greater gain, was silent for an instant, and then
replied, " Oh, them things is well worth a hundred
francs."
" What ! those rags ? Come, now, you shall keep the
change from yesterday, and I'll give you another louis,
and no more. If I give you all I have, I shall cheat the
poor, who ought to get some alms out of me."
" Well, then, my fine fellow, I'll keep my things, and
Goualeuse sha'n't go out. I have a right to sell my
things for what I choose."
" May Lucifer one day fry you as you deserve ! Here's
your money ; go and look for Goualeuse."
The ogress pocketed the gold, thinking that the work-
man had committed a robbery, or received a legacy, and
then said, with a nasty leer, " Well, indeed ! Why not go
up-stairs, and find Goualeuse yourself; she'll be very
glad to see you, for, on my life, she was much smitten
with you yesterday ? "
" Do you go and fetch her, and tell her I will take her
into the country; that's all you need say; not a word
about my having paid you her debt."
" Why not ? "
" What's that to you ? "
" Oh, nothing ; it's no matter to me ; I would rather
that she still believed herself in my clutch "
" Will you hold your tongue, and do as I bid you ? "
82
THE WALK.
" Oh, what a cross crcetur you are ! I pity anybody
who is under you. Well, I'm going, I'm going ; " and
the. ogress went up-stairs.
After a few minutes she came down again.
"Goualeuse would not believe me, and really turned
quite crimson when she knew you were here ; and when
I told her that I would give her leave to pass the day in
the country, I thought she would have gone crazy, for
the first time in her life she was inclined to throw her
arms about my neck."
" That was her delight at leaving you."
Fleur-de-Marie entered at this moment, dressed as she
was the over-night, with her gown of brown stuff, her
little orange shawl tied behind her, and her handkerchief
of red checks over her head, leaving only two thick
bands of light hair visible. She blushed when she saw
Rodolph, and looked down with a confused air.
"Would you like to pass the day in the country with
me, my lass ? " asked B-odolph.
" Very much, indeed, M. Rodolph," said Goualeuse,
" since madame gives me leave."
" Yes, yes, you may go, my little duck, because you're
sich a good gal. Come and kiss me afore you go."
And the old beldam offered her bloated lips to Fleur-
de-Marie. The poor girl, overcoming her disgust, bent
her forehead to the ogress, but Rodolph, giving a sudden
push with his elbow, shoved the hag back on her seat,
took Fleur-de-Marie's arm, and left the tapis-franc^
amidst the loud maledictions of Mother Ponisse.
" Mind, M. Rodolph," said Goualeuse ; " the ogress
will, perhaps, throw something at you, she is very
spiteful."
" Oh, don't heed her, my girl. But what's the matter
with you ? You seem embarrassed, sad. Are you sorry
for having come out with me ? "
" Oh, dear, no ; but but you give me your arm! "
" Well, and what of that ? "
83
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
"Ygu are a workman, and some one may tell your
master that they met you with me, and harm may come
of it; masters do not like their workmen to be un-
steady." And Goualeuse gently removed her arm from
that of Rodolph, adding, " Go on by yourself ; I will fol-
low you to the barrier ; when we are once in the fields I
can walk with you."
" Do not be uneasy," said Rodolph, touched by the
poor girl's consideration, and taking her arm again ;
" my master does not live in this quarter, and we shall
find a coach on the Quai aux Fleurs."
" As you please, M. Rodolph ; I only said so that you
might not get into trouble."
" I am sure of that, and thank you very much. But
tell me, is it all the same to you what part of the country
we go into ? "
" Yes, quite so, M. Rodolph, so that it be the country.
It is so fine and it is so nice to breathe the open air !
Do you know that I have not been farther than the
flower-market for these six weeks? And now, if the
ogress allows me to leave the Cit^, she must have great
confidence in me."
" And when you came here, was it to buy flowers ? "
"Oh, no, I had no money ; I only came to look at
them, and breathe their beautiful smell. During the
half-hour which the ogress allowed me to pass on the
quay on market-days, I was so happy that I forgot every-
thing else."
" And on returning to the ogress, and those filthy
streets ? "
" Oh, why, then I returned more sad than when I set
out ; but I wiped my eyes, that I might not be beaten for
crying. Yet, at the market, what made me envious
oh, so envious ! was to see neat, clean little work-
women, who were going away so gaily with a beautiful
pot of flowers in their hands."
" I am sure that if you had had but a few flowers
84
THE WALK.
in your own window, they would have kept you com-
pany."
" What you say is quite true, M. Rodolph. Only
imagine, one day, on her birthday, the ogress, knowing
my taste, gave me a little rose-tree. If you only knew
how happy it made me, I was never tired of looking at
it, my own rose-tree ! I counted its leaves, its flowers ;
but the air of the Cit^ is bad, and it began to wither in
two days. Then but you'll laugh at me, M. Rodolph."
" No, no ; go on."
" Well, then, I asked the ogress to let me go out, and
take my rose-tree for a walk, as I would have taken a
child out. Well, then, I carried it to the quay, thinking
that to be with other flowers in the fresh and balmy air
would do it good. I bathed its poor fading leaves in the
clear waters of the fountain, and then to dry it I placed
it for a full quarter of an hour in the sun. Dear little
rose-tree ! it never saw the sun in the Cite any more
than I did, for in our street it never descends lower than
the roof. At last I went back again, and I assure you,
M. Rodolph, that, thanks to these walks, my rose-tree
lived at least ten days longer than it would have done,
had I not taken such pains with it."
" No doubt of it. But when it died, what a loss it
must have been to you ! "
" I cried heartily, for it grieved me very, very much ;
and you see, M. Rodolph, for you know one loves
flowers, although one hasn't any of one's own, you
see, I felt grateful to it, that dear rose-tree, for blooming
so kindly for me, although I was so "
Goualeuse bent her head, and blushed deeply.
" Unhappy child ! With this feeling of your own
position, you must often "
"Have desired to end it, you mean, sir?" said
Goualeuse, interrupting her companion. "Yes, yes,
more than once. A month ago I looked over the
parapet at the Seine ; but then, when I looked at the
85
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
flowers, and the sun, then I said, ' The river will be always
there ; I am but sixteen and a half, who knows ? ' "
" When you said ' who knows,' you had hope ? "
" Yes."
" And what did you hope ? "
" To find some charitable soul who would get me
work, so that I might be enabled to leave the ogress ;
and this hope comforted me. Then I said to myself,
I am very wretched, but I have never injured anybody,
and if I had any one to advise me I should not be as I
am. This lightened my sorrow a little, though it had
greatly increased at the loss of my rose-tree," added
Goualeuse, with a sigh.
" Always so very sad."
" Yes ; but look, here it is."
And Goualeuse took from her pocket a little bundle
of wood trimmed very carefully, and tied with a rose-
coloured bow.
" What, have you kept it ? "
" I have, indeed ; it is all I possess in the world."
" What, have you nothing else ? "
" Nothing."
, " This coral necklace ? "
" Belongs to the ogress."
"And you have not a piece of riband, a cap, or
handkerchief ? "
" No, nothing, nothing but the dead branches of
my poor rose-tree ; and that is why I love it so."
When Rodolph and Goualeuse had reached the Quai
aux Fleurs, a coach was waiting there, into which
Rodolph handed Goualeuse. He got in himself, saying
to the driver :
" To St. Denis ; I will tell you presently which road
to take."
The coach went on. The sun was bright, and the
sky cloudless, whilst the air, fresh and crisp, circulated
freely through the open windows.
86
THE WALK.
" Here is a woman's cloak ! " said Goualeuse, remark-
ing that she had seated herself on the garment without
having at first noticed it.
" Yes, it is for you, my child ; I brought it with me
for fear you should be cold."
Little accustomed to such attention, the poor girl
looked at Rodolph with surprise.
" Mon Bieu ! M. Rodolph, how kind you are ; I am
really ashamed "
" Because I am kind ? "
" No ; but you do not speak as you did yesterday ;
you appear quite another person."
" Tell me, then, Fleur-de-Marie, which do you like
best, the Rodolph of yesterday, or the Rodolph of
to-day?"
" I like you better now ; yet yesterday I seemed to be
more your equal." Then, as if correcting herself, and
fearing to have annoyed Rodolph, she said to him,
" When I say your equal, M. Rodolph, I do not mean
that I can ever be that."
" One thing in you astonishes me very much,
Fleur-de-Marie."
" And what is that, M. Rodolph ? "
" You appear to have forgotten that the Chouette said
to you yesterday that she knew the persons who had
brought you up."
" Oh ! I have not forgotten it ; I thought of it all
night, and I cried bitterly ; but I am sure it is not true ;
she invented this tale to make me unhappy."
" Yet the Chouette may know more than you think.
If it were so, should you not be delighted to be restored
to your parents ? "
" Alas, sir ! if my parents never loved me, what should
I gain by discovering them ? They would only see me
and But if they did ever love me, what shame I
should bring on them ! Perhaps I should kill them ! "
" If your parents ever loved you, Fleur-de-Marie, they
87
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
will pity, pardon, and still love you. If they have aban-
doned you, then, when they see the frightful destiny to
which they have brought you, their shame and remorse
will avenge you."
" What is the good of vengeance ? "
" You are right ; let us talk no more on the subject."
At this moment the carriage reached St. Ouen,
where the road divides to St. Denis and the Revolte.
In spite of the monotony of the landscape, Fleur-de-
Marie was so delighted at seeing the fields, as she called
them, that, forgetting the sad thoughts which the recol-
lection of the Chouette had awakened in her, her lovely
countenance grew radiant with delight. She leaned out
of the window, clasping her hands, and crying :
'' M. Rodolph, how happy I am ! Grass ! Fields !
May I get out ? It is so fine ! I should so like to run
in the meadows."
" Let us run, then, my child. Coachman, stop."
" What ! You, too ? Will you run, M. Rodolph ? "
" I'm having a holiday."
" Oh ! What pleasure ! "
And Rodolph and Goualeuse, taking each other's
hand, ran as fast as they could over a long piece of lat-
ter-grass, just mowed. It would be impossible to describe
the leaps and exclamations of joy, the intense delight,
of Fleur-de-Marie. Poor lamb ! so long a prisoner, she
inspired the free air with indescribable pleasure. She
ran, returned, stopped, and then raced off again with
renewed happiness. At the sight of the daisies and
buttercups Goualeuse could not restrain her transport,
she did not leave one flower which she could gather.
After having run about in this way for some time, she
became rather tired, for she had lost the habit of exer-
cise, and stopped to take breath, sitting down on the
trunk of a fallen tree which was lying at the edge of
a deep ditch.
The clear and white complexion of Fleur-de-Marie, gen-
88
THE WALK.
erally rather pale, was now heightened by the brightest
colour. Her large blue eyes sparkled brightly, her ver-
milion lips, partly opened to recover her breath, displayed
two rows of liquid pearls ; her bosom throbbed under
her worn-out little orange shawl, and she placed one of
her hands upon her heart, as if to restrain its quickened
pulsation, whilst with the other hand she proffered to
Rodolph the bouquet of field flowers which she had just
gathered. Nothing could be more charming than the
combination of innocence and pure joy which beamed
on her expressive countenance. When Fleur-de-Marie
could speak, she said to Rodolph, with an accent of
supreme happiness and of gratitude, almost amounting
to piety :
" How good is the great God to give us so fine a
day ! "
A tear came into Rodolph's eye when he heard this
poor, forsaken, despised, lost creature utter a cry of
happiness and deep gratitude to the Creator, because
she enjoyed a ray of sunshine and the sight of a green
field. He was roused from his reverie by an unexpected
occurrence.
89
CHAPTER IX.
THE SURPRISE.
We have said that Goualeuse was sitting on the trunk
of a fallen tree, at the edge of a deep ditch. Suddenly
a man, springing up from the bottom of this hollow,
shook the rubbish from him under which he had con-
cealed himself, and burst into a loud fit of laughter.
Goualeuse turned around, screaming with alarm. It was
the Chourineur.
" Don't be frightened, my girl," said the Chourineur,
when he saw her extreme fear, and that she had sought
protection from her companion. " Ah, Master Rodolph,
here's a curious meeting, which I am sure neither you
nor I expected." Then he added, in a serious tone,
" Listen, master. People may say what they like, but
there is something in the air, there, up there, above
our heads, very wonderful; which seems to say to a
man, * Go where I send you.' See how you two have
been sent here. It is devilish wonderful ! "
" What are you doing there ? " said Rodolph, greatly
surprised.
" I was on the lookout in a matter of yours, master ;
but, thunder and lightning ! what a high joke that you
should come at this particular moment into this very
neighbourhood of my countrj^-house ! There's something
in all this, decidedly there is something."
" But again I ask you, what are you doing there ? "
" All in good time, I'll tell you ; only let me first look
about me for a moment."
90
THE SURPRISE.
The Chourineur then ran towards the coach, which
was some distance off, looked this way and that way
over the plain with a keen and rapid glance, and then
rejoined Rodolph, running quickly.
" Will you explain to me the meaning of all this ? "
" Patience, patience, good master ; one word more.
What's o'clock?"
" Half past twelve," said Rodolph, looking at his
watch.
" All right ; we have time, then. The Chouette will
not be here for the next half-hour."
" The Chouette ! " cried Rodolph and the girl both at
once.
" Yes, the Chouette ; in two words, master, Pll tell
you all. Yesterday, after you had left the tapis-franc,
there came "
" A tall man with a woman in man's attire, who asked
for me ; I know all about that, but then "
" Then they paid for my liquor, and wanted to ' draw '
me about you. I had nothing to tell them, because you
had communicated nothing to me, except those fisti-
cuffs which settled me. All I know is, that I learned
something then which I shall not easily forget. But we
are friends for life and death, Master Rodolph, though
the devil burn me if I know why. I feel for you the
regard which the bulldog feels for his master. It was
after you told me that I had ' heart and honour ; ' but
that's nothing, so there's an end of it. It is no use try-
ing to account for it ; so it is, and so let it be, if it's any
good to you."
" Many thanks, my man ; but go on."
" The tall man and the little lady in men's clothes,
finding that they could get nothing out of me, left the
ogress's, and so did I ; they going towards the Palais de
Justice, and I to Notre Dame. On reaching the end of
the street I found it was raining pitchforks, points down-
ward, a complete deluge. There was an old house
91
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
in ruins close at hand, and I said to myself, ' If this
shower is to last all night, I shall sleep as well here as
in my own " crib." ' So I rolled myself into a sort of
cave, where I was high and dry ; my bed was an old
beam, and my pillow a heap of lath and plaster, and
there I slept like a king."
" Well, well, go on."
" We had drank together. Master Rodolph ; I had
drank, too, with the tall man and the little woman
dressed in man's clothes, so you may believe my head
was rather heavy, and, besides, nothing sends me oft to
sleep like a good fall of rain. I began then to snooze,
but I had not been long asleep, I think, when, aroused
by a noise, I sat up and listened. I heard the School-
master, who was talking in a friendly tone with some-
body. I soon made out that he was parleying with the
tall man who came into the tapis-franc with the little
woman dressed in man's clothes."
" They in conference with the Schoolmaster and the
Chouette?" said Rodolph, with amazement.
" With the Schoolmaster and the Chouette ; and they
agreed to meet again on the morrow."
" That's to-day ! " said Rodolph.
" At one o'clock."
" This very moment 1 "
" Where the road branches off to St. Denis and La
Revolte."
" This very spot ! "
" Just as you say, Master Rodolph, on this very spot."
" The Schoolmaster ! Oh, pray be on your guard,
M. Rodolph," exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie.
" Don't be alarmed, my child, he won't come ; it's only
the Chouette."
" How could the man who, with the female in disguise,
sought me at the tapis-franc, come into contact with
these two wretches ? " said Rodolph.
" I'faith I don't know, and I think I only awoke at the
92
THE SURPRISE.
end of the affair, for the tall man was talking of getting
back his pockctbook, which the Chouctte was to bring
here in exchange for five hundred francs. I should say
that the Schoolmaster had begun by robbing him, and
that it was after that that they began to parley, and to
come to friendly terms."
" It is very strange."
" Mon Bieu ! it makes me quite frightened on your
account, M. Rodolph," said Fleur-de-Marie.
" Master Rodolph is no chicken, girl ; but as you say,
there may be something working against him, and so I
am here."
" Go on, my good fellow."
"The tall man and the little woman have promised
two thousand francs to the Schoolmaster to do to you
I don't know what. The Chouctte is to be here directly
to return the pocketbook, and to know what is required
from them, which she is to tell the Schoolmaster, who
will undertake it."
Fleur-de-Marie started. Rodolph smiled disdainfully.
" Two thousand francs to do something to you. Master
Rodolph ; that makes me think that when I see a notice
of a dog that has been lost (I don't mean to make a
comparison), and the offer of a hundred francs reward
for his discovery, I say to myself, ' Animal, if you were
lost, no one would give a hundred farthings to find you.'
Two thousand francs to do something to you ! Who are
you, then ? "
" I'll tell you by and by."
" That's enough, master. When I heard this proposal,
I said to myself, I must find out where these two dons
live who want to set the Schoolmaster on the haunches
of M. Rodolph ; it may be serviceable. So when they
had gone away, I got out of my hiding-place, and
followed them quietly. I saw the tall man and little
woman get into a coach near Notre Dame, and I got up
behmd, and we went on until we reached the Boulevard
93
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
de rObservatoire. It was as dark as the mouth of an
oven, and I could not distinguish anything, so I cut a
notch in a tree, that I might find out the place in the
morning."
" Well thought of, my good fellow."
" This morning I went there, and about ten yards from
the tree I saw a narrow entrance, closed by a gate. In
the mud there were little and large footsteps, and at the
end of the entrance a small garden-gate, where the traces
ended ; so the roosting-place of the tall man and the little
woman must be there."
" Thanks, my worthy friend, you have done me a most
essential piece of service, without knowing it."
" I beg your pardon. Master Rodolph, but I believed I
was serving you, and that was the reason I did as I did."
" I know it, my fine fellow, and I wish I could recom-
pense your service more properly than by thanks ; but,
unfortunately, I am only a poor devil of a workman,
although you say they offer two thousand francs for
something to be done against me. I will explain that
to you."
" Yes, if you like, but not unless. Somebody threatens
you with something, and I will come across them if I
can ; the rest is your affair."
" I know what they want. Listen to me. I have a
secret for cutting fans in ivory by a mechanical process,
but this secret does not belong to me alone. I am await-
ing my comrade to go to work, and, no doubt, it is the
model of the machine which I have at home that they
are desirous of getting from me at any price, for there
is a great deal of money to be made by this discovery.'*
" The tall man and the little woman then are "
" Work-people with whom I have been associated, and
to whom I have refused my secret."
This explanation appeared satisfactory to the Chouri-
neur, whose apprehension was not the clearest in the
world, and he replied :
94
THE SURPRISE.
" Now I understand it all. The beggars ! you see
they have not the courage to do their dirty tricks them-
selves. But to come to the end of my story. I said to
myself this morning, I know the rendezvous of the
Chouette and the tall man ; I will go there and wait for
them ; I have good legs, and my employer will wait for
me. I came here and found this hole, and, taking an
armful of stuff from the dunghill yonder, I hid myself
here up to my nose, and waited for the Chouette. Butj
lo and behold ! you came into the field, and poor
Goualeuse came and sat down on the very edge of my
park, and then I determined to have a bit of fun, and,
jumping out of my lair, I called out like a man on
fire."
" And now what do you propose to do ? "
" To wait for the Chouette, who is sure to come first ;
to try and overhear what she and the tall man talk
about, for that may be useful for you to know. There is
nothing in the field but this trunk of a tree, and from
here you may see all over the plain ; it is as if it were
made on purpose to sit down upon. The rendezvous of
the Chouette is only four steps off at the cross-road, and
I will lay a bet they come and sit here when they arrive.
If I cannot hear anything, then, as soon as they separate,
I will follow the Chouette, who is sure to stay last, and
I'll pay her the old grudge I owe her for the Goualeuse's
tooth ; and I'll twist her neck until she tells me the
name of the parents of the poor girl, for she says she
knows them. What do you think of my idea, Master
Rodolph ? "
" I like it very well, my lad ; but there is one part
which you must alter."
" Oh, Chourineur, do not get yourself into any quarrel
on my account. If you beat the Chouette, then the
Schoolmaster "
" Say no more, my lass. The Chouette shall not go
scot free for me. Confound it ! why, for the very reason
95
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
that the Schoolmaster will defend her, I will double her
dose."
" Listen, my man, to me ; I have a better plan for
avenging the Chouette's brutalities to Goualeuse, which
I will tell you hereafter. Now," said Rodolph, moving
a few paces from Goualeuse, and. speaking low, " Now,
will you render me a real service ? "
" Name it. Master Rodolph."
" The Chouette does not know you ? "
" I saw her yesterday for the first time at the tapis-
franc^
" This is what you must do. Hide yourself first ; but,
when you see her come close to you, get out of this
hole"
" And twist her neck ? "
" No, defer that for a time. To-day, only prevent her
from speaking to the tall man. He, seeing some one
with her, will not approach ; and if he does, do not leave
her alone for a moment. He cannot make his proposal
before you."
" If the man thinks me curious, I know what to do ;
he is neither the Schoolmaster nor Master Rodolph. I
will follow the Chouette like her shadow, and the man
shall not say a word that I do not overhear. He will
then be off, and after that I will have one little turn with
the Chouette. I must have it ; it will be such a sweet
drop for me."
" Not yet ; the one-eyed hag does not know whether
you are a thief or not?"
" No, not unless the Schoolmaster has talked of me
to her, and told her that I did not do business in that
line."
"If he have, you must appear to have altered your
ideas on that subject."
"I?"
Yes."
" Ten thousand thunders ! M. Rodolph, what do you
96
THE SURPRISE.
mean? Indeed truly I don't like it; it does not
suit me to play such a farce as that."
" You shall only do what you please ; but you will
not find that I shall suggest any infamous plan to you.
The tall man once driven away, you must try and talk
over the Chouette. As she will be very savage at hav-
ing missed the good haul she expected, you must try
and smooth her down by telling her that you know of a
capital bit of business which may be done, and that you
are then waiting for your comrade, and that, if the
Schoolmaster will join you, there is a lump of money to
be made."
" Well, well."
" After waiting with her for an hour, you may say,
' My mate does not come, and so the job must be put
off ; ' and then you may make an appointment with the
Chouette and the Schoolmaster for to-morrow, at an
early hour. Do you understand me?**
" Quite."
" And this evening, at ten o'clock, meet me at the cor-
ner of the Champs Elys^es and the AU^e des Veuves,
and I will tell you more."
" If it is a trap, look out ! The Schoolmaster is a
scoundrel. You have beaten him, and, no doubt, he
will kill you if he can."
" Have no fear."
" By Jove ! it is a ' rum start ; ' but do as you like with
me. I do not hesitate, for something tells me that there
is a rod in pickle for the Schoolmaster and the Chouette.
One word, though, if you please, M. Rodolph."
" Say it."
" I do not think you are the man to lay a trap, and
set the police on the Schoolmaster. He is an arrant
blackguard, who deserves a hundred deaths ; but to have
them arrested, that I will not have a hand in."
" Nor I, my boy ; but I have a score to wipe off
with him and the Chouette, because they are in a plot
97
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
with others against me ; but we two will baffle them
completely, if you will lend me your assistance."
" Of course I will ; and, if that is to be the game, I
am your man. But quick, quick," cried the Chourineur,
" down there I see the head of the Chouette. I know it
is her bonnet. Go, go, and I will drop into my hole."
" To-night, then, at ten o'clock."
" At the corner of the Champs Elys^es and the AU^e
des Veuves ; all right."
Fleur-de-Marie had not heard a word of the latter
part of the conversation between the Chourineur and
Rodolph, and now entered again into the coach with her
travelling companion.
98
CHAPTER X.
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
For some time after this conversation with the Chou-
rineiir, Rodolph remained preoccupied and pensive, while
Fleur-de-Marie, too timid to break the silence, contin-
ued to gaze on him with saddened earnestness. At
length Rodolph looked up, and, meeting her mournful
look, smiled kmdly on her, and said, " What are you
thinking of, my child ? I fear our rencontre with the
Chourineur has made you uncomfortable, and we were
so merry, too."
" Oh, no, M. Rodolph, indeed, I do not mind it at all ;
nay, I even believe the meeting with the Chourineur may
be useful to you."
" Did not this man pass amongst the inhabitants of the
tapis-franc as possessing some good points among his
many bad ones ? "
" Indeed, I know not, M. Rodolph ; for although, pre-
viously to the scene of yesterday, I had frequently seen
him, I had scarcely ever spoken to him. I always looked
upon him as bad as all the rest."
" Well, well, do not let us talk any more about him,
my pretty Fleur-de-Marie. I should be sorry, indeed, to
make you sad, I, who brought you out purposely that
you might spend a happy day."
" Oh, I am happy. It is so very long since I have
been out of Paris."
" Not since your grand doings with Rigolette."
" Yes, indeed, M. Rodolph ; but that was in the spring.
99
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Yet, though it is now autumn, I enjoy it quite as much.
How beautifully the sun shines ! Only look at the gold-
coloured clouds out there there, I mean ; and then that
hill, with its pretty white houses half hid among the
trees, and the leaves still so green, though we are in the
middle of the month of October. Do not you think it
is wonderful, M. Rodolph, they should so well preserve
their verdure ? In Paris, all the leaves wither so soon.
Look ! look at those pigeons ! how many there are ! and
how high they fly ! Now they are settling on that old-
mill. One is never tired in the open fields of looking at
all these amusing sights."
" It, is, indeed, a pleasure to behold the delight you
seem to take in all these trifling matters, Fleur-de-
Marie ; though they, in reality, constitute the charm of
a landscape."
And Rodolph was right; for the countenance of his
companion, while gazing upon the fair, calm scene before
her, was lit up with an expression of the purest joy.
" See ! " she exclaimed, after intently watching the
different objects that unfolded themselves to her eager
look, ^' see how beautifully the clear white smoke rises
from those cottages, and ascends to the very clouds
themselves ; and there are some men ploughing the land.
What a capital plough they have got, drawn by those two
fine gray horses. Oh, if I were a man, how I should
like to be a husbandman, to go out in the fields, and
drive one's own plough ; and then when you look to see
the blue skies, and the green shiny leaves of the neigh-
bouring forests, such a day as to-day, for instance,
when you feel half inclined to weep, without knowing
why, and begin singing old and melancholy songs, like
* Genevieve de Brabant.' Do you know ' Genevieve de
Brabant,' M. Rodolph?"
" No, my child ; but I hope you will have the kindness
to sing it to me before the day is over. You know our
time is all our own."
100
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
At these words, which reminded the poor Goualeuse
that her newly tasted happiness was fast fieeting away,
and that, at the close of this, the brightest day that had
ever shone on her existence, she must return to all the
horrors of a corrupt city, her feelings broke through all
restraint, she hid her face in her hands and burst into
tears. Much surprised at her emotion, Rodolph kindly
inquired its cause.
" What ails you, Fleur-de-Marie ? What fresh grief
have you found ? "
" Nothing, nothing indeed, M. Rodolph," replied the
girl, drying her eyes and trying to smile. " Pray forgive
me for being so sad, and please not to notice it. I
assure you I have nothing at all to grieve about, it is
only a fancy ; and now I am going to be quite gay, you
will see.''
" And you were as gay as could be a few minutes ago."
" Yes, I know I was ; and it was my thinking how
soon " answered Fleur-de-Marie, naively, and raising
her large, tearful blue eyes, with touching candour, to his
face.
The look, the words, fully enlightened Rodolph as to
the cause of her distress, and, wishing to dissipate it, he
said, smilingly:
" I would lay a wager you are regretting your poor
rose-tree, and are crying because you could not bring it
out walking with you, as you used to do."
La Goualeuse fell into the good-natured scheme for
regaining her cheerfulness, and by degrees the clouds of
sadness cleared away from her fair young face ; and
once again she appeared absorbed in the pleasure of the
moment, without allowing herself to recollect the future
that would succeed it. The vehicle had by this time
almost arrived at St. Denis, and the tall spires of the
cathedral were visible.
" Oh, what a fine steeple ! " exclaimed La Goualeuse.
" It is that of the splendid church of St. Denis :
101
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
would you like to see it? We can easily stop our
carriage."
Poor Fleur-de-Marie cast down her eyes. " From the
hour I went to live with the ogress," said she, in a low
tone, while deep blushes dyed her cheek, " I never once
entered a church, I durst not. When in prison, on
the contrary, I used to delight in helping to sing the
mass ; and, against the Fete-Dieu, oh, I made such
lovely bouquets for the altar ! "
" But God is merciful and good ; why, then, fear to
pray to him, or to enter his holy church ? "
" Oh, no, no, M. Rodolph ! I have offended God
deeply enough ; let me not add impiety and sacrilege
to my sins."
After a moment's silence, Rodolph again renewed the
conversation, and, kindly taking the hand of La Goua-
leuse, said, " Fleur-de-Marie, tell me honestly, have you
ever known what it is to love ? "
" Never, M. Rodolph."
" And how do you account for this ? "
"You saw the kind of persons who frequented the
tapis-franc. And then, to love, the object should be
good and virtuous "
" Why do you think so ? "
" Oh, because one's lover, or husband, would be all in
all to us, and we should seek no greater happiness than
devoting our life to him. But, M. Rodolph, if you please,
we will talk of something else, for the tears will come
into my eyes."
" Willingly, Fleur-de-Marie ; let us change the conver-
sation. And now tell me, why do you look so beseech-
ingly at me with those large, tearful eyes ? Have I done
anything to displease you ? "
" On the contrary, 'tis the excess of your goodness
that makes me weep ; indeed, I could almost fancy that
you had brought me out solely for my individual pleasure
and enjoyment, without thinking of yourself. Not con-
102
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
tent with your generous defence of me yesterday, you
have to-day procured for me happiness such as 1 never
hoped to enjoy."
" You are, then, truly and entirely happy ? "
" Never, never shall I forget to-day."
" Happiness does not often attend us on earth," said
Rodolph, sighing.
" Alas, no ! Seldom, perhaps never."
" For my own part, to make up for a want of reality
in its possession, I often amuse myself with pictures of
what I would have if I could, saying to myself, This is
how, and where, I should like to live, this is the sort
of income I should like to enjoy. Have you never,
my little Fleur-de-Marie, amused yourself with building
similar ' castles in the air ? ' "
" Yes, formerly, when I was in prison, before I went to
live with the ogress, then I used to do nothing all day
but dance, sing, and build these fairy dreams; but I
very seldom do so now. Tell me, M. Rodolph, if you
could have any wish you liked, what should you most
desire ? "
" Oh, I should like to be rich, with plenty of servants
and carriages ; to possess a splendid hStel, and to mix in
the first circles of fashion; to be able to obtain any
amusement I pleased, and to go to the theatres and opera
whenever I chose."
" Well, then, you would be more unreasonable than I
should. Now I will tell you exactly what would satisfy
me in every respect : first of all, sufficient money to
clear myself with the ogress, and to keep me till I could
obtain work for my future support ; then a pretty, little,
nice, clean room, all to myself, from the window of
which I could see the trees while I sat at my work."
" Plenty of flowers in your casement, of course ? "
" Oh, certainly ! And, if it could be managed, to live
in the country always. And that, I think, is all I should
want."
103
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Let me see : a little room, and work enough to main-
tain you, those are positive necessaries ; but, when one
is merely w^"shing, there is no harm in adding a few
superfluities. Should you not like such nice things as
carriages, diamonds, and rich clothes ? "
" Not at all ! All I wish for is my free and undisturbed
liberty, a country life, and the certainty of not dying'
in a hospital. Oh, that idea is dreadful ! Above all
things, I would desire the certainty of its never being my
fate. Oh, M. Rodolph, that dread often comes across
me and fills me with terror."
" Alas ! poor folks, such as we are, should not shrink
from such things."
" 'Tis not the dying in a charitable institution I dread,
or the poverty that would send me into it, but the
thoughts of what they do to your lifeless remains."
" What do they do that shocks you so much ? "
" Is it possible, M. Rodolph, you have never been
told what will become of you if you die in one of
those places ? "
" No, indeed, I have not ; do you tell me."
" Well, then, I knew a young girl, who had been a
sort of companion to me when I was in prison ; she
afterwards died in a hospital, and what do you think ?
Her body was given to the surgeons for dissection ! "
murmured the shuddering Fleur-de-Marie.
" That is, indeed, a frightful idea ! And do these
miserable anticipations often trouble you, my poor
girl?"
" Ah, M. Rodolph, it surprises you that, after my
unhappy life, I can feel any concern as to what be-
comes of my miserable remains ! God knows, the feeling
which makes me shrink from such an outrage to modesty
is all my wretched fate has left me ! "
The mournful tone in which these words were uttered,
and the bitter feelings they contained, went to the heart
of Rodolph ; but his companion, quickly perceiving his
104
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
air of dejection, and blaming herself for having caused it,
said, timidly :
" M. Rodolph, I feel that I am behaving very ill
and ungratefully towards you, who so kindly brought me
out to amuse me and give me pleasure ; in return for
which I only keep talking to you about all the dull and
gloomy things I can think of ! I wonder how I can do
so ! to be able even to recollect my misery, when all
around me smiles and looks so gay ! I cannot tell how
it is, words seem to rise from my lips in spite of myself ;
and, though I feel happier to-day than I ever did before
in my life, my eyes are continually filling with tears !
You are not angry with me, are you, M. Rodolph ?
See, too, my sadness is going away as suddenly as it
came. There now, it is all gone, and shall not return to
vex you any more, I am determined. Look, M. Ro-
dolph, just look at my eyes, they do not show that I
have been crying, do they ? "
And here Fleur-de-Marie, having repeatedly closed her
eyes to get rid of the rebellious tears that would gather
there, opened them full upon Rodolph, with a look of
most enchanting candour and sweetness.
" Put no restraint on yourself, I beseech you, Fleur-
de-Marie : be gay, if you really feel so ; or sad, if sadness
most suits your present state of mind. ! have my own
hours of gloom and melancholy, and my sufferings would
be much increased were I compelled to feign a lightness
of heart I did not really possess."
" Can it be possible, M. Rodolph, that you are ever
sad ? "
" Quite possible, my child, and true. Alas ! the pros-
pect before me is but little brighter than your own. I,
like you, am without friends or parents ; what would be-
come of me if I were to fall ill and be unable to earn my
daily bread, for I need scarcely tell you I live but from
day to day, and spend my money quite as fast as I
obtain it ? "
105
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Oh, but that is wrong, M. Rodolph, very, very
wrong ! " said La Goualeuse, in a tone of such deep
and grave remonstrance as made him smile. " You
should always lay by something. Look at me : why, all
my troubles and misfortunes have happened because I did
not save my money more carefully. If once a person
can get a hundred francs beforehand, he need never fear
falling into any one's power ; generally, a difficulty about
money puts very evil thoughts into our head."
" All that is very wise and very sensible, my frugal
little friend ; but a hundred francs I that is a large
sum ; how could a man like myself ever amass so
much ? "
a Why, M. Rodolph, it is really very easy, if you will
but consider a little. First of all, I think you said
you could earn five francs a day ? "
" Yes, so I can, when I choose to work."
" Ah ! but you should work, constantly and regularly ;
and yours is such a pretty trade. To paint fans ! how
nice such work must be, mere amusement, quite a
recreation ! I cannot think why you should ever be tired
or dull. Indeed, M. Rodolph, I must tell you plainly
I do not pity you at all ; and, besides, really you
talk like a mere child when you say you cannot save
money out of such large earnings," added La Goualeuse,
in a sweet, but, for her, severe tone. " Why, a workman
may live well upon three francs a day ; there remain
forty sous ; at the end of a month, if you manage pru-
dently, you will have saved sixty francs. Think of that !
There's a sum ! sixty francs in one month ! "
" Oh, but one likes to show off sometimes, and to
indulge in a little idleness."
" There now, M. Rodolph, I declare you make me
quite angry to hear you talk so childishly ! Pray let
me advise you to be wiser."
" Come, then, my sage little monitress, I will be a
good boy, and listen to all your careful advice. And
106
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
your idea of saving, too, is a remarkably good one ; I
never thought of it before."
" Really ! " exclaimed the poor girl, clapping her
hands with joy. " Oh, if you knew how delighted I am
to hear you say so ! Then you will begin from to-day to
lay by the forty sous we were talking about, will you ?
Will you, indeed ? "
" I give you my honour that, from this very hour, I
will resolve to follow up your most excellent plan, and
save forty sous out of each day's pay."
" Are you quite, quite sure you will ? "
" Nay, have I not promised you that I will ? "
" You will see how proud and happy you will be with
your first savings ; and that is not all ah, if you
would promise not to be angry ! "
" Do I look as though I could be so unkind, Fleur-de-
Marie, as to find fault with anything you said ? "
" Oh, no, indeed, that you do not ; only I hardly
know whether I ought "
" You ought to tell me everything you think or feel,
Fleur-de-Marie."
" Well, then, I was wondering how you^ who, it is
easily seen, are above your condition, can frequent such
low cabarets as that kept by the ogress."
" Had I not done so, I should not have had the pleas-
ure of wandering in the fields with you to-day, my dear
Fleur-de-Marie."
" That is, indeed, true, M. Rodolph ; but, still, it does
not alter my first opinion. No, much as I enjoy to-day's
treat, I would cheerfully give up all thoughts of ever
passing such another if I thought it could in any way
injure you."
" Injure me ! Far from it ! Think of the excellent
advice you have been giving me."
" Which you have promised me to follow ? "
" I have ; and I pledge my word of honour to save
henceforward at least forty sous a day." Thus speaking,
107
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
itodolph called out to the driver of their vehicle, who
was passing the village of Sarcelles, "Take the first
road to the right, cross Villiers to Bel, turn to the left,
then keep along quite straight."
" Now," said Rodolph, turning to his companion,
" that I am a good boy, and promised to do all you tell
me, let us go back to our diversion of building castles
in the air : that does not run away with much money.
You will not object to such a method of amusing myself,
will you ? "
" Oh, no, build as many as you like, they are very
cheaply raised, and very easily knocked down when you
are tired of them. Now, then, you begin."
" Well, then No ! Fleur-de-Marie, you shall build
up yours first."
" I wonder if you could guess what I should choose,
if wishing were all, M. Rodolph."
" Let us try. Suppose that this road I say this
road, because we happen to be on it "
" Yes, yes, of course ; this road is as good as any
other."
" Well, then, I say, I suppose that this road leads to
a delightful little village, at a considerable distance from
the highroad "
" Oh, yes; that makes it so much more still and quiet!"
" It is built facing the south, and half surrounded by
trees "
" And close by flows a gentle river."
" Exactly ! a clear, gently flowing river. At the
end of this village stands a pretty farm, with a nice
orchard on one side of it, and a garden, filled with
flowers, on the other "
" That farm shall be called my farm, to which we
will pretend we are now going."
" Just so."
"And where we know we shall get some delicious
milk to drink after our journey ! "
108
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
" Milk, indeed ! Excellent cream, and newly laid eggs,
if you please."
" And where we would be glad to stay all our lives ! '*
" All our lives ! Quite right, go on."
" And then we should go and see all the cows ! "
" To be sure we should."
" And afterwards visit the dairy ? "
Visit the dairy ! Yes."
" Then the pigeon-house ? "
" Yes, so we should.''
" Oh, how very, very nice, only to think of such
things ! "
" But let me finish the description of the farm "
" Yes, pray do ! I quite forgot that."
" Well, then, the ground floor contains two rooms ;
One, a large kitchen for the farm servants, and the other
for the owner of the place."
" Make that room have green blinds, M. Rodolph,
do, pray ; they are so cool, and look so pretty ! "
" Yes, yes, green blinds to the windows. I quite
agree with you, they do look uncommonly pretty, and
set off a place so well ! Of course, the person tenanting
this farm is your aunt."
" Of course she is my aunt, and a very good, sensible,
kind woman, M. Rodolph, is she not?"
" Particularly so, and loves you like her own child."
" Dear, good aunt ! Oh, how delightful to have some
one to love us ! "
" And you return the tender affection she bears you ? "
" Oh, with all my heart ! " exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie,
clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven with
an expression impossible to describe. " And I should
help her to work, to attend to the family linen, to keep
everything neat and clean, to store up the summer
fruits against winter oh, she would never have to
complain that I was idle, I promise ! First of all, in
the morning "
109
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Wait a bit, Fleur-de-Marie ; you are in too great a
hurry. I want to finish describing the house to you ;
never mind your aunt just yet."
" Ah, ha, Mr. Paintar ! All this is taken from some
pretty landscape you have been painting on a fan. Now
I know what makes you so expert at describing it ! " said
La Goualeuse, laughing merrily at her own little jest.
" You little chatterer, be quiet, will you ? "
" Yes, I am a chatterer, indeed, to interrupt you so
often, M. Rodolph ; but pray go on, and I will not speak
again till you have finished painting this dear farm."
" Your room is on the first floor "
" My room ! how charming ! Oh, go on go on,
please, M. Rodolph, and describe all about it to me ! "
And the delighted girl opened her large laughing eyes,
and pressed more closely against Rodolph, as if she
expected to see the picture in his hand.
" Your chamber has two windows lookmg out upon
the flower garden, and a small meadow, watered by the
river we mentioned. On the opposite bank of the stream
rises a small hill, planted with fine old chestnut-trees ;
and from amongst them peeps out the village church "
" Oh, how beautiful, how very beautiful, M. Rodolph!
It makes one quite long to be there."
" Three or four fine cows are grazing in the meadow,
which is only separated from the garden by a hedge of
honeysuckle "
" And from my windows I can see the cows ? "
Perfectly."
" And one among them ought to be my favourite, you
know, M. Rodolph ; and I ought to put a little bell round
its neck, and use it to feed out of my hands ! "
" Of course she would come when you called her. Let
me see, what name shall we give her ? Suppose we say.
Musette. Do you like that ? She shall be very young
and gentle, and entirely white."
"Oh, what a pretty name! Musette! Ah, Musette,
110
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
Musette, I shall be always feeding you and patting you
to make you know me."
" Now we will finish the inside of your apartment,
Fleur-de-Marie. The curtains and furniture are green,
like the blinds ; and outside the window grow an enor-
mous rose-tree and honeysuckle, which entirely cover
this side of the farm, and so surround your caseijients
that you have only to stretch out your hand to gather a
large bunch of roses and honeysuckle wet with the early
morning dew."
" Ah, M. Rodolph, what a good painter you are ! "
" Now this is the way you will pass your day "
" Yes, yes, let us see how I shall employ myself all
day.-
" Early in the morning your good aunt wakes you with
a tender kiss ; she brings with her a bowl of new milk,
just warm, w^hich she prays you to drink, as she fancies
you are delicate about the lungs, poor dear child ! Well,
you do as she wishes you ; then rise, and take a walk
around the farm ; pay a visit to Musette, the poultry,
your pets the pigeons, the flowers in the garden, till nine
o'clock, when your writing-master arrives "
" My writing-master ? "
" Why, you know, unless you learned such necessary
things as reading, writing, and accounts, you would not
be able to assist your aunt to keep her books relative
to the produce of the farm."
" Oh, to be sure ! How very stupid of me not to
recollect that I must learn to write well, if I wished
to help my aunt ! " cried the young girl, so thoroughly
absorbed in the picture of this peaceful life as to believe
for the moment in its reality.
" After your lesson is concluded, you will occupy your-
self in household matters, or embroider some pretty little
article of dress for yourself ; then you will practise your
writing for an hour or two, and, when that is done, join
your aunt in her round of visits to the different opera-
Ill
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
tions of the farm ; in the summer, to see how the reapers
get on in the hay field ; in harvest-time, to observe the
reapers, and afterwards to enjoy the delight with which
the gleaners pick up the scattered ears of grain ; by this
time you will have almost tired yourself, and gathering
a large handful of wild herbs, carefully selected by you
as the known favourites of your dear Musette, you turn
your steps homewards "
" But we go back through the meadow, dear M.
Rodolpb, do we not?" inquired La Goualeuse, as
earnestly as though every syllable her ears drank in was
to be effectually brought to pass.
"Oh, yes ! by all means ; and there happens, fortu-
nately, to be a nice little bridge, by which the river
separating the farm-land from the meadow may be
crossed. By the time- you reach home, upon my word,
it is seven o'clock ; and, as the evenings begin to be a
little chill, a bright, cheerful fire is blazing in the large
farm kitchen ; you go in there for a few minutes, just to
warm yourself and to speak a few kind words to the
honest labourers, who are enjoying a hearty meal after
the day's toil is over. ' Then you sit down to dinner with
your aunt ; sometimes the cure, or a neighbouring farmer,
is invited to share the meal. After dinner you read or
work, while your aunt and her guest have a friendly
game at piquet. At ten o'clock she dismisses you, with
a kiss and a blessing, to your chamber; you retire to
your room, offer prayers and thanksgivings to the Great
Author of all your happiness, then sleep soundly till
morning, when the same routine begins again."
" Oh, M. Rodolph, one might lead such a life as
that for a hundred years, without ever knowing one
moment's weariness."
" But that is not all. There are Sundays and fete-
days to be thought of."
" Yes ; and how should we pass those ? "
*'Why, you would put on your holiday dress, with
112
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
one of those pretty little caps a la pai/sanne, which all
admit you look so very nicely in, and accompany your
aunt in her large old-fashioned chaise, driven by James
the farm servant, to hear mass in the village church ;
after which, during summer, your kind relative would
take you to the different fetes given in the adjoining par-
ishes. You, so gentle, so modest and good-looking, so
tenderly beloved by your aunt, and so well spoken of by
the cur^ for all the virtues and qualifications which
make a good wife, will have no scarcity of offers for
your hand in the dance, indeed, all the principal
young farmers will be anxious to secure you as a part-
ner, by way of opening an acquaintance which shall
last for life. By degrees you begin to remark one more
than the others ; you perceive his deep desire to attract
your undivided attention, and so " And here Rodolph,
struck by the continued silence of La Goualeuse, looked
up at her. Alas ! the poor girl was endeavouring,
though fruitlessly, to choke the deep sobs which almost
suffocated her. For a brief period, carried away by the
words of Rodolph, the bright future presented to her
mental vision had effaced the horrible present ; but too
quickly did the hideous picture return, and sweep away
for ever the dear delight of believing so sweet, so calm
an existence could ever be hers.
" Fleur-de-Marie," asked Rodolph, in a kind and affec-
tionate tone, " why is this ? Why these tears ? "
" Ah, M. Rodolph, you have unintentionally caused
me much pain. Foolish girl that I was, I had listened
to you till I quite fancied this paradise were a true
picture."
" And so it is, my dear child ! This paradise, as you
call it, is no fiction."
" Stop, coachman ! "
" Now look ! see ! observe where we are ! "
As the carriage stopped, La Goualeuse, at Rodolph's
bidding, mechanically raised her head, they were on
113
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
the summit of a little hill. What was her surprise, her
astonishment, at the scene which revealed itself to her
gaze ! The pretty village, built facing the south, the
farm, the meadow, the beautiful cows, the little winding
river, the chestnut grove, the church in the distance,
the whole picture, so vividly painted, was before her eyes.
Nothing was wanting, even the milk-white heifer, Mu-
sette, her future pet, was peacefully grazing as she had
been described. The rich colouring of an October sun
gilded the charming landsc^-pe, while the variegated tint
of the chestnut-leaves, slightly tinged by the autumnal
breezes, stood out in bold relief against the clear blue of
the surrounding sky.
" Well, my little Fleur-de-Marie, what do you say to
this ? Am I a good painter, or not ? "
La Goualeuse looked at him with a surprise in which
a degree of uneasiness was mingled ; all she saw and
heard appeared to her to partake largely of the super-
natural.
" M. Rodolph," she at length exclaimed, with a be-
wildered look, " how can this be ? Indeed, indeed, I
feel afraid to look at it, it is so exactly alike. I can-
not believe it is anything but a dream you have conjured
up, and which will quickly pass away. Speak to me !
pray do ; and tell me what to believe."
" Calm yourself, my dear child ! Nothing is more
simple or true than what you behold here. The good
woman who owns this farm was my nurse, and brought
me up here ; intending to give myself a treat, I sent to
her early this morning to say I was coming to see her.
You see I painted after nature."
" You are quite right, M. Rodolph," sighed La Goua-
leuse. " There is, indeed, nothing but what is quite
natural in all this."
The farm to which Rodolph had conducted Fleur-de
Marie was situated at the outer extremity of the village
of Bouqueval, a small, isolated, and unknown hamlet,
114
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
entirely surrounded by its own lands, and about two
leagues' distance from Ecouen ; the vehicle, following the
directions of Rodolph, rapidly descended the hill, and
entered a long avenue bordered with apple and cherry
trees, while the wheels rolled noiselessly over the short
fine grass with which the unfrequented road was over-
grown.
Fleur-de-Marie, whose utmost efforts were unavailing
to shake off the painful sensations she experienced, re-
mained so silent and mournful that Rodolph reproached
himself with having, by his well-intentioned surprise,
been the cause of it. In a few moments more, the car-
riage, passing by the large entrance to the farm, entered
a thick avenue of elm-trees, and stopped before a little
rustic porch, half hidden by the luxuriant branches of
the vine which clustered round it.
" Now, Fleur-de-Marie, here we are. Are you pleased
with what you see ? "
" Indeed I am, M. Rodolph. But how shall I venture
before the good person you mentioned as living here ?
Pray do not let her see me, I cannot venture to
approach her."
" And why, my child ? "
" True, M. Rodolph ; I forget she does not know me,
and will not guess how unworthy I am." And poor
Fleur-de-Marie tried to suppress the deep sigh that
would accompany her words.
The arrival of Rodolph had, no doubt, been watched
for; the driter had scarcely opened the carriage door
when a prepossessing female, of middle age, dressed in
the style of wealthy landholders about Paris, and whose
countenance, though melancholy, was also gentle and
benevolent in its expression, appeared in the porch, and
with respectful eagerness advanced to meet Rodolph.
Poor Goualeuse felt her cheeks flush and her heart
beat as she timidly descended from the vehicle.
" Good day, good day, Madame Georges," said
115
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Rodolph, advancing towards the individual so addressed,
" you see I am punctual." Then turning to the driver,
and putting ruoney into his hand, he said, " Here, my
friend, there is no further occasion to detain you ; you
may return to Paris as soon as you please."
The coachman, a little, short, square-built man, with
his hat over his eyes, and his countenance almost entirely
concealed by the high collar of his driving-coat, pocketed
the money without a word, remounted his seat, gave his
horses the whip, and disappeared down the allee verte. by
which he had entered.
Fleur-de-Marie sprang to the side of Rodolph, and
with an air of unfeigned alarm, almost amounting to
distress, said, in a tone so low as not to be overheard by
Madame Georges :
" M. Rodolph ! M. Rodolph ! pray do not be angry, but
why have you sent away the carriage ? Will it not
return to fetch us away ? "
" Of course not ; I have quite done with the man, and
therefore dismissed him."
" But the ogress ! "
" What of her ? Why do you mention her name ? "
" Alas ! alas ! because I must return to her this even-
ing; indeed, indeed, I must, or or she will consider
me a thief. The very clothes I have on are hers, and,
besides, I owe her "
" Make yourself quite easy, my dear child ; it is my
part to ask your forgiveness, not you mine."
" My forgiveness ! Oh, for what can you require me
to pardon you ? "
" For not having sooner told you that you no longer
owe the ogress anything ; that it rests only with yourself
to decide whether you will henceforward make this quiet
spot your home, and cast off the garments you now wear
for others my kind friend, Madame Georges, will furnish
you with. She is much about your height, and can
supply you with everything you require. She is all
116
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
impatience to commence her part of * aunt,' I can assure
you."
Poor Fleur-de-Marie seemed utterly unable to compre-
hend the meaning of all she saw and heard, and gazed
with wondering and perplexed looks from one companion
to the other, as though fearing to trust either her eyes
or ears.
" Do I understand you rightly ? " she cried at length,
half breathless with emotion. " Not go back to Paris ?
Remain here ? And this lady will permit me to stay
with her ? Oh, it cannot be possible ; I dare not hope
it ; that would, indeed, be to realise our ' castles in the
air.' "
"Dear Fleur-de-Marie, your wishes are realised,
your dream a true one."
" No, no, you must be jesting ; that would be too
much happiness to expect, or even dare to hope for."
" Nay, Fleur-de-Marie, we should never find fault with
an oversupply of happiness."
" Ah, M. Rodolph, for pity's sake deceive me not ; you
cannot believe the misery I should experience were you
to tell me all this happiness was but a jest."
" My child, listen to me," said Rodolph, with a tone
and manner which, although still affectionate, was min-
gled with a dignified accent and manner Fleur-de-Marie
had never previously remarked in him. " I repeat that,
if you please, you may from this very hour lead here,
with Madame Georges, that peaceful life whose descrip-
tion but a short time since so much delighted you.
Though the kind lady with whom you will reside be not
your aunt, she will feel for you the most lively and
affectionate interest, and with the personages about the
farm you will pass as being really and truly her niece,
and this innocent deception will render your residence
here more agreeable and advantageous. Once more I
repeat to you, Fleur-de-Marie, you may now at your own
pleasure realise the dream of our journey. As soon as
117
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
you have assumed your village dress" said Rodolph,
smilingly, " we will take you to see that milk-white
heifer, Musette, who is to be your favourite hencefor-
ward, and who is only waiting for the pretty collar you
designed to ornament her with ; then we will go and
introduce ourselves to your pets, the pigeons, afterwards
visit the dairy, and so go on till we have been all over
the farm. I mean to keep my promise in every respect,
I assure you."
Fleur -de -Marie pressed her hands together with
earnest gratitude. Surprise, joy, and the deepest
thankfulness, mingled with respect, lit up her beauti-
ful countenance, while, with eyes streaming with tears,
she exclaimed :
" M. Rodolph, you are, you must be, one of those be-
neficent angels sent by the Almighty to do good upon
earth, and to rescue poor fallen creatures, like myself,
from shame and misery."
" My poor girl," replied Rodolph, with a smile of deep
sadness and ineffable kindness, " though still young, I
have already deeply suffered. 1 lost a dear child, who,
if living, would now be about your age. Let that explain
my deep sympathy with all who suffer, and for yourself
particularly, Fleur -de - Marie, or, rather, Marie only.
Now, go with Madame Georges, who will shew you the
pretty chamber, with its clustering roses and honey-
suckle to form your morning bouquets. Yes, Marie,
henceforward let that name, simple and sweet as your-
self, be your only appellation. Before my departure we
will have some talk together, and then I shall quit you,
most happy in the knowledge of your full contentment."
Fleur-de-Marie, without one word of reply, gracefully
bent her knee, and, before Rodolph could prevent her,
gently and respectfully raised his hand to her lips ; then
rising with an air of modest submission, followed Madame
Georges, who eyed her with a profound interest, out of
the room.
118
CHAPTER XI.
MURPHY AND RODOLPH.
Upon quitting the house, Rodolph bent his steps
towards the farmyard, where he found the individual
who, the preceding evening, disguised as a charcoal-
man, had warned him of the arrival of Tom and Sarah.
Murphy, which was the name of this personage, was
about fifty years of age ; his head, nearly bald, was still
ornamented with a fringe of light brown hair at each
side, which the hand of time had here and there slightly
tinged with gray ; his face was broad, open, and ruddy,
and free from all appearance of hair, except very short
whiskers, of a reddish colour, only reaching as low as
the tip of the ear, from which it diverged, and stretched
itself in a gentle curve across his rubicund cheeks.
Spite of his years and embonpoint^ Murphy was active
and athletic ; his countenance, though somewhat phleg-
matic, was expressive of great resolution and kindliness
of nature ; he wore a white neck-handkerchief, a deep
waistcoat, and a long black coat, with very wide skirts ;
his breeches, of an olive green colour, corresponded in
material with the gaiters which protected his sturdy legs,
without reaching entirely to the knee, but allowing the
strings belonging to his upper garment to display them-
selves in long unstudied bows ; in fact, the dress and
whole tournure of Murphy exactly accorded with the
idea of what in England is styled a " gentleman farmer."
Now, the personage we are describing, though an English
squire, was no farmer. At the moment of Rodolph's
119
/
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
appearance in the yard, Murphy was in the act of depos-
iting, in the pocket of a small travelling caleehe^ a pair
of small pistols he had jast been carefully cleaning.
" What the devil are you going to do with those
pistols ? " inquired Rodolph.
" That is my business, my lord," replied Murphy,
descending the carriage steps ; " attend to your affairs,
and I will mind mine."
" At what o'clock have you ordered the horses ? "
" According to your directions, at nightfall."
" You got here this morning, I suppose ? "
" I did, at eight o'clock. Madame Georges has had
ample time to make all the preparations you desired."
" What has gone wrong. Murphy ? You seem com-
pletely out of humour. Have I done anything to offend
you?"
" Can you not, my lord, accomplish your self-imposed
task without incurring so much personal risk ?"
" Surely, in order to lull all suspicion in the minds of
the persons I seek to understand and fully appreciate,
I cannot do better than, for a time, to adopt their garb,
their language, and their customs."
" But all this dia not prevent you, my lord, last night
(in that abominable place where we went to unkennel
Bras Rouge, in hopes of getting out of him some partic-
ulars relative to that unhappy son of Madame Georges),
from being angry, and ready to quarrel with me, because
I wished to aid in your tussle with the rascal you
encountered in that horrid cut-throat alley."
" I suppose, then. Murphy, you do not think I am
capable of defending myself, and you either doubt my
courage or the strength of my arm ? "
" Unfortunately, you have given me too many reasons
to form a contrary opinion of both. Thank God ! Flat-
man, the Bertrand of Germany, perfected you in the
knowledge of fencing ; Tom Cribb taught you to box ;
Lacour, of Paris, accomplished you in single-stick, wrest-
120
MURPHY AND RODOLPH.
ling, and slang, so as to render you fully provided for
your venturesome excursions. You are bold as a lion,
with muscles like iron, and, though so slight in form, I
should have no more chance with you than a dray-horse
would against a racer, were they to compete with each
other. No mistake about that."
" Then what are you afraid of ? "
" Why, I maintain, my lord, that it is not the right
thing for you to throw yourself in the way of all these
blackguards. I do not say that because of the nuisance
it is to a highly respectable individual of my acquaint-
ance to blacken his face with charcoal, and make himself
look like a devil. No, God knows, spite of my age, my
figure, and my gravity, I would disguise myself as a
rope-dancer, if, by so doing, I could serve you. But
I still stick to what I say, and "
" Oh ! I know all you would say, my excellent old
fellow, and that when once you have taken an idea into
your thick skull, the very devil himself could no more
drive it out of you than he could, by all his arts, remove
the fidelity and devotion implanted in your brave and
valiant heart."
" Come, come, my lord, now you begin to flatter me,
I suspect you are up to some fresh mischief."
" Think no such thing. Murphy ; give yourself no
liueasiness, but leave all to me."
" My lord, I cannot be easy ; there is some new folly
in hand, and I am sure of it."
" My good friend, you mean well ; but you are
choosing a very ill hour for your lectures ; forbear, I
beg."
" And why, my lord, can you not listen to me now,
as well as any other time ?"
" Because you are interfering with one of my short-
lived moments of pride and happiness. I am here, in
this dear spot ! "
" Where you have done so much good. I know it.
121
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
Your ' model farm,' as you term it, built by you to
instruct, to encourage, and to reward deserving labour-
ers, has been of incalculable service to this part of the
country. Ordmary men think but of improving their
cattle ; you, more wisely and benevolently, have directed
your exertions for the bettering your fellow creatures.
Nothing can be better ; and when you placed Madame
Georges at the head of the establishment, you acted with
the utmost wisdom and provident good sense. What
a woman she is ! No, she is an angel ! so good, so
firm, so noble, and upright ! I am not easily moved,
my lord, as you know ; but often have I felt my eyes
grow moist, as her many trials and misfortunes rise to
my recollection. But about your new protegee, however,
my lord ; if you please, we will not say much on that
subject. ' The least said is soonest mended,' as the old
proverb has it."
" Why not. Murphy ? "
" My lord, you will do what you think proper."
" I do what is just," said Rodolph, with an air of
impatience.
" What is just, according to your own interpretation."
" What is just before God and my own conscience,"
replied Rodolph, in a severe tone.
" Well, my lord, this is a point on which we cannot
agree, and therefore let us speak no more about it."
" I desire you will continue to talk about it ! " cried
Rodolph, imperiously.
'' I have never been so circumstanced that your royal
highness should have to bid me hold my tongue, and I
hope I shall not now be ordered to speak when I should
be silent," said Murphy, proudly.
" Mr. Murphy ! " said Rodolph, with a tone of in-
creased irritation.
" My lord ! "
" You know, sir, how greatly I detest anything like
concealment."
122
MURPHY AND RODOLPH.
" Your royal highness will excuse me, but it suits me
to have certain concealments," said Murphy, bluntly.
" If I descend to familiarity with you, sir, it is on
condition that you, at least, act with entire frankness
towards me."
It is impossible to describe the extreme hauteur which
marked the countenance of Rodolph as he uttered these
words.
" I am fifty years of age, I am a gentleman, and your
royal highness should not address me in such a tone."
" Be silent ! "
"My lord!"
" Be silent ! I say."
" Your royal highness does wrong in compelling a
man of honour and feeling to recall the services he has
rendered to you," said the squire, in a calm tone.
"Have I not repaid those services in a thousand
ways ? "
It should be stated that Rodolph had not attached to
these bitter words the humiliating sense which could
place Murphy in the light of a mercenary ; but such,
unfortunately, was the esquire's interpretation of them.
He became purple with shame, lifted his two clenched
hands to his forehead with an expression of deep grief
and indignation, and then, in a moment, as by a sudden
revulsion of feeling, throwing his eyes on Rodolph, whose
noble countenance was convulsed by the violence of
extreme disdain, he said, in a faltering voice, and stifling
a sigh of the tenderest pity, " My lord, be yourself ; you
surpass the bounds of reason."
These words impelled Rodolph to the very height of
irritation ; his glance had even a savage glare in it ; his
lips were blanched ; and, advancing towards Murphy
with a threatening aspect, he exclaimed, " Dare you?"
Murphy retreated, and said, in a quick tone, and as if
in spite of himself, " My lord, my lord, remember the
thirteenth of January ! "
123
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
These words produced a magical effect on Rodolph.
His countenance, contracted by anger, now expanded.
He looked at Murphy steadfastly, bowed his head, and
then, after a moment's silence, murmured, in faltering
accents, " Ah, sir, you are now cruel, indeed. I had
thought that my repentance my deep remorse and
yet it is you you "
Rodolph could not finish ; his voice was stifled ; he
sunk, subdued, on a stone bench, and concealed his
countenance with both his hands.
" My lord,'' said Murphy, in deep distress, " my good
lord, forgive me ! Forgive your old and faithful Mur-
phy. It was only when driven to an extremity, and
fearing, alas ! not for myself, but for you, the conse-
quences of your passion, that I uttered those words. I
said them in spite of myself, and with sorrow. My lord,
I was wrong to be so sensitive. Mon Dieu ! who can
know your character, your feelings, if I do not, I, who
have never left you from your childhood ! Pray, oh,
pray say that you forgive me for having called to your
recollection that sad, sad day. Alas ! what expiations
have you not made "
Rodolph raised his head; he was very pale, and
said to his companion, in a gentle and saddened voice,
"Enough, enough, my old friend; I thank you for
having, by one word, checked my headlong passion. I
make no apologies to you for the severe things I have
said ; you know well that ' it is a long way from the
heart to the lips,' as the good people at home say. I
was wrong ; let us say no more on the subject."
" Alas ! now we shall be out of spirits for a long
time, as if I were not sufficiently unhappy ! I only wished
to see you roused from your low spirits, and yet I add
to them by my foolish tenaciousness. Good Heaven !
what's the use of being an honest man, and having gray
hairs, if it does not enable us to endure reproaches
which we do not deserve ? "
124
. J- * .%- '.
MURPHY AND RODOLPH.
" Be it 80, be it so ; we were both in the wrong, my
good friend," said Rodolph, mildly ; " let us forget it,
and return to our former conversation. You approved
entirely of my establishment of this farm, and the deep
interest I have always felt in Madame Georges. You
will allow, won't you, that she had merited it by her
excellent qualities, her misfortunes, even if she did not
belong to the family of Harville, a family to which
my father had vowed eternal gratitude."
"I have always approved of the sentiments which
your lordship has entertained for Madame Georges."
" But you are astonished at the interest I take in this
poor girl, are you not ? "
" Pray, pray, my lord, I was wrong ; I was wrong."
" No, I can imagine that appearances have deceived
you ; but, as you know my life all my life, and as you
aid me always ^vith as much fidelity as courage in my
self-inflicted expiation, it is my duty, or, if you like the
phrase better, my gratitude, to convince you that I am
not acting from a frivolous impulse."
" Of that I am sure, my lord."
" You know my ideas on the subject of the good
which a man ought to do who has the knowledge, the
will, and the power. To succour unhappy, but deserv-
ing, fellow creatures is well ; to seek after those who
are struggling against misfortune with energy and
honour, and to aid them, sometimes without their
knowledge, to prevent, in right time, misery and
temptation, is better ; to reinstate such perfectly in their
own estimation, to lead back to honesty those who have
preserved in purity some generous and ennobling senti-
ments in the midst of the contempt that withers them,
the misery that eats into them, the corruption that en-
circles them, and, for that end, to brave, in person, this
misery, this corruption, this contagion, is better still ; to
pursue, with unalterable hatred, with implacable ven-
geance, vice, infamy, and crime, whether they be tramj-
125
j^^"
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
ling in the mud, or be clothed in purple and fine linen,
that is justice ; but to give aid inconsiderately to well-
merited degrtdation, to prostitute and lavish charity
and commiseration, by bestowing help on unworthy and
undeserving objects, is most infamous ; it is impiety,
very sacrilege! it is to doubt the existence of the Al-
mighty ; and so, he who acts thus ought to be made to
understand."
" My lord, I pray you do not think that I would for
a moment assert that you have bestowed your benefits
unworthily."
" One word more, my old friend. You know well
that the child whose death I daily deplore that that
daughter whom I should have loved the more, as her
unworthy mother, Sarah, had shown herself so utterly
indifferent about her would have been sixteen years
of age, like this unhappy girl. You know, too, that I
cannot prevent the deep, and almost painful, sympathy
I feel for young girls of that age."
" True, my lord ; and I ought so to have interpreted
the interest you evince for your protegee. Besides, to
succour the unfortunate is to honour God."
" It is, my friend, when the objects deserve it ; and
thus nothing is more worthy of compassion and respect
than a woman like Madame Georges, who, brought up
by a pious and good mother in the strict observance of
all her duties, has never failed, never ! and has, more=
over, courageously borne herself in the midst of the
most severe trials. But is it not to honour God in the
most acceptable way, to raise from the dust one of those
beings of the finest mould, whom he has been pleased
to endow richly ? Does not she deserve compassion and
respect, yes, respect, who, unhappy girl ! abandoned
to her own instinct, who, tortured, imprisoned, de-
graded, sullied, has yet preserved, in holiness and pure-
ness of heart, those noble germs of good first implanted
by the Almighty? If you had but seen, poor child!
126
MURPHY AND RODOLPE.
how, at the first word of interest expressed for her,
the first mark of kindness and riglit feeling, the most
charming natural imi)ulscs, tlie purest tastes, the most
refmed thouglits, the most poetic ideas, developed them-
selves abundantly in her ingenuous mind, even as, in
the early spring, a thousand wild flowers lift up their
heads at the first rays of the sun ! In a conversation of
about an hour with Fleur-de-Marie, I have discovered
treasures of goodness, worth, prudence, yes, prudence,
old Murphy. A smile came to my lips, and a tear in
my eye, when, in her gentle and sensible prattle, she
urged on me the necessity of saving forty sous a day,
that I might be beyond want or evil temptations. Poor
little creature ! she said all this with so serious and per-
suasive a tone. She seemed so delighted to give me
good advice, and experienced so extreme a pleasure in
hearing me promise to follow it ! I was moved even to
tears; and you, it affects you, my old friend."
" It does, my lord ; the idea of making you lay by
forty sous a day, thinking you a workman, instead of
urging you to spend money on her ; that does touch
me."
" Hush ; here are Madame Georges and Marie. Get all
ready for our departure ; we must be in Paris in good
time."
Thanks to the care of Madame Georges, Fleur-de-
Marie was no longer like her former self. A pretty
peasant's cap, and two thick braids of light brown hair,
encircled her charming face. A large handkerchief of
white muslin crossed her bosom, and disappeared under
the high fold of a small shot taffetas apron, whose blue
and red shades appeared to advantage over a dark nun's
dress, which seemed expressly made for her. The young
girl's countenance was calm and composed. Certain
feelings of delight produce in the mind an unspeakable
sadness, a holy melancholy. Rodolph was not sur-
prised at the gravity of Fleur-de-Marie ; he had expected
127
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
it. Had she been merry and talkative, she would not
have retained so high a place in his good opinion. In
the serious and resigned countenance of Madame Georges
might easily be traced the indelible marks of long-suf-
fering ; but she looked at Fleur-de-Marie with a tender-
ness and compassion quite maternal, so much gentleness
and sweetness did this poor girl evince.
" Here is my child, who has come to thank you for
your goodness, M. Rodolph," said Madame Georges, pre-
senting Goualeuse to Rodolph.
At the words, '' my child," Goualeuse turned her large
eyes slowly towards her protectress, and contemplated
her for some moments with a look of unutterable
gratitude.
" Thanks for Marie, my dear Madame Georges ; she
deserves this kind interest, and always will deserve it."
" M. Rodolph," said Goualeuse, with a trembling voice,
" you understand, I know, I feel that you do, that I
cannot find anything to say to you."
" Your emotion tells me all, my child."
" Oh, she feels deeply the good fortune that has come
to her so providentially," said Madame Georges, deeply
affected ; " her first impulse on entering my room was to
prostrate herself before my crucifix."
" Because now, thanks to you, M. Rodolph, I dare to
pray," said Goualeuse.
Murphy turned away hastily ; his pretensions to firm-
ness would not allow of any one seeing to what extent the
simple words of Goualeuse had touched him.
Rodolph said to her, " My child, I wish to have some
conversation with Madame Georges. My friend Murphy
will lead you over the farm, and introduce you to your
future proteges. We will join you presently. Well,
Murphy, Murphy, don't you hear me ?"
The worthy gentleman turned his back, and pretended
to blow his nose with a very loud noise, then put his
handkerchief in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyes,
128
MURPHY AND RODOLPH.
and, turning half around, offered his arm to Marie,
managing so skilfully that neither Rodolph nor Madame
Georges could see his face. Taking the arm of Marie,
he walked away w4th her towards the farm buildings,
and so quickly, that, to keep up with him, Goualeuse
was obliged to run, as in her infant days she ran beside
the Chouette.
" Well, Madame Georges, what do you think of
Marie?'* inquired Rodolph.
" M. Rodolph, I ha^e told you : she had scarcely
entered my room, when, seeing the crucifix, she fell
on her knees before it. It is impossible for me to tell
you, to describe the spontaneous and naturally religious
feeling that evidently dictated this. I saw in an instant
that hers was no degraded soul. And then, M. Rodolph,
the expression of her gratitude to you had nothing
exaggerated in it ; but it is not the less sincere. And
I have another proof of how natural and potent is this
religious instinct in her. I said to her, ' You must have
been much astonished, and very happy, when M. Rodolph
told you that you were to remain here for the future ?
What an effect it must have had on you ! ' * Yes, oh,
yes,' was her reply ; ' when M. Rodolph told me so, I
cannot describe what passed within me ; but I felt that
kind of holy happiness which I experience in going into
a church. When I could go there,' she added, * for you
know, madame ' 'I know, my child, for I shall
always call you my child (I could not let her go on
when I saw her cover her face for shame), I know that
you have suffered deeply ; but God blesses those who
love and fear him, those who have been unhappy, and
those who repent.' "
" Then, my good Madame Georges, I am doubly happy
at what I have done. This poor girl will greatly interest
you, her disposition is so excellent, her instincts so right."
" What has besides affected me, M. Rodolph, is that
she has not allowed one single question to escape her
129
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
about you, although her curiosity must be so much
excited. Struck with a reserve so full of delicacy, I
wished to know what she felt. I said to her, ' You must
be very curious to know who your mysterious benefactor
is ? ' ' Know him ! ' she replied, with delightful sim-
plicity ; ' he is my benefactor.' "
" Then you will love her. Excellent woman ! she will
find some interest in your heart."
" Yes, I shall occupy my heart with her as I should
with Azm," said Madame Georges, in a broken voice.
Rodolph took her hand.
" Do not be discouraged ; come, come, if our search
has been unsuccessful so far, yet one day, perhaps "
Madame Georges shook her head sorrowfully, and
said, in bitter accents, " My poor son would be now
twenty years old ! "
" Say he is that age "
" God hear you, and grant it, M. Rodolph.''
" He will hear, I fully believe. Yesterday I went
(but in vain) to find a certain fellow called Bras Rouge
who might, perhaps, have given me some information
about your son. Coming away from this Bras Rouge's
abode, after a struggle in which I was engaged, I met
with this unfortunate girl "
" Alas ! but your kind endeavour in my behalf has
thrown in your way another unfortunate being, M.
Rodolph."
" You have no intelligence from Rochf ort ? "
" None," said Madame Georges, shuddering, and in a
low voice.
" So much the better ! We can no longer doubt but
that the monster met his death in the attempt to escape
from the "
Rodolph hesitated to pronounce the horrible word.
" From the Bagne ? Oh, say it ! the Bagne ! " ex-
claimed the wretched woman with horror, and almost
frantic as she spoke. " The father of my child ! Ah !
130
MURPHY AND RODOLPH.
if the unhappy boy still lives if, like me, he has not
changed his name oh, shame ! shame ! And yet it
may be nothing : his father has, perhaps, carried out
his horrid threat ! What has he done with my boy ?
Why did he tear him from me ? "
"That mystery I cannot fathom," said Rodolph, with
a pensive air. " What could induce the wretch to carry
off your son fifteen years ago, and when he was trying
to escape into a foreign land ? A child of that age could
only embarrass his flight."
" Alas, M. Rodolph ! when my husband " (the poor
woman shuddered as she pronounced the word) " was
arrested on the frontier and thrown into prison, where I
was allowed to visit him, he said to me these horrible
words : ' I took away the brat because you were fond of
him, and it will be a means of compelling you to send
me money, which may or may not be of service to him,
that's my affair. Whether he lives or dies it is no
matter to you ; but if he lives, he will be in good hands :
you shall drink as deep of the shame of the son as you
have of the disgrace of the father ! ' Alas ! a month after-
wards my husband was condemned to the galleys for
life ; and since then all my entreaties, my prayers, and
letters have been in vain. I have never been able to
learn the fate of my boy. Ah, M. Rodolph ! where is
my child at this moment ? These frightful words are
always ringing in my ears : ' You shall drink as deep of
the shame of the son as you have of the disgrace of the
father ! ' "
" This atrocity is most inexplicable ; why should he
demoralise the unhappy child ? Why carry him off ? "
" I have told you, M. Rodolph, to compel me to send
him money ; although he had nearly ruined me, yet I had
still some small resources, but they at length were ex-
hausted also. In spite of his wickedness, I could not
believe but that he would employ, at least, a portion of
this money in the bringing-up of this unhappy child."
131
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" And your son had no sign, no mark, by which he
could be recognised ? "
" No other than that of which I have spoken to you,
M. Rodolph, - - a small Saint Esprit, sculptured in lapis
lazuli, tied round his neck by a chain of silver : a sacred
relic, blessed by the holy father."
" Courage, courage ; God is all-powerful."
" Providence placed me in your path, M. Rodolph."
" Too late, Madame Georges ; too late. I might have
saved you many years of sorrow."
" Ah, M. Rodolph, how kind you have been to me ! "
" In what way ? I bought this farm ; in time of your
prosperity you were not idle, and now you have become
my manager here, where thanks to your excellent
superintendence, intelligence, and activity this estab-
lishment produces me "
" Produces you, my lord ? " said Madame Georges, in-
terrupting Rodolph ; " why, all the returns are employed,
not only in ameliorating the condition of the labourers,
who consider the occupation on this model farm as a
great favour, but, moreover, to succour all the needy in
the district ; through the mediation of our good Abb^
Laporte "
" Ah, the dear abb^ ! " said Rodolph, desirous of es-
caping the praise of Madame Georges ; " have you had
the kindness to inform him of my arrival ? I wish to
recommend my protegee to him. He has had my
letter ? "
" Mr. Murphy gave it to him when he came this morn
ing."
" In that letter I told our good cur^, in a few words,
the history of this poor girl. I was not sure that I
should be able to come to-day myself, and if not, ther
Murphy would have conducted Marie "
A labourer of the farm interrupted this conversation,
which had been carried on in the garden.
" Madame, M. le Cur^ is waiting for you."
132
MURPHY AND RODOLPH.
" Are the post-horses arrived, my lad ? " inquired
Rodolph.
" Yes, M. Rodolph ; and they are putting to." And
the man left the garden.
Madame Georges, the curd, and the inhabitants of the
farm only knew Fleur-de-Marie's protector as M. Rodolph.
Murphy's discretion was faultless ; and although when
in private he was very precise in " my-lording" Rodolph,
yet before strangers he was very careful not to address
him otherwise than as M. Rodolph.
" I forgot t-o mention, my dear Madame Georges,"
said Rodolph, when he returned to the house, " that
Marie has, I fear, very weak lungs, privations and
misery have tried her health. This morning early I was
struck with the pallor of her countenance, although her
cheeks were of a deep rose colour ; her eyes, too, seem to
me to have a brilliancy which betokens a feverish system.
Great care must be taken of her.",
" Rely on me, M. Rodolph ; but, thank God ! there is
nothing serious to apprehend. At her age, in the country,
with pure air, rest, and quiet, she will soon be quite
restored."
" I hope so ; but I will not trust to your country doc-
tors. I will desire Murphy to bring here my medical
man, a negro, a very skilful person, who will tell you
the best regimen to pursue. You must send me news of
Marie very often. Some time hence, when she shall be
better, and more at ease, we will talk about her future
life ; perhaps it would be best that she always remained
with you, if you were pleased with her."
" I should like it greatly, M. Rodolph ; she would sup-
ply the place of the child I have lost, and must for ever
bewail."
" Let us still hope for you and for her."
At the moment when Rodolph and Madame Georges
approached the farm. Murphy and Marie also entered.
The worthy gentleman let go the arm of Goualeuse, and
133
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
said to Rodolph in a low voice, and with an air of some
confusion :
" This girl has bewitched me ; I really do not know
which interests me most, she or Madame Georges. I was
a brute a beast ! "
" I knew, old Murphy, that you would do justice to
my prot^g^e," said Rodolph, smiling, and shaking hands
with the squire.
Madame Georges, leaning on Marie's arm, entered
with her into a small room on the ground floor, where
the Abb^ Laporte was waiting. Murphy went awaj, to
see all ready for their departure. Madame Georges,
Marie, Rodolph, and the cur^ remained together.
Plain, but very comfortable, this small apartment was
fitted up with green hangings, like the rest of the house,
as had been exactly described to Goualeuse by Rodolph.
A thick carpet covered the floor, a good fire burnt in the
grate, and two large nosegays of daisies of all colours,
placed in two crystal vases, shed their agreeable odour
throughout the room. Through the windows, with their
green blinds, which were half opened, was to be seen the
meadow, the little stream, and, beyond it, the bank
planted with chestnut- trees.
The Abb^ Laporte, who was seated near the fireplace,
was upwards of eighty years of age, and had, ever since
the last days of the Revolution, done duty in this small
parish. Nothing can be imagined more venerable than
his aged, withered, and somewhat melancholy counte-
nance, shaded by long white locks, which fell on the
collar of his black cassock, which was pieced in more
places than one ; the abbe liked better, as they said, to
clothe one or two poor children in good warm broadcloth,
ths.n f aire le muguet; that is, to wear his cassocks less
than two or three years. The good abb^ was so old, so
very old, that his hands trembled continually, and when
he occasionally lifted them up, when speaking, it might
have been supposed that he was giving a benediction.
134
MURPHY AND RODOLPH.
" M. I'Abb^," said Rodolph, respectfully, " Madame
Georges has undertaken the guardianship of this young
girl, for whom I also beg your kindness."
" She is entitled to it, sir, like all who come to us.
The mercy of God is inexhaustible, my dear child, and
he has evinced it in not abandoning you in most severe
trials. I know all." And he took the hand of Marie in his
own withered and trembling palms. " The generous man
who has saved you has realised the words of Holy Writ,
' The Lord is near to all those who call upon him ; he
will fulfil the desire of those who fear him ; he will hear
their cries, and he will save them.' Now deserve his
bounty by your conduct, and you will always find one
ready to encourage and sustain you in the good path on
which you have entered. You will have in Madame
Georges a constant example, in me a careful adviser.
The Lord will finish his work."
" And I will pray to him for those who have had
compassion on me and have led me to him, father," said
La Goualeuse, throwing herself on her knees before the
priest. Her emotion overcame her ; her sobs almost
choked her. Madame Georges, Rodolph, and the abb^
were all deeply affected.
" Rise, my dear child," said the cure ; " you will soon
deserve absolution from those serious faults of which
you have rather been the victim than the criminal ; for,
in the words of the prophet, ' The Lord raises up all
those who are ready to fall, and elevates those who are
oppressed.' "
Murphy, at this moment, opened the door.
" M. Rodolph," he said, " the horses are ready."
" Adieu, father ! adieu, Madame Georges ! I com-
mend your child to your care, our child, I should say.
Farewell, Marie ; I will soon come and see you again."
The venerable pastor, leaning on the arms of Madame
Georges and La Goualeuse, who supported his tottering
steps, left the room to see Rodolph depart.
135
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
The last rays of the sun shed their light on this
interesting yet sad group :
An old priest, the symbol of charity, paijdon, and
everlasting hope ; a female, overwhelmed by every grief
that can distress a wife and mother ; a young girl,
hardly out of her infancy, and but recently thrown into
an abyss of vice through misery and the close contact
with crime.
Rodolph got into the carriage. Murphy took his place
by his side, and the horses set off at speed.
136
CHAPTER XIL
THE RENDEZVOUS.
The day after he had confided the Goualeuse to the
care of Madame Georges, Rodolph, still dressed as a
mechanic, was, at noon precisely, at the door of a caba-
ret with the sign of the Panier-Fleuri, not far from the
barrier of Bercy.
The evening before, at ten o'clock, the Chourineur
was punctual to the appointment which Rodolph had
fixed with him. The result of this narrative will in-
form our readers of the particulars of the meeting. It
was twelve o'clock, and the rain fell in torrents ; the
Seine, swollen by perpetual falls of rain, had risen very
high, and overflowed a part of the quay. Rodolph
looked from time to time, with a gesture of impatience,
towards the barrier, and at last observed a man and
woman, who were coming towards him under the shelter
of an umbrella, and whom he recognised as the Chouette
and the Schoolmaster.
These two individuals were completely metamor-
phosed. The ruffian had laid aside his ragged garments
and his air of brutal ferocity. He wore a long frock
coat of green cloth, and a round hat ; whilst his shirt
and cravat were remarkable for their whiteness. But
for the hideousness of his features and the fierce glance
of his eyes, always restless and suspicious, this fellow
might have been taken, by his quiet and steady step,
for an honest citizen.
The Chouette was also in her Sunday costume, wear-
137
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
ing a large shawl of fine wool, with a large pattern, and
held in her hand a capacious basket.
The rain hoving ceased for the moment, Rodolph,
overcoming a sensation of disgust, went to meet the
frightful pair. For the slang of the tapis-franc the
Schoolmaster now substituted a style almost polished,
and which betokened a cultivated mind, in strange con-
trast with his real character and crimes. When Rodolph
approached, the brigand made him a polite bow, and the
Chouette curtseyed respectfully.
" Sir, your humble servant," said the Schoolmaster.
" I am delighted to pay my respects to you delighted
or, rather, to renew our acquaintance ; for the night
before last you paid me two blows of the fist which were
enough to have felled a rhinoceros. But not a word of
that now ; it was a joke on your part, I am sure,
merely done in jest. Let us not say another word about
it, for serious business brings us now together. I saw
the Chourineur yesterday, about eleven o'clock, at the
tapis-franc^ and appointed to meet him here to-day, in
case he chose to join us, to be our fellow labourer;
but it seems that he most decidedly refuses."
" You, then, accept the proposal ? "
'^ Your name, sir, if you be so good?"
" Rodolph."
" M. Rodolph, we will go into the Panier-Fleuri, nei-
ther myself nor madame has breakfasted, and we will
talk over our little matters whilst we are taking a crust."
" Most willingly."
" We can talk as we go on. You and the Chourineur
certainly do owe some satisfaction to my wife and myself,
you have caused us to lose more than two thousand
francs. Chouette had a meeting near St. Ouen with
the tall gentleman in mourning, who came to ask for you
at the tapis-franc. He offered us two thousand francs
to do something to you. The Chourineur has told me
all about this. But, Finette," said the fellow, " go and
138
THE RENDEZVOUS.
select a room at the Panier-Fleuri, and order breakfast,
some cutlets, a piece of veal, a salad, and a couple of
bottles of vin de beaune, the best quality, and we
will join you there."
The Chouette, who had not taken her eye off Rodolph
for a moment, went off after exchanging looks with the
Schoolmaster, who then said :
" I say, M. Rodolph, that the Chourineur has edified
me on the subject of the two thousand francs."
" What do you mean by edified you ? "
" You are right, the language is a little too refined
for you. I would say that the Chourineur nearly told
me all that the tall gentleman in mourning, with his two
thousand francs, required."
" Good."
" Not so good, young man ; for the Chourineur, hav-
ing yesterday morning met the Chouette, near St. Ouen,
did not leave her for one moment, when the tall gentle-
man in mourning came up, so that he could not approach
and converse with her. You, then, ought to put us in
the way of regaining our two thousand francs."
" Nothing easier ; but let us ' hark back.* I had pro-
posed a glorious job to the Chourineur, which he at first
accepted, but afterwards refused to go on with."
" He always had very peculiar ideas."
" But whilst he refused he observed to me "
" He made you observe "
" Oh, diable ! You are very grand with your gram-
mar."
" It is my profession, as a schoolmaster."
" He made me, then, observe, that if he would not go
on this 'lay,' he did not desire to discourage any other
person, and that you would willingly lend a hand in the
affair."
" May I, without impertinence, ask why you appointed
a meeting with the Chourineur at St. Ouen yesterday,
which gave him the advantage of meeting the Chouette ?
139
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
He was too much puzzled at my question to give me a
clear answer."
Rodolph bit his lips imperceptibly, and replied, shrug-
ging his shoulders :
" Very likely ; for I only told him half my plan, you
must know, not knowing if he had made up his mind."
" That was very proper."
" The more so as I had two strings to my bow."
" You are a careful man. You met the Chourineur,
then, at St. Ouen, for "
Rodolph, after a moment's hesitation, had the good
luck to think of a story which would account for the
want of address which the Chourineur had displayed,
and said :
" Why, this it is. The attempt I propose is a famous
one, because the person in question is in the country ;
all my fear was that he should return to Paris. To
make sure, I went to Pierrefitte, where his country-
house is situated, and there I learned that he would not
be back again until the day after to-morrow."
" Well, but to return to my question ; why did you
appoint to meet the Chourineur at St. Ouen ? "
" Why, you are not so bright as I took you for. How
far is it from Pierrefitte to St. Ouen ? "
" About a league."
" And from St. Ouen to Paris ? "
" As much."
"Well, if I had not found any one at Pierrefitte,
that is, if there had been an empty house there, why,
there also would have been a good job ; not so good as
in Paris, but still well worth having. I went back to
the Chourineur, who was waiting for me at St. Ouen.
We should have returned then to Pierrefitte, by a cross-
path which I know, and "
" I understand. If, on the contrary, the job was to be
done in Paris ? "
" We should have gained the Barrier de I'Etoile by
140
THE RENDEZVOUS.
the road of the Rivolte, and thence to the AU^e des
Veuves "
"Is but a step; that is plain enough. At St. Ouen
you were well placed for either operation, that was
clear ; and now I can understand why the Chourineur
was at St. Ouen. So the house in the AU^e des Veuves
will be uninhabited until the day after to-morrow ? "
" Uninhabited, except the porter."
" I see. And is it a profitable job ?"
" Sixty thousand francs in gold in the proprietor's
cabinet."
" And you know all the ways ? "
" Perfectly."
" Silence, here we are ; not a word before the vulgar.
I do not know if you feel as I do, but the morning air
has given me an appetite."
The Chouette was awaiting them at the door.
" This way ; this way," she said. " I have ordered
our breakfast."
Rodolph wished the brigand to pass in first, for certain
reasons ; but the Schoolmaster insisted on showing so
much politeness, that Rodolph entered before him. Be-
fore he sat down, the Schoolmaster tapped lightly against
each of the divisions of the wainscot, that he might
ascertain their thickness and power of transmitting
sounds.
" We need not be afraid to speak out," said he ; " the
division is not thin. We shall have our breakfast soon,
and shall not be disturbed in our conversation."
A waiter brought in the breakfast, and before he shut
the door Rodolph saw the charcoal-man, Murphy, seated
with great composure at a table in a room close at
hand.
The room in which the scene took place that we are
describing was long and narrow, lighted by one window,
which looked into the street, and was opposite to the
door. The Chouette turned her back to this window,
141
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
whilst the Schoolmaster was at one side of the table,
and Rodolph on the other.
When the servant left the room, the brigand got up,
took his plate, and seated himself beside Rodolph and
between him and the door.
" We can talk better," he said, " and need not talk so
loud."
"And then you can prevent me from going out,"
replied Rodolph, calmly.
The Schoolmaster gave a nod in the affirmative, and
then, half drawing out of the pocket of his frock coafc a
stiletto, round and as thick as a goose's quill, with
a handle of wood which disappeared in the grasp of his
hairy fingers, said :
" You see that ? "
" I do."
"Advice to amateurs!" And bringing his shaggy
brows together, by a frown which made his wide and flat
forehead closely resemble a tiger's, he made a significant
gesture.
" And you may believe me," added the Chouette, " I
have made the tool sharp."
Rodolph, with perfect coolness, put his hand under
his blouse, and took out a double-barrelled pistol, which
he showed to the Schoolmaster, and then put into his
pocket.
" All right ; and now we understand each other ; but
do not misunderstand me, I am only alluding to an im-
possibility. If they try to arrest me, and you have laid
any trap for me, I will make ' cold meat ' of you."
And he gave a fierce look at Rodolph.
" And I will spring upon him and help you, fourline^^
cried the Chouette.
Rodolph made no reply, but shrugged his shoulders,
and, pouring out a glass of wine, tossed it ofP. His cool-
ness deceived the Schoolmaster.
" I only put you on your guard."
142
THE RENDEZVOUS.
"Well, then, put up your Marding-pin ' into your
pocket; you have no chicken to lard now. I am an old
cock, and know my game as well as most," said Rodolph.
" But, to our business."
" Yes, let us talk of business ; but do not speak against
my ' larding-pin ; ' it makes no noise, and does not dis-
turb anybody."
" And does its work as should be ; doesn't it, fourline ^ "
added the old beldam.
" By the way," said Rodolph to the Chouette, " do
you really know the Goualeuse's parents ? "
" My man has in his pocket two letters about it, but
she shall never see them, the little slut I I would
rather tear her eyes out with my own hands. Oh, when
I meet her again at the tapis-franc, won't I pay her
off "
" There, that'll do, Finette ; we have other things to
talk of, and so leave off your gossip."
" May we ' patter ' before the ' mot ? ' " asked Rodolph.
" Most decidedly ! She's true as steel, and is worth
her weight in gold to watch for us, to get information
or impressions of keys, to conceal stolen goods or sell
them, nothing comes amiss to her. She is a first-rate
manager. Good Finette ! " added the robber, extending
his hand to the horrid hag. " You can have no idea of
the services she has done me. Take off your shawl,
Finette, or you'll be cold when you go out ; put it on the
chair with your basket."
The Chouette took off her shawl.
In spite of his presence of mind, and the command
which he had over himself, Rodolph could not quite con-
ceal his surprise when he saw suspended by a ring of
silver, from a thick chain of metal which hung round
the old creature's neck, a small Saint Esprit in lapis
lazuli, precisely resembling that which the son of
Madame Georges had round his neck when he was
carried off.
143
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
At this discovery, a sudden idea flashed across the
mind of Rodolph. According to the Chourineur's state-
ment, the Schoolmaster had escaped from the Bagne six
months ago, and had since defied all search after him
by disfiguring himself as he had now ; and six months
ago the husband of Madame Georges had disappeared
from the Bagne. Rodolph surmised that, very possibly,
the Schoolmaster was the husband of that unhappy lady.
If this were so, he knew the fate of the son she lamented,
he possessed, too, some papers relative to the birth of
the Goualeuse. Rodolph had, then, fresh motives for
persevering in his projects, and, fortunately, his absence
of mind was not observed by the Schoolmaster, who was
busy helping the Chouette.
''Morbleuf What a pretty chain you have!" said
Rodolph to the one-eyed woman.
" Pretty, and not dear," answered the old creature,
laughing. " It is only a sham till my man can afford to
give me a real one."
" That will depend on this gentleman, Finette. If
our job comes off well, why then "
" It is astonishing how well it is imitated," continued
Rodolph. " And what is that little blue thing at the
end?"
" It is a present from my man, which I shall wear
until he gives me a 'ticker.' Isn't it^ fourline ^ ^^
Rodolph's suspicions were thus half confirmed, and
he waited with anxiety for the reply of the Schoolmas-
ter, who said :
"You must take care of that, notwithstanding the
' ticker,' Finette ; it is a talisman, and brings good luck."
" A talisman ! " said Rodolph, in a careless tone ; " do
you believe in talismans ? And where the devil did you
pick it up ? Give me the address of the shop."
" They do not make them now ; the shop is shut up.
As you see it, that bit of jewelry has a very great an-
tiquity, three generations. I value it highly, for it is a
144
THE RENDEZVOUS.
family loom," added he, with a hideous grin ; " and
that's why I gave it to Finettc, that she might have good
fortune in the enterprises in which she so skilfully sec-
onds me. Only see her at work ! only see her ! If we
go into ' business ' together, why But let us now to
our affair in hand. You say that in the Allee des
Veuves "
" At No. 17 there is a house inhabited by a rich man,
whose name is "
" I will not be guilty of the indiscretion of asking his
name. You say there are sixty thousand francs in gold
in a cabinet w
" Sixty thousand francs in gold 1 " exclaimed the
Chouette.
Rodolph nodded his head in the affirmative.
" And you know this house, and the people in it ? ''
said the Schoolmaster.
" Quite well."
" Is the entry difficult ? "
" A wall seven feet high on the side of the All^e des
Veuves, a garden, windows down to the ground, and the
house has only the ground floor throughout."
" And there is only the porter to guard this treasure ? "
" Yes."
" And what, young man, is your proposed plan of
proceeding ? "
" Simple enough : to climb over the wall, pick the
lock of the door, or force open a shutter or lock. What
do you think of it ? "
" I cannot answer you before I have examined it all
myself, that is, by the aid of my wife ; but, if all you
tell me is as you say, I think it would be the thing to
do it at once this evening."
And the ruffian looked earnestly at Rodolph.
" This evening ! impossible ! " replied he.
" Why, since the occupier does not return until the
day after to-morrow ? "
145
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Yes, but I I cannot this evening '*
" Really ? Well, and I I cannot to-morrow."
" Why not ? "
" For the reason that prevents you this evening," said
the robber, in a tone of mockery.
After a moment's reflection, Rodolph replied :
" Well, then, this evening be it. Where shall we
meet?"
" We will not separate," said the Schoolmaster.
"Why not?"
"Why should we?"
" What is the use of separating ? The weather has
cleared up, and we will go and walk about, and give a
look at the All^e des Yeuves; you will see how my
woman will work. When that is done, we will return
and play a hand at piquet, and have a bit of something
in a place in the Champs Elys^es that I know, near
the river; and, as the Allde des Yeuves is deserted
at an early hour, we will walk that way about ten
o'clock."
" I will join you at nine o'clock."
" Do you or do you not wish that we should do this
job together ? "
" I do wish it."
" Well, then, we do not separate before evening, or
else "
"Or else?"
" I shall think that you are making * a plant ' for
me, and that's the reason you wish to part company
now."
" If I wished to set the ' traps ' after you, what is to
prevent my doing so this evening ? "
" Why, everything. You did not expect that I
should propose the affair to you so soon, and if you do
not leave us you cannot put anybody up to it."
" You mistrust me, then ? "
* Most extremely. But as what you propose may be
146
THE RENDEZVOUS.
quite true and honest, and the half of sixty thousand
francs is worth a risk, I am willing to try for it ; but
this evening, or never ; if never, I shall have my suspi-
cions of you confirmed, and one day or other I will take
care and let you dine off a dish of my cooking."
" And I will return your compliment, rely on it."
" Oh, this is all stuff and nonsense ! " said the Chou-
ette. " I think w\\h fourline^ to-night or never."
Rodolph was in a state of extreme anxiety ; if he
allowed this opportunity to escape of laying hands on
the Schoolmaster, he might never again light on him.
The ruffian would ever afterwards be on his guard, or
if recognised, apprehended, and taken back to the
Bagne, would carry with him that secret which Rodolph
had so much interest in discovering. Confiding in his
address and courage, and trusting to chance, he said to
the Schoolmaster :
" Agreed, then ; and we will not part company before
evening."
" Then Fm your man. It is now two o'clock ; it is
some distance from here to the All^e des Veuves ; it
is raining again in torrents ; let us pay the reckoning and
take a coach."
" If we have a coach, I should like first to smoke a
cigar."
" Why not ? " said the Schoolmaster. " Finette does
not mind the smell of tobacco."
" Well, then, Til go and fetch some cigars," said
Rodolph, rising.
"Pray don't give yourself that trouble," said the
Schoolmaster, stopping him ; " Finette will go."
Rodolph resumed his seat. The Schoolmaster had
penetrated his design. The Chouette went out.
" What a clever manager I have, haven't I ? " said
the ruffian ; " and so tractable, she would throw herself
into the fire for me."
"Apropos of fire, it is not overwarm here," replied
147
THE MYSTERIES OF PARTS.
Rodolph, placing both his hands under his blouse ; and
then, continuing his conversation with the Schoolmaster,
he took out a lead-pencil and a morsel of paper, which
he had in his waistcoat pocket, without being detected,
and wrote some words hastily, taking care to make his
letters wide apart, so that they might be more legible ;
for he wrote under his blouse, and without seeing what
he wrote.
This note escaped the penetration of the Schoolmas-
ter ; the next thing was to enable it to reach its
address.
Rodolph rose and went listlessly towards the window,
and began to hum a tune between his teeth, accompany-
ing himself on the window glasses.
The Schoolmaster came up to the window and said to
Rodolph :
" What tune are you playing ? "
" I am playing ' Tu 71* auras pas ma rose.^ "
"And a very pretty tune it is. I should like to know
if it would have the effect of making any of the
passers-by turn round ? "
" I had no such intention."
" You are wrong, young man ; for you are playing the
tambourine on that pane of glass with all your might.
But I was thinking, the porter of this house in the
Allee des Veuves is perhaps a stout fellow ; if he resists,
you have only your pistol, which is a noisy weapon,
whilst a tool like this (and he showed Rodolph the
handle of his poniard) makes no noise, and does not
disturb anybody."
" Do you mean, then, to assassinate him ? " exclaimed
Rodolph. " If you have any such intention, let us give
up the job altogether ; I will have no hand in it, so
don't rely on me "
"But if he wakes?"
" We will take to our heels. "
" Well, just as you like ; only it is better to come to
148
THE RENDEZVOUS.
a clear understanding beforehand. So, then, ours is
simply a mere robbery with forcible entry "
" Nothing more."
"That's very silly and* contemptible; but so be it."
" And as I will not leave you for a second," thought
Rodolph, " I will prevent you from shedding blood."
149
CHAPTER XIII.
PREPARATIONS.
The Chouette returned to the room, bringing the
cigars with her.
" I don't think it rains now," said Rodolph, lighting
his cigar. " Suppose we go and fetch the coach our-
selves, it will stretch our legs."
" What ! not rain ! " replied the Schoolmaster ; " are
you blind ? Do you think I will expose Finette to the
chance of catching cold, and exposing her precious life,
and spoiling her new shawl ? "
" You are right, old fellow ; it rains cats and dogs.
Let the servant come and we can pay him, and desire
him to fetch us a coach," replied Rodolph.
" That's the mo^t sensible thing you have said yet,
young fellow ; we may go and look about as we seek the
All^e des Yeuves."
The servant entered, and Rodolph gave her five francs.
" Ah, sir, it is really an imposition, I cannot allow
it," exclaimed the Schoolmaster.
" Oh, all right ; your turn next time."
" Be it so, but on condition that I shall offer you some-
thing, by and by, in a little cabaret in the Champs
Elysdes, a capital little snuggery that I know of."
" Just as you like."
The servant paid, and they left the room.
Rodolph wished to go last, out of politeness to the
Chouette, but the Schoolmaster would not allow it, and
followed close on his heels, watching his every movement.
150
PREPARATIONS.
The master of the house kept a wine-shop also, and
amongst other drinkers, a charcoal-man, with his face
blackened and his large hat flapping over his eyes, was
paying his " shot " at the bar when these three person-
ages appeared. In spite of the close lookout of the
Schoolmaster and the one-eyed hag, Rodolph, who walked
before the hideous pair, exchanged a rapid and unper-
ceived glance with Murphy as he got into the hackney-
coach.
" Which way am I to go, master ?" asked the driver.
Rodolph replied, in a loud voice :
"All^edes "
"Des Acacias, in the Bois de Boulogne," cried the
Schoolmaster, interrupting him. Then he added, " And
we will pay you well, coachman."
The door was shut.
" What the devil made you bawl out which way we
were going before these people ? " said the Schoolmaster.
" If the thing were found out to-morrow, we might be
traced and discovered. Young man, young man, you
are very imprudent ! "
The coach was already in motion. Rodolph answered :
" True ; I did not think of that. But with my cigar
I shall smoke you like herrings ; let us have a window
open."
And, joining the action to the words, Rodolph, with
much dexterity, let fall outside the window the morsel
of paper, folded very small, on which he had hastily
written a few words in pencil under his blouse. The
Schoolmaster's glance was so quick, that, in spite of the
calmness of Rodolph's features, the ruffian detected some
expression of triumph, for, putting his head out of the
window, he called out to the driver :
" Whip behind ! whip behind ! there is some one
getting up at the back of the coach ! "
The coach stopped, and the driver, standing on his
seat, looked back, and said :
151
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" No, master, there is no one there."
" Parhleu ! I will look myself," replied the School-
master, jumping out into the street.
Not seeing any person or anything (for since Rodolph
had dropped the paper the coach had gone on several
yards), the Schoolmaster thought he was mistaken.
" You will laugh at me," he said, as he resumed his
seat, " but I don't know why I thought some one was
following us."
The coach at this moment turned round a corner, and
Murphy, who had not lost sight of it with his eyes, and
had seen Rodolph's manoeuvre, ran and picked up the
little note, which had fallen into a crevice between two
of the paving-stones.
At the end of a quarter of an hour the Schoolmaster
said to the driver of the hackney-coach :
" My man, we have changed our minds ; drive to the
Place de la Madelaine."
Rodolph looked at him with astonishment.
" All right, young man ; from hence we may go to a
thousand different places. If they seek to track us here-
after, the deposition of the coachman will not be of the
slightest service to fchem.''
At the moment when the coach was approaching the
barrier, a tall man, clothed in a long white riding-coat,
with his hat drawn over his eyes, and whose complexion
appeared of a deep brown, passed rapidly along the road,
stooping over the neck of a high, splendid hunter, which
trotted with extraordinary speed.
" A good horse and a good rider," said Rodolph, lean-
ing forward to the door of the coach and following
Murphy (for it was he) with his eyes. " What a pace
that stout man goes ! Did you see him ? "
" Ma foi ! he passed so very quickly," said the School-
master, " that I did not remark him."
Rodolph calmly concealed his satisfaction ; Murphy
had, doubtless, deciphered the almost hieroglyphic char-
152
PREPARATIONS.
actcrs of the note which he had dropped, and which had
escaped the vigilance of the Schoohnaster. Certain that
the coach was not followed, he had become more assured,
and desirous of imitating the Chouette, who slept, or
rather pretended to sleep, he said to Rodolph :
" Excuse me, young man, but the motion of the coach
always produces a singular effect on me, it sends me
off to sleep like a child."
The ruffian, under the guise of assumed sleep, thought
to examine whether the physiognomy of his companion
betrayed any emotion ; but Rodolph was on his guard,
and replied:
" I rose so early that I feel sleepy, and will have a
nap, too."
He shut his eyes, and very soon the hard breathing
of the Schoolmaster and the Chouette, who snored in
chorus, so completely deceived Rodolph, that, thinking
his companions sound asleep, he half opened his eyes.
The Schoolmaster and the Chouette, in spite of their
loud snoring, had their eyes open, and were exchanging
some mysterious signs by means of their fingers curiously
placed or bent in the palms of their hands. In an
instant this mute language ceased. The brigand no
doubt perceived, by some almost imperceptible sign, that
Rodolph was not asleep, and said, in a laughing tone :
" Ah, ah, comrade ! what, you were trying your
friends, were you ? "
" That can't astonish you, who sleep with your eyes
open."
" I, who That's different, young man ; I am a
somnambulist."
The hackney-coach stopped in the Place de la Made-
laine. The rain had ceased for a moment, but the
clouds, driven by the violence of the wind, were so dark
and so low, that it was almost night in appearance.
Rodolph, the Chouette, and the Schoolmaster went
towards the Cours la Reine.
153
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Young man, I have an idea, which is not a bad one,"
said the robber.
" What is it ? "
" To ascertain if all that you have told us respecting
the interior of the house in the All^e des Yeuves is true."
" You surely will not go there now, under any cir-
cumstances ? It would awaken suspicion."
" I am not such a flat as that, young fellow ; but why
have I a wife whose name is Finette ? "
The Chouette drew up her head.
" Do you see her, young man ? Why, she looks like
a war-horse when he hears the blast of the trumpet ! "
" You mean to send her as a lookout ? "
" Precisely so."
"No. 17, All^e des Yeuves, isn't it, my man?" cried
the Chouette, impatiently. " Make yourself easy : I
have but one eye, but that is a good one."
" Do you see, young man, do you see she is all
impatience to be at work ? "
" If she manages cleverly to get into the house, I do
not think your idea a bad one."
" Take the umbrella, fourline ; in half an hour I will
be here again, and you shall see what I will do," said
the Chouette.
" One moment, Finette ; we are going down to the
Bleeding Heart, only two steps from here. If the
little Tortillard (cripple) is there, you had better take
him with you ; he will remain outside on the watch
whilst you go inside the house."
" You are right, little Tortillard is as cunning as a
fox ; he is not ten years of age, and yet it was he who
the other day "
A signal from the Schoolmaster interrupted the
Chouette.
" What does the ' Bleeding Heart ' mean ? It is an
odd sign for a cabaret," asked Rodolph.
" Y'ou must complain to the landlord."
154
PREPARATIONS.
" What is his name ? "
" The landlord of the Bleeding Heart?''
" Yes."
" What is that to you ? He never asks the names of
his customers."
"But, still "
" Call him what you like, Peter, Thomas, Chris-
topher, or Barnabas, he will answer to any and all.
But here we are, and it's time we were, for the rain is
coming down again in floods ; and how the river roars !
It has almost become a torrent ! Why, look at it ! Two
more days of such rain, and the water will overflow the
arches of the bridge."
" You say that we are tliere^ but where the devil is
the cabaret ? I do not see any house here."
" Certainly not, if you look round about you."
" Where should I look, then ?"
" At your feet."
" At my feet ? "
" Yes."
" And whereabouts ? "
" Here, look ; do you see the roof ? Mind, and
don't step upon it."
Rodolph had not remarked one of those subterraneans
which used to be seen, some years since, in certain spots
in the Champs Elys^es, and particularly near the Cours
la Reine.
A flight of steps, cut out of the damp and greasy
ground, led to the bottom of this sort of deep -ditch,
against one end of which, cut perpendicularly, leaned
a low, mean, dilapidated hovel ; its roof, covered with
moss-covered tiles, was scarcely so high as the ground
on which Rodolph was standing ; two or three out-
buildings, constructed of worm-eaten planks, serving as
cellar, wood-house, and rabbit-hutches, surrounded this
wretched den.
A narrow path, which extended along this ditch, led
155
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
from the stairs to the door of the hut ; the rest of the
ground was concealed under a mass of trellis-work,
which sheltered two rows of clumsy tables, fastened
to the ground. A worn-out iron sign swung heavily
backwards and forwards on its creaking hinges, and
through the rust that covered it might still be seen
a red heart pierced with an arrow. The sign was
supported by a post erected above this cave, this
real human burrow.
A thick and moist fog was added to the rain as night
approached.
"What think you of this h6tel, young fellow?"
inquired the Schoolmaster.
" Why, thanks to the torrents that have fallen for the
last fortnight, it must be deliciously fresh. But come
on."
" One moment, I wish to know if the landlord is in.
Hark!"
The ruffian then, thrusting his tongue forcibly against
his palate, produced a singular noise, a sort of guttural
sound, loud and lengthened, something like P-r-r-r-r-
r-r-r ! ! ! A similar note came from the depths of the
hovel.
" He's there," said the Schoolmaster. " Pardon me,
young man, respect to the ladies, allow the Chouette
to pass first ; I follow you. Mind how you come, it's
slippery."
166
CHAPTER XIV.
THE BLEEDING HEART.
The landlord of the Bleeding Heart, after having
responded to the signal of the Schoolmaster, advanced
politely to the threshold of his door.
This personage, whom Rodolph had been to see in the
Citd, and whom he did not yet know under his true
name, or, rather, his habitual surname, was Bras Rouge.
Lank, mean-looking, and feeble, this man might be
fifty years of age. His countenance resembled both the
weasel and the rat ; his peaked nose, his receding chin,
his high cheek-bones, his small eyes, black, restless, and
keen, gave his features an indescribable expression of
malice, cunning, and sagacity. An old brown wig, or,
rather, as yellow as his bilious complexion, perched on
the top of his head, showed the nape of the old fellow's
withered neck. He had on a round jacket, and one of
those long black aprons worn by the waiters at the wine
shops.
Our three acquaintances had hardly descended the last
step of the staircase when a child of about ten years of
age, rickety, lame, and somewhat misshapen, came to
rejoin Bras Rouge, whom he resembled in so striking
a manner that there was no mistaking them for father
and son. There was the same quick and cunning look,
joined to that impudent, hardened, and knavish air, which
is peculiar to the scamp (yoyou) of Paris, that fear-
ful type of precocious depravity, that real 'hemp-seed'
(jgraine de hagne)^ as they style it, in the horrible slang
157
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
of the gaol. The forehead of the brat was half lost
beneath a thatch of yellowish locks, as harsh and stiff
as horse-hair. Reddish-coloured trousers and a gray
blouse, confined by a leather girdle, completed Tortil-
lard's costume, whose nickname was derived from his
infirmity. He stood close to his father, standing on
his sound leg like a heron by the side of a marsh.
" Ah, here is the darling one (mdme) ! " said the
Schoolmaster. " Finette, night is coming on, and time
is pressing ; we must profit by the daylight which is left
to us."
"You are right, my man; I will ask the father to
spare his darling."
" Good day, old friend," said Bras Rouge, addressing
the Schoolmaster, in a voice which was cracked, sharp,
and shrill. " What can I do for you ? "
" Why, if you could spare your ' small boy ' to my
mistress for a quarter of an hour, she has lost something
which he could help her to look for."
Bras Rouge winked his eye and made a sign to the
Schoolmaster, and then said to the child :
" Tortillard, go with madame."
The hideous brafc hopped forward and took hold of the
" one-eyed's " hand.
" Love of a bright boy, come along ! There is a
child ! " said Finette. " And how like his father ! He
is not like Pegriotte, who always pretended to have a
pain in her side when she came near me, a little
baggage ! "
" Come, come away ! be off, Finette ! Keep your
weather-eye open, and bright lookout. I await you
here."
" I won't be long. Go first, Tortillard."
The one-eyed hag and the little cripple went up the
slippery steps.
" Finette, take the umbrella," the brigand called out.
"It would be in the way, my man," said the old
158
THE BLEEDING HEART.
woman, who quickly disappeared with Tortillard in the
midst of the fog, which thickened with the twilight, and
the hollow murmur of the wind as it moaned through
the thick and leafless branches of the tall elms in the
Champs Elys^es.
" Let us go in," said Rodolph.
It was requisite to stoop in passing in at the door of
the cabaret, which was divided into two apartments. In
one was a bar and a broken-down billiard-table ; in the
other, tables and garden chairs, which had once been
painted green. Two narrow windows, with their cracked
panes festooned with spiders' webs, cast a dim but not
religious light on the damp walls.
Rodolph was alone for one moment only, during which
Bras Rouge and the Schoolmaster had time to exchange
some words, rapidly uttered, and some mysterious signs.
" You'll take a glass of beer, or brandy, perhaps,
whilst we wait for Finette ? " said the Schoolmaster.
^' No ; I am not thirsty."
" Do as you like, I am for a ' drain ' of brandy,"
said the ruffian ; and he seated himself on one of the
little green tables in the second apartment.
Darkness came on to this den so completely, that it
was impossible to see in one of the angles of this inner
apartment the open mouth of one of those cellars which
are entered by a door in two divisions, one of which was
constantly kept open for the convenience of access. The
table at which the Schoolmaster sat was close upon this
dark and deep hole, and he turned his back upon it, so
that it was entirely concealed from Rodolph's view.
He was looking through the window, in order to com-
mand his countenance and conceal the workings of his
thoughts. The sight of Murphy speeding through the
AU^e des Veuves did not quite assure him ; he was
afraid that the worthy squire had not quite understood
the full meaning of his note, necessarily so laconic, and
containing only these words :
159
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" This evening ten o'clock. Be on your guard."
Resolved not to go to the All^e des Veuves before
tlat moment, nor to lose sight of the Schoolmaster for
an instant, he yet trembled at the idea of losing the only
opportunity that might ever be afforded him of obtaining
that secret which he was so excessively anxious to pos-
sess. Although he was powerful and well armed, yet he
had to deal with an unscrupulous assassin, capable of
any and every thing. Not desiring, however, that his
thoughts should be detected, he seated himself at the
table with the Schoolmaster, and, by way of seeming at
his ease, called for a glass of something. Bras Rouge
having exchanged a few words, in a low tone, with the
brigand, looked at Rodolph with an air in which curi-
osity, distrust, and contempt were mingled.
" It is my advice, young man," said the Schoolmaster,
" that if my wife informs us that the persons we wish to
see are within, we had better make our call about eight
o'clock."
" That will be two hours too soon," said Rodolph ;
" and that will spoil all."
" Do you think so ? "
" I am sure of it."
" Bah ! amongst friends there should be no ceremony."
" I know them well, and I tell you that we must not
think of going before ten o'clock."
" Are you out of your senses, young man ? "
" I give you my opinion, and flevil fetch me if I stir
from here before ten o'clock."
" Don't disturb yourself, I never close my establish
ment before midnight," said Bras Rouge, in his falsetto
voice ; " it is the time when my best customers drop in ;
and my neighbours never complain of the noise which is
made in my house."
" I must agree to all you wish, young man," continued
the Schoolmaster. " Be it so, then ; we will not set out
on our visit until ten o'clock."
160
THE BLEEDING HEART.
" Here is the Chouette ! " said Bras Rouge, hearing
and replying to a warning cry similar to that which the
Schoolmaster had uttered before he descended to the
subterraneous abode.
A minute afterwards the Chouette entered the billiard-
room alone.
" It is all right, my man, I've done the trick ! " cried
the one-eyed hag, as she entered.
Bras Rouge discreetly withdrew, without asking a
word about Tortillard, whom, perhaps, he did not expect
to see return. The beldam sat with her face towards
Rodolph and the brigand.
" Well ? " said the Schoolmaster.
"The young fellow has told us all true, so far."
" Ah ! you see I was right," exclaimed Rodolph.
" Let the Chouette tell her tale, young man. Come,
tell us all about it, Finette."
"I went straight to No. 17, leaving Tortillard on the
lookout and concealed in a corner. It was still day-
light, and I rung at a side door which opens outwards,
and here's about two inches of space between it and the
sill ; nothing else to notice. I rang ; the porter opened.
Before I pulled the bell I had put my bonnet in my
pocket, that I might look like a neighbour. As soon as I
saw the porter I pretended to cry violently, saying that
I had lost a pet parrot, Cocotte, a little darling that I
adored. I told him I lived in the Rue Marbceuf, and
that I had pursued Cocotte from garden to garden, and
entreated him to allow me to enter and try and find the
bird."
" Ah ! " said the Schoolmaster, with an air of proud
satisfaction, pointing to Finette, " what a woman ! "
" Very clever," said Rodolph. " And what then ? "
" The porter allowed me to look for the creature, and
I went trotting all around the garden, calling ' Cocotte !
Cocotte ! ' and looked about me in every direction to scru-
tinise every thing. Inside the walls," continued the horrid
161
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
old hag, going on with her description of the premises,
" inside the walls, trellis-work all around, a perfect
staircase ; at the left-hand corner of the wall a fir-tree,
just like a ladder, a lying-in woman might descend by it.
The house has six windows on the ground floor, and has
no upper story, six small windows without any fasten-
ing. The windows of the ground floor close with shut-
ters, having hooks below and staples in the upper part :
press in the bottom, use your steel file "
" A push," said the Schoolmaster, " and it is open."
The Chouette continued :
" The entrance has a glass door, two Venetian blinds
outside "
" Memorandum," said the rufiian.
" Quite correct ; it is as precise as if we saw it," said
Rodolph.
" On the left," resumed the Chouette, " near the court-
yard, is a well ; the rope may be useful (for at that par-
ticular spot there is no trellis against the wall), in case
retreat should be cut off in the direction of the door.
On entering into the house "
" You got inside the house, then ? Young man, she
got inside the house ! " said the Schoolmaster, with
pride.
" To be sure I got in ! Not finding Cocotte, I had
made so much lamentation that I pretended I was quite
out of breath ; I begged the porter to allow me to sit
down on the step of the door, and he very kindly asked
me to step in, offering me a glass of wine and water.
' A glass of plain water,' I said ; ' plain water only, my
good sir.' Then he made me go into the antechamber,
carpeted all over ; good precaution, footsteps or broken
glass cannot be heard, if we must * mill the glaze ' (break
a pane of glass) ; right and left, doors with sliding bolts,
which open by a gentle push from the top. At the
bottom was a strong door, locked, it looked very like a
money-chest. I had my wax in my basket "
162
THE BLEEDING HEART.
" She had her wax, young man ! She never goes with-
out her wax ! " said the brigand.
The Chouette proceeded :
" It was necessary to approach the door which smelled
so strongly of the cash, so I pretended that I was seized
with a fit of coughing, so violent, that I was compelled
to lean against the wall for support. Hearing me cough,
the porter said, ' I'll fetch you a morsel of sugar to put
in your water.' He probably looked for a spoon, for I
heard plate chink, plate in the room on the left-hand ;
don't forget that, fourline. Well, coughing and wheez-
ing, I reached the door at the bottom, I had my wax
in the palm of my hand. I leaned against the lock as
though accidentally, and here is the impression ; we may
not want it to-day, but another time it may be useful."
And the Chouette gave the brigand a bit of yellow
wax, on which the print of the lock was perfectly im-
pressed.
" You can tell us whether this is the door of the
money-chest," said the Chouette.
" It is, and there is the cash," replied Rodolph ; and
then said to himself, " Has Murphy, then, been the dupe
of this cursed old hag ? Perhaps so, and he only expects
to be assailed at ten o'clock ; by that time every precau-
tion will have been taken."
" But all the money is not there," continued the Chou-
ette, and her one green eye sparkled. " As I approached
the windows, still searching for my darling Cocotte, I saw
in one of the chambers (door on the left) some bags
of crown pieces, in a bureau. I saw them as plainly
as I see you, my man ; there were at least a dozen of
them.''
" Where is Tortillard ? " said the Schoolmaster.
" In his hiding-place, not more than two paces from
the garden. He can see in the dark like a cat. There
is only that one entrance to No. 17, so when we go he
will tell us if any one has come or not."
163
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" That's good "
The Schoohnaster had scarcely uttered these words
than he made a sudden rush at Rodolph, grappled him
by the throat, and flung him violently down the cellar
which was yawning behind the table.
The attack was so rapid, unexpected, and powerful,
that Rodolph could neither foresee nor avoid it. The
Chouette, alarmed, uttered a piercing shriek ; for at the
first moment she had not seen the result of the strug-
gle. When the noise of Rodolph's body rolling down
the steps had ceased, the Schoolmaster, who knew
all the ways and windings of the underground vaults
in the place, went down the stairs slowly, listening as
he went.
'' Fourline, be on your guard," cried the beldam, lean-
ing over the opening of the trap ; " draw your ' pinking
iron.' "
The brigand disappeared without any reply. For a
time nothing was heard, but at the end of a few mo-
ments the distant noise of a door shutting, which
creaked on its rusty hinges, sounded harshly in the
depths of the cavern ; then all was again still as death.
The darkness was complete. The Chouette fumbled in
her basket, and then, producing a lucifer-match, lighted a
wax taper, whose feeble ray made visible the darkness
of this dreary den.
At this moment the monster- visage of the Schoolmas-
ter appeared at the opening of the trap. The Chouette
could not repress an exclamation of horror at the sight
of his ghastly, seamed, mutilated, and fearful face, with
eyes that gleamed like phosphorus, and seemed to glare
on the ground even in the midst of the darkness which
the lighted taper could not entirely dissipate. Having
subdued her feeling of fright, the old hag exclaimed, in
a tone of horrible flattery :
"You must be an awful man,/owrZme, for even I was
frightened ! yes, I ! "
164
THE BLEEDING HEART.
" Quick, quick, for the All(^e des Veuves ! " said the
ruffian, securely closing the double flap of the trap with
a bar of iron. "In another hour, perhaps, it will be too
late. If it is a trap, it is not yet baited ; if it is not,
why, we can do the job alone."
165
CHAPTER XY.
THE VAULT.
Stunned by his horrible fall, Rodolph lay senseless
and motionless at the bottom of the stairs, down which
he had been hurled. The Schoolmaster, dragging him
to the entrance of a second and still deeper cavern,
thrust him into its hideous recesses, and closing and se-
curely bolting a massy iron-shod door, returned to his
worthy confederate, the Chouette, who was waiting to
join him in the proposed robbery (it might be murder)
in the All^e des Veuves.
About the end of an hour Rodolph began, though
slowly, to resume his consciousness. He found himself
extended on the ground, in the midst of thick darkness ;
he extended his hand and touched the stone stairs de-
scending to the vault ; a sensation of extreme cold about
his feet induced him to endeavour, by feeling the ground,
to ascertain the cause : his fingers dabbled in a pool of
water.
With a violent effort he contrived to seat himself on
the lower step of the staircase ; the giddiness arising
from his fall subsided by degrees, and as he became able
to extend his limbs he found, to his great joy, that,
though severely shaken and contused, no bones were
broken. He listened : the only sound that reached his
ear was a low, dull, pattering, but continued noise, of
which he was then far from divining the cause.
As his senses became more clear, so did the circum-
stances, to which he had been the unfortunate victim,
166
THE VAULT.
return to his imagination ; and just as he had recalled
each particular, and was deeply considering the possible
result of the whole, he became aware that his feet were
wholly submerged in water ; it had, indeed, risen above
his ankle.
In the midst of the heavy gloom and deep silence
which surrounded him, he heard still the same dull,
trickling sound he had observed before ; and now the
matter was clear to him. Now, indeed, he compre-
hended all the horrors of his situation : the cave was
filling with water, arising from the fearful and formid-
able overflowing of the Seine, the dungeon in which he
had been thrown was doubtless beneath the level of the
river, and was chosen by his gaolers for that purpose, as
offering a slow though certain means of destruction.
The conviction of his danger recalled Rodolph entirely
to himself. Quick as lightning he made his way up the
damp, slippery stairs ; arrived at the top, he came in
contact with a thick door ; he tried in vain to open it,
its massy hinges resisted his most vigorous efforts to
force them.
At this moment of despair and danger, his first
thought was for Murphy. " If he be not on his guard,
those monsters will murder him ! " cried he. " It will
be I who shall have caused his death, my good, my
faithful Murphy ! " This cruel thought nerved the arm
of Rodolph with fresh vigour, and again he bent his
most powerful energy to endeavour to force the pon-
derous door. Alas ! the thickly plated iron with which
it was covered mocked his utmost efforts ; and sore,
weary, and exhausted, he was compelled to relinquish
the fruitless task. Again he descended into the cave,
in hopes of obtaining something which might serve as a
lever to force the hinges or wrench the fastenings.
Groping against the slimy walls, he felt himself con-
tinually treading on some sort of round elastic bodies,
which appeared to slip from under his feet, and to
167
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
scramble for safety past him. They were rats, driven
by the fast-rising water from their retreats. Groping
about the place on all fours, with the water half way up
his leg, Rodolph felt in all directions for the weapon he
so much desired to find ; nothing but the damp walls
met his touch, however, and, in utter despair, he resumed
his position at the top of the steps, of the thirteen
stairs which composed the flight, three were already
under water.
Thirteen had ever been Rodolph's unlucky number.
There are moments when the strongest minds are under
the influence of superstitious ideas, and, at this juncture,
Rodolph viewed the fatal amount of stairs as an ill
augury. Again the possible fate of Murphy recurred
to him, and, as if inspired by a fresh hope, he eagerly
felt around the door to discover some slight chink, or
opening, by which his cries for help might be heard.
In vain ; the dampness of the soil had swollen the
wood, and joined it hermetically to the wet, slimy
earth.
Rodolph next tried the powers of his voice, and
shouted with the fullest e'.pansion of his lungs, trust-
ing that his cries for assistance might reach the ad-
joining cabaret; and then, tired and exhausted, sat
down to listen. Nothing was to be heard, no sound
disturbed the deep silence which reigned, but the drop,
drop, drop, the dull, trickling, monotonous bubbling of
the fast-increasing waters.
His last hope extinguished, Rodolph seated himself in
gloomy despair, and, leaning his back against the door,
bewailed the perilous situation of his faithful friend,
perhaps at that very moment struggling beneath the
assassin's knife. Bitterly did he then regret his rash
and venturesome projects, however good and generous
the motives by which he had been instigated ; and
severely did he reproach himself for having taken ad-
vantage of the devotion of Murphy, who, rich, honoured,
168
THE VAULT.
and esteemed by all who knew him, had quitted a be-
loved wife and child, to assist Rodolph in the bold
undertaking he had imposed on himself.
During these sorrowful reflections, the water was still
rising rapidly, and five steps only now remained dry.
Rodolph now found himself compelled to assume a
standing position, though, in so doing, his forehead
was brought in close contact with the very top of the
vault. He calculated the probable duration of his
mortal agony, of the period which must elapse ere
this slow, inch-like death would put a period to his
misery ; he bethought him of tlie pistol he carried with
him, and, at the risk of injuring himself in the attempt,
he determined to fire it off against the door, so as to
disturb some of the fastenings by the concussion ; but
here, again, a disappointment awaited him, the pistol
was nowhere to be found, and he could but conclude it
had fallen from his pocket during his struggle with the
Schoolmaster. But for his deep concern on Murphy's
account, Rodolph would have met his death unmoved,
his conscience acquitted him of all intentional of-
fence ; nay, it solaced him with the recollection of
good actually performed, and much more meditated.
To the decrees of an all-wise and inscrutable Providence
he resigned himself, and humbly accepted his present
punishment as the just reward for a criminal action
as yet unexpiated.
A fresh trial of his fortitude awaited him. The rats,
still pursued by the fast-gathering waters, finding no
other means of escape, sought refuge from one step to
another, ascending as fast as the rising flood rendered
their position untenable ; unable to scale the perpen-
dicular walls or doors, they availed themselves of the
vestments of Rodolph, whose horror and disgust rose to
an indescribable degree, as he felt their cold, clammy
paws, and wet, hairy bodies, crawling or clinging to
him ; in his attempts to repulse them, their sharp, cold
169
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
bite inflicted on him a most acute agony, while his
face and hands streamed with blood, from the multi-
tude of wounds received. Again he called for help,
shouted aloud, and almost screamed in his pain and
wretchedness. Alas ! the dull echo of the vault and
the gurgling waters alone replied. A few short mo-
ments, and he would be bereft even of the power of
calling upon God or man to help him ; the rapidly
rising flood had now reached his very throat, and ere
long would have ascended to his lips.
The choked air began, too, to fail in the narrow space
now left it, and the first symptoms of asphyxia began to
oppress Rodolph ; the arteries of his temples beat vio-
lently, his head became giddy, and the faint sickness of
death seemed to make his chest heave convulsively.
Already were the waters gurgling in his ears ; a dizzi-
ness of sight and a confusion of ideas had well-nigh
deprived him of all powers of sight or sound ; the last
glimmer of reason was wellr-nigh shaken from her
throne, when hasty steps and the sound of voices on
the other side of the door were heard.
Hope recalled his expiring strength, and, making one
powerful effort, Rodolph was able to distinguish the
following words, after which ail consciousness forsook
him :
"Did I not tell you so ? There, you see there is no one
here ! "
" Deuce take it 1 no more there is," replied the voice of
the Chourineur, in a tone of vexation and disappoint-
ment. And the sounds died away.
Rodolph, utterly exhausted, had no longer power to
sustain himself ; his limbs sunk from under him, and he
slid unresistingly down the stone steps.
All at once the door of the vault was abruptly opened
from the other side, and the swelling masses contained
in the inner vault, glad to find a further outlet, rushed
onwards as though bursting through the gates of a sluice,
170
THE VAULT.
and the Chourineur, whose opportune return shall be ac-
counted for by and by, seized the two arms of Rodolph,
who, half dead, had mechanically clung to the threshold
of the door, and bore him from the black and rushing
waters which had nigh proved his grave.
171
CHAPTER XVI.
THE SICK -NURSE.
Snatched by the Chourineur from a certain death, and
removed to the house in the All^e des Yeuves which had
been reconnoitred by the Chouette, previously to the at-
tempt on it by the Schoolmaster, Rodolph was placed in
bed, in a comfortably furnished apartment; a cheerful
fire was burning on the hearth. A lamp, placed on a
neighbouring table, diffused a strong, clear light ; while
the bed of Rodolph, shaded by thick curtains of green
damask, remained protected from the glare, and in the
shadow of its deep recess.
A negro of middle stature, with white hair and eye-
brows, wearing an orange and green riband at the button-
hole of his blue coat, sat by the bedside, holding in his
right hand a seconds' watch, which he appeared to con-
sult while counting with his left the beating of Rodoph's
pulse. The expression of the negro's countenance was at
once sad and pensive, and he continued from time to
time to gaze on the sleeping man with the most tender
solicitude.
The Chourineur, clad in rags and soiled with mud,
stood motionless, with folded arms, at the foot of the
bed; his red beard was long and matted, in disorder;
his thick, bushy hair was tangled with mud and wet, which
still dripped from it ; while his hard, bronzed features
were marked by the most profound pity for the patient :
hardly venturing to breathe lest the heaving of his huge
chest should disturb the invalid, he awaited with the most
172
THE SICK -NURSE.
intense anxiety the result of the doctor's observations on
the sick man's state ; then, as though to while away tiie
fearful apprehension of an unfavourable opinion, he con-
tinued to deliver his thoughts aloud, after the following
manner :
" Who would think, now, to see him lying there so
helpless, he could ever have been the man to give me
such a precious drubbing as I got from him ? I dare
say, though, he will soon be up again, well and strong as
ever. Don't you think so, M. le Docteur ? Faith, I only
wish he could drum himself well upon my back ; I'd lend
it him as long as he liked. But, perhaps, that would
shake him too much, and overfatigue him ; would it,
sir ? " addressing the negro, whose only reply was an
impatient wave of the hand.
The Chourineur was instantly silent.
" The draught! " said the doctor.
The Chourineur, who had respectfully left his nailed
shoes at the door, at these words arose, and walked
towards the table indicated by the negro's finger ; going
on the very top of his toes, drawing up his legs, extend-
ing his arms, and swelling out his back and shoulders, in
a manner so ludicrous as, under other circumstances,
would have been highly diverting. The poor fellow
seemed endeavouring to collect his whole weight, so that
no portion of it should touch the floor ; which, in spite of
his energetic efforts to prevent it, groaned beneath his
ponderous limbs as they moved towards the desired spot.
Unfortunately, between his over anxiety to acquit himself
well in his important mission, and his fear of dropping
the delicate phial he was bringing so overcarefully, he
grasped the slight neck so tightly in his huge hand that
it shivered to atoms, and the precious liquid was ex-
pended on the carpet.
At the sight of this unfortunate mischance the Chou-
rineur remained in mute astonishment, one of his huge
legs in the air, his toes nervously contracted, and look-
173
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
ing with a stupefied air alternately from the doctor to
the fragments of the bottle, and from that to the morsel
his thumb and finger were yet tightly holding.
" Awkward devil ! " exclaimed the negro, impatiently.
" Yes, that I am ! " responded the Chourineur, as
though grateful for the sound of a voice to break the
frightful bewilderment of his ideas.
" Ah ! '' cried the ^sculapius, observing the table at-
tentively, " happily you took the wrong phial, I wanted
the other one."
" What, that little one with the red stuff ? " inquired
the unlucky sick-nurse, in a low and humble tone.
" Of course I mean that ; why, there is no other left."
The Chourineur, turning quickly around upon his heels,
after his old military fashion, crushed the fragments of
glass which lay on the carpet beneath his feet. More
delicate ones might have suffered severely from the cir-
cumstance, but the ex-dShardeur had a pair of natural
sandals, hard as the hoofs of a horse.
" Have a care ! " cried the physician. " You will hurt
yourself ! "
To this caution the Chourineur paid no attention, but
seemed wholly absorbed in so discharging his new mission
as should effectually destroy all recollection of his late
clumsiness. It was really beautiful to behold the scrupu-
lous delicacy and lightness of touch with which, spreading
out his two first fingers, he seized the fragile crystal ;
avoiding all use of the unlucky thumb whose undue pres-
sure, he rightly conceived, had brought about his previous
accident, he kept so widely stretched from his forefinger
that a butterfly might have passed between, with outspread
wings, without losing one atom of its golden plumage.
The black doctor trembled lest all this caution should lead
to a second misadventure, but, happily, the phial reached
its destination in safety. As the Chourineur approached
the bed, he again smashed beneath his tread some of the
fallen relics of the former potion.
174
THE SICK -NURSE.
" The deuce take you, man ! Do you want to maim
yourself for life ? "
" Lame myself?" asked the eager nurse.
" Why, yes ; you keep walking upon glass as though
you were trying for it."
" Oh, bless you ! never mind that ; the soles of my feet
are hard as iron ; must be something sharper than glass
could hurt them."
" A teaspoon " said the doctor.
The Chourineur recommenced his Evolutions sylphidi-
ques, and returned with the article required.
After having swallowed a few spoonfuls of the mixture,
Rodolph began to stir in his bed, and faintly moved his
hands.
" Good ! good ! he is recovering from his stupor," said
the doctor, speaking to himself. " That bleeding has
relieved him ; he is now out of danger."
" Saved ? Bravo ! Vive la Charte ! " exclaimed the
Chourineur, in the full burst of his joy.
" Hold your tongue ! and pray be quiet ! " said the
negro, in a tone of command.
" To be sure I will, M. le Mdd^cin."
" His pulse is becoming regular very well, indeed
excellent "
"And that poor friend of M. Rodolph's, body and
bones of me ! when he comes to know that But,
then, luckily "
" Silence ! I say."
" Certainly, M. le Docteur."
'* And sit down."
" But, M. le "
" Sit down, I tell you ! You disturb me, twisting and
fidgeting about m that manner, you distract my atten-
tion. Come, sit down at once, and keep still."
" But, doctor, don't you perceive I am as dirty as a
pile of floating wood just going to be unloaded ? all
slime and wet, you see. I should spoil the furniture."
175
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Then sit down on the ground."
" I should soil the carpet."
" Do what you like, but, for heaven's sake, be quiet!"
said the doctor, in a tone of impatience ; then, throwing
himself into an armchair, he leaned his head upon his
clasped hands, and appeared lost in deep reflection.
After a moment of profound meditation, the Chou-
rineur, less from any need he felt for repose than in
obedience to the doctor's commands, took a chair with
the utmost precaution, turned it upside down with an air
of intense self-satisfaction at having at length devised a
plan to act in strict conformity with the orders received,
and yet avoid all risk of soiling the silken cushion ; hav-
ing laid the back on the ground, he proceeded, after all
manner of delicate arrangements, to take his seat on the
outer rails ; but, unhappily, the Chourineur was entirely
ignorant of the laws of the lever and the equilibrium of
bodies, the chair overbalanced, and the luckless individual
seated thereon, in endeavouring to save himself from fall-
ing, by an involuntary movement caught hold of a small
stand, on which was a tray containing some tea-things.
At the formidable noise caused by so many falling
articles clattering upon the head of the unfortunate cause
of all this discord and havoc, the doctor sprung from his
seat, while Rodolph, awaking with a start, raised himself
on his elbow, looked about him with an anxious and per-
turbed glance, then, passing his hand over his brows, as
though trying to arrange his ideas, he inquired :
" Where is Murphy ? "
" Your royal highness need be under no apprehensions
on his account," answered the negro, respectfully ; " there
is every hope of his recovery."
" Recovery ! He is, then, wounded ? "
" Unhappily, my lord, he is."
" Where is he ? Let me see him ! " And Rodolph
endeavoured to rise, but fell back again, overcome by
weakness and the intense pain he felt from his many
176
THE SICK -NURSE.
and severe contusions. " Since I cannot walk," cried he,
at length, " let me be instantly carried to Murphy, this
moment ! '^
" My lord, he sleeps at present ; it would be highly
dangerous, at this particular juncture, to expose him to
the slightest agitation."
" You are deceiving me, and he is dead ! He has been
murdered! And I I am the wretched cause of it!"
cried Rodolph, in a tone of agony, raising his clasped
hands towards heaven.
" My lord knows that his servant is incapable of a
falsehood. T assert by my honour, that, although severely
wounded. Murphy lives, and that his chance of recovery
is all but certain."
" You say that but to prepare me for more disastrous
tidings ; he lies, doubtless, wounded past all hope ; and
he, my faithful friend, will die ! "
" My lord "
" Yes, you are seeking to deceive me till all is over.
But I will see him, I will judge for myself ; the sight
of a friend cannot be hurtful. Let me be instantly
removed to his chamber."
" Once more, my lord, I pledge my solemn assurance,
that, barring chances not likely to occur. Murphy will
soon be convalescent."
" My dear David, may I indeed believe you ? "
" You may, indeed, my lord."
" Hear me. You know the high opinion I entertain
of your ability and knowledge, and that, from the hour
in which you were attached to my household, you have
possessed my most unbounded confidence, never, for
one instant, have I doubted your great skill and perfect
acquaintance with your profession ; but I conjure you, if
a consultation be necessary "
" My lord, that would have been my first thought,
had I seen the slightest reason for such a step ; but, up
to the present moment, it would be both useless and
177
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
unnecessary. And, besides, I should be somewhat tena-
cious of introducing strangers into the house until I
knew whether your orders of yesterday "
" But how has all this happened ? " said Rodolph, in-
terrupting the black. " Who saved me from drowning
in that horrid cellar ? I have a confused recollection
of having heard the Chourineur's voice there ; was I
mistaken ? "
" Not at all mistaken, my lord. But let the brave
fellow, to whom all praise is due, relate the affair in
which he was the principal actor himself."
" Where is he ? Where is he ? "
The doctor looked about for the recently elected sick-
nurse, and at length found him, thoroughly silenced
and shamed by his late tumble, ensconced behind the
curtains of the bed.
'' Here he is," said the doctor ; " he looks somewhat
shamefaced."
" Come forward, my brave fellow ! " said Rodolph,
extending his hand to his preserver.
The confusion of the poor Chourineur was still further
increased from having, when behind his curtain, heard
the black doctor address Rodolph continually as " my
lord," or " your royal highness."
" Approach, my friend, my deliverer ! " said Ro-
dolph, " and give me your hand."
" I beg pardon, sir, I mean, my lord, no, high-
ness, no "
"Call me M. Rodolph, as you used to do ; I like it
better."
" And so do I, it comes so much easier to one.
But be so good as to excuse my hand ; I have done so
much work lately, that "
" Your hand, I tell you, your hand ! "
Overcome by this kind and persevering command, the
Chourineur timidly extended his black and horny palm,
which Rodolph warmly shook.
. 178
THE SICK -NURSE.
" Now, then, sit down, and tell me all about it, how
you discovered the cellar. But I think I can guess.
The Schoolmaster ? "
" We have him in safety," said the black doctor.
" Yes, he and the Chouette, tied together like two
rolls of tobacco. A pair of pretty creatures they look,
as ever you T^ould wish to see, and, I doubt not, sick
enough of each other's company by this time."
" And my poor Murphy ! What a selfish wretch
must I be to think only of myself! Where is he
wounded, David ?"
" In the right side, my lord ; but, fortunately, towards
the lower false rib."
" Oh, I must have a deep and terrible revenge for
this ! David, I depend upon your assistance."
" My lord knows full well that I am wholly devoted
to him, both body and soul," replied the negro, coldly.
" But how, my noble fellow, were you able to arrive
here in time ? " said Rodolph to the Chourineur.
" Why, if you please, my lor no, sir highness
Rodolph I had better begin by the beginning "
" Quite right. I am listening, go on. But mind,
you are only to call me M. Rodolph."
" Yery well. You know that last night you told me,
after you returned from the country, where you had
gone with poor Goualeuse, ' Try and find the School-
master in the Cit^; tell him you know of a capital
" put-up," that you have refused to join it, but that if he
will take your place he has only to be to-morrow (that's
to-day) at the barrier of Bercy, at the Panier-Fleuri, and
there he will see the man who has " made the plant "
Qqui a nourri le'powpard^y
" Well."
" On leaving you, I pushed on briskly for the Cit^. I
goes to the ogress's, no Schoolmaster; then to the Rue
Saint Eloi ; on to the Rue aux Feves ; then to the
Rue de la Yieille Draperie, couldn't find my man.
179
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
At last I stumbled upon him and that old devil's kin,
Chouette, in the front of Notre Dame, at the shop of a
tailor, who is a ' fence ' ^ and thief ; they were ' sporting the
blunt ' which they had prigged from the tall gentleman
in black, who wanted to do something to you ; they
bought themselves some toggery. The Chouette bar-
gained for a red shawl, an old monster ! I told my
tale to the Schoolmaster and he snapped at it, and said
he would be at the rendezvous accordingly. So far so
good. This morning, according to your orders, I ran
here to bring you the answer. You said to me, ' My
lad, return to-morrow before daybreak ; you must pass
the day in the house, and in the evening you will see
something which will be worth seeing.' You did not
let out more than that, but I was 'fly,' and said to
myself, ' This is a " dodge " to catch the Schoolmaster
to-morrow, by laying a right bait for him. He is a
scoundrel ; he murdered the cattle-dealer, and, as they
say, another person besides, in the Rue du Roule. I see
all about it '"
" My mistake was not to have told you all, my good
fellow ; then this horrible result would not have occurred."
" That was your affair, M. Rodolph ; all that con-
cerned me was to serve you ; for, truth to say, I don't
know how or why, but, as I have told you before, I
feel as if I were your bulldog. But that's enough. I
said, then, ' M. Rodolph pays me for my time, so my
time is his, and I will employ it for him.' Then an
idea strikes me : the Schoolmaster is cunning, he may
suspect a trap. M. Rodolph will propose to him the job
for to-morrow, it is true, but the ' downy cove ' is likely
enough to come to-day and lurk about, and reconnoitre
the ground, and if he is suspicious of M. Rodolph he
will bring some other ' cracksman ' (robber) with him,
and do the trick on his own account. To prevent this,
I said to myself, ' I must go and plant myself somewhere
1 Receiver of stolen goods.
180
THE SICK -NURSE.
where I may get a view of the walls, the garden-gate,
there is no other entrance. If I find a snug corner, as
it rains, I will remain there all day, perhaps all night,
and to-morrow morning I shall be all right and ready to
go to M. Rodolph's.' So I goes to the All^e des Veuves
to place myself, and what should I see but a small
tavern, not ten paces from your door! I entered and
took my seat near the window, in a room on the ground
floor. I called for a quart of drink and a quart of nuts,
saying I expected some friends, a humpbacked man
and a tall woman. I chose them because it would
appear more natural. I was very comfortably seated,
and kept my eye on the door. It rained cats and dogs ;
no one passed ; night came on "
" But," interrupted Rodolph, " why did you not go at
once to my house ? "
" You told me to come the next day morning, M.
Rodolph, and I didn't dare return there sooner ; I should
have looked like an intruder, a sneak (^brosseur^, els
the troopers call it. You understand ? Well, there I
was at the window of the wine-shop, cracking my nuts and
drinking my liquor, when, through the fog, I saw the
Chouette approach, accompanied by Bras Rouge's brat,
little Tortillard. ' Ah, ah ! ' said I to myself, ' now the
farce begins ! ' Well, the little hound of a child hid
himself in one of the ditches of the All^e, and was
evidently on the lookout. As for that , the Chouette,
she takes off her bonnet, puts it into her pocket, and
rings the gate-bell. Our poor friend, M. Murphy, opens
the door, and the one-eyed mother of mischief tosses up
her arms and makes her way into the garden. I could
have kicked myself for not being able to make out what
the Chouette was up to. At last out she comes, puts on
"her bonnet, says two words to Tortillard, who retm'ns to
his hole, and then ' cuts her stick.' I say to myself,
' Caution ! no blunder now ! Tortillard has come with
the Chouette ; then the Schoolmaster and M. Rodolph
181
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
are at Bras Rouge's. The Chouette has come out to
reconnoitre about the house ; then, sure as a gun, they'll
"try it on " this very night ! If they do, M. Rodolph, who
believes they will not go to work till to-morrow, is quite
over-reached ; and if he is over-reached, I ought to go to
Bras Rouge's and see for him. True ; but then suppose
that the Schoolmaster arrives in the meantime, that's
to be thought of. Suppose I go to the house and see
M. Murphy, mind your eye ! that urchin Tortillard is
near the door ; he will hear me ring the bell, see me,
and gi^e the word to the Chouette ; and if she returns,
that will spoil all ; and the more particularly as perhaps
M. Rodolph has, after all, made his arrangements for
this evening.' Confound it ! these yes and no bothered
my brain tremendously. I was quite bewildered, and
saw nothing clear before me. I didn't know what to do
for the best, so I said, ' I'll walk out, and perhaps the
clear air will brighten my thoughts a bit.' I went out, and
the open air cleared my brain; so I took off my blouse
and my neck-handkerchief, I went to the ditch where
Tortillard lay, and taking the young devil's kin by the
cutf of his neck, how he did wriggle, and twist, and
scuffle, and scratch ! I put him into my blouse, tying
up one end with the sleeves and the bottom tightly with
my cravat. He could breathe very well. Well, then I
took the bundle under my arm, and passing a low, damp
garden, surrounded by a little wall, I threw the brat
Tortillard into the midst of a cabbage-bed. He squeaked
like a sucking-pig, but nobody could hear him two steps
off. I cut off; it was time. I climbed up one of the
high trees in the Allee, just in front of your door, and
over the ditch in which Tortillard had been stationed.
Ten minutes afterwards I heard footsteps ; it was raining
still, and the night was very dark. I listened, it was'
the Chouette. ' Tortillard ! Tortillard ! ' says she, in a
low voice. * It rains, and the little brat is tired of wait-
ing,' said the Schoolmaster, swearing ; ' if I catch him,
182
THE SICK -NURSE.
I'll skin him alive ! ' ' Fourline, take care ! ' replied the
Chouette. * Perhaps he has gone to warn us of some-
thing that has happened, maybe, some trap for us.
The young fellow would not make the attempt till ten
o'clock.' ' That's the very reason,' replies the School-
master ; 'it is now only seven o'clock. You saw the
money, nothing venture, nothing have. Give me the
ripping chisel and the jemmy ' "
" What instruments are they ? " asked Rodolph.
" They came from Bras Rouge's. Oh, he has a well-
furnished house ! In a crack the door is opened. ' Stay
where you are,' said the Schoolmaster to the Chouette ;
keep a bright lookout, and give me the signal if you
hear anything.' ' Put your " pinking-iron " in the button-
hole of your waistcoat, that you may have it handy,' said
the old hag. The Schoolmaster entered the garden, and
I instantly, coming down from the tree, fell on the
Chouette. I silenced her with two blows of my fist,
my new style, and she fell without a word. I ran into
the garden, but, thunder and lightning, M. Rodolph ! it
was too late "
" Poor Murphy ! "
" He was struggling on the ground with the School-
master at the entrance, and, although wounded, he held
his voice and made no cry for help. Excellent man ! he
is like a good dog, bites, but doesn't bark. Well, I
went bang, heads or tails, at it, hitting the Schoolmaster
on the shoulder, which was the only place I could at the
moment touch. ' Vive la Charte ! it's I ! ' ' The Chou-
rineur ! ' shouts M. Murphy. ' Ah, villain ! where do
you come from ? ' cries out the Schoolmaster, quite off
his guard at that. ' What's that to you ? ' says I,
fixing one of his legs between my knees, and grasp-
ing his ' fin ' with my other hand ; it was that in which
he held his dagger. ' And M. Rodolph ? ' asked M.
Murphy of me, whilst doing all in his power to aid
me "
183
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Worthy, kind-hearted creature ! " murmured Ro-
dolph, in a tone of deep distress.
" ' I know nothing of him,' says I ; * this scoundrel,
perhaps, has killed him.' And then I went with re-
doubled strength at the Schoolmaster, who tried to stick
me with his larding-pin ; but I lay with my breast on his
arm, and so he only had his fist at liberty. ' You are,
then, quite alone ? ' says I to M. Murphy, whilst we still
struggled desperately with the Schoolmaster. * There
are people close at hand,' he replied ; ' but they did not
hear me cry out.' ' Is it far off ? ' ' They would be
here in ten minutes.' ' Let us call out for help ; there
are passers-by who will come and help us.' ' No, as we
have got him we must hold him here. But I am grow-
ing weak, I am wounded.' ^ Thunder and lightning !
then run and get assistance, if you have strength left ;
I will try and hold him.' M. Murphy then disengaged
himself, and I was alone with the Schoolmaster. I don't
want to brag, but, by Jove ! these were moments when
I was not having a holiday. We were half oil the
ground, half on the bottom step of the flight. I had my
arms round the neck of the villain, my cheek against his
cheek ; and he was puffing like a bull, I heard his teeth
grind. It was dark, it rained pouring ; the lamp left in
the passage lighted us a little. I had twisted one of my
legs around his, but, in spite of that, his loins were so
powerful that he moved himself and me on to the bare
ground. He tried to bite me, but couldn't ; I never felt
so strong. Thunder ! my heart beat, but it was in the
right place. I said, ' I am like a man who is grappling
with a mad dog, to prevent him from fastening on some
passer-by.' ' Let me go, and I will do you no harm,'
said the Schoolmaster, in an exhausted voice. ' What !
a coward ? ' says I to him. So, then, your pluck is in
your strength ? So you wouldn't have stabbed the cattle-
dealer at Poissy, and robbed him, if he had only been as
strong as me, eh ? ' ' No,' says he ; ' but I will kill you
184
THE SICK -NURSE.
as I did him.' And saying that, he made so violent a
heave, and gave so powerful a jerk with his legs at the
same time, that he half threw me over ; if I had not kept
a tight hold of his wrist which held the stiletto, I was
done for. At this moment my left hand was seized with
the cramp, and I was compelled to loosen my hold ; that
nearly spoiled all, and I said to myself, ' I am now un-
dermost and he at top, he'll kill me. Never mind, I had
rather be in my place than his ; M. Rodolph said that I
had heart and honour.' I felt it was all over with me,
and at that moment I saw the Chouette standing close
by us, with her glaring eye and red shawl. Thunder
and lightning ! I thought I had the nightmare. ' Finette,'
cries the Schoolmaster, ' I have let fall the knife ; pick
it up, there, there, under him, and strike him home, in
the back, between the shoulders ; quick ! quick ! ' ' Only
wait, only wait till I find it, till I see it, fourline? And
then the cursed Chouette turned and poked about us,
like an old bird of mischief as she was. At last she
found the dagger and sprung towards it, but as I was
flat on my belly I gave her a kick in the stomach, which
sent her neck over crop ; she got up, and in a desperate
rage. I could do no more ; I still held on and strug-
gled with the Schoolmaster, but he kept giving me such
dreadful blows on my jaw that I was about to let go my
hold, when I saw three or four armed men who came
down the stairs, and M. Murphy, pale as ashes, and with
difficulty supporting himself with the assistance of the
doctor here. They seized hold of the Schoolmaster and
the Chouette, and soon bound them hand and foot.
That was not all, I still wanted M. Rodolph. I sprang
at the Chouette ; remembering the tooth of the poor
dear Goualeuse, I grasped her arm and twisted it, say-
ing, ' Where is M. Rodolph ? ' She bore it well, and
silently. I took a second turn, and then she screeched
out, 'At Bras Rouge's, in the vault at the Bleeding
Heart ! ' All right ! As I went, I meant to take Tortillard
185
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
from his cabbage-bed, as it was on my road. I looked
for him, but only found my blouse, ^ he had gnawed his
way out with his teeth. I reached the Bleeding Heart,
and I laid hold of Bras Rouge. * Where is the young
man who came here this evening with the Schoolmaster ? '
' Don't squeeze so hard, and I'll tell you. They wanted
to play him a trick and shut him up in my cellar ; we'll
go now and let him out.' We went down, but there
was no one to be seen. ' He must have gone out whilst
my back was turned,' says Bras Rouge ; ' you see plain
enough he is not here.' I was going away sad enough,
when, by the light of the lantern, I saw at the bottom of
the cellar another door. I ran towards it and opened
the door, and had, as it were, a pail of water thrown at
me. I saw your two poor arms in the air. I fished
you out and brought you here on my back, as there was
nobody at hand to get a coach. That's all my tale,
M. Rodolph; and I may say, without bragging, that I
am satisfied with myself."
" My man, I owe my life to you ; it is a heavy debt,
but be assured I will pay it. David, will you go and
learn how Murphy is," added Rodolph, " and return
again instantly ? "
The black went out.
" Where is the Schoolmaster, my good fellow ? "
" In another room, with the Chouette. You will send
for the police, M. Rodolph ? "
" No."
" You surely will not let him go ! Ah, M. Rodolph,
none of that nonsensical generosity ! I say again, he is
a mad dog, let the passengers look out ! "
" He will never bite again, be assured."
" Then you are going to shut him up somewhere ?'*
" No ; in half an hour he will leave this house."
" The Schoolmaster ? "
" Yes."
" Without gens-d' armes ? "
186
THE SICK -NURSE.
" Yes."
" He will go out from here, and free ? "
" Free."
" And quite alone ? "
" Quite alone."
" But he will go "
" Wherever he likes," said Rodolph, interrupting the
Chourineur with a meaning smile.
The black returned.
" Well, David, well, and how is Murphy ? "
" He sleeps, my lord," said the doctor, despondingly ;
" his respiration is very difficult."
" Not out of danger ? "
" His case is very critical, my lord ; yet there is hope."
" Oh, Murphy ! vengeance ! vengeance ! " exclaimed
Rodolph, in a tone of concentrated rage. Then he
added, " David, a word "
And he whispered something in the ear of the black.
He started back.
" Do you hesitate ? " said Rodolph. " Yet I have
often suggested this idea to you ; the moment is come to
put it into practice."
" I do not hesitate, my lord ; the suggestion is well
worthy the consideration of the most elevated jurists,
for this punishment is at the same time terrible and yet
fruitful for repentance. In this case it is most applica-
ble. Without enumerating the crimes which have
accumulated to send this wretch to the Bagne for his
life, he has committed three murders, the cattle-dealer.
Murphy, and yourself ; it is in his case justice "
"He will have before him an unlimited horizon for
expiation," added Rodolph. After a moment's silence
he resumed : " And five thousand francs will suffice,
David ? "
" Amply, my lord."
" My good fellow," said Rodolph to the bewildered
Chourineur, " I have two words to say to M. David ; will
187
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
you go into that chamber on the other side, where you
will see a large red pocketbook on a bureau ; open it and
take out five notes of a thousand francs each, and bring
them to me."
" And," inquired the Chourineur, involuntarily, " who
are those five thousand francs for ? "
" For the Schoolmaster. And do you, at the same
time, tell them to bring him in here."
188
CHAPTER XVII
THE PUNISHMENT.
The scene we are about to describe took place in a
room hung with red, and brilliantly lighted. Rodolph,
clothed in a long dressing-gown of black velvet, which
increased the pallor of his features, was seated before a
large table covered with a green cloth. On this table
was the Schoolmaster's pocketbook, the pinchbeck chain
of the Chouette (to which was suspended the little Saint
Esprit of lapis lazuli), the blood-stained stiletto with
which Murphy had been stabbed, the crowbar with which
the door had been forced, and the five notes of a thou-
sand francs each, which the Chourineur had fetched out
of the next apartment.
The negro doctor was seated at one side of the table,
the Chourineur on the other. The Schoolmaster, tightly
bound with cords, and unable to move a limb, was placed
in a large armchair on casters, in the middle of the
salon. The people who had brought in this man had
withdrawn, and Rodolph, the doctor, the Chourineur, and
the assassin were left alone. Rodolph was no longer
out of temper, but calm, sad, and collected ; he was
about to discharge a solemn, self-imposed, and important
duty. The doctor was lost in meditation. The Chou-
rineur felt an indescribable fear ; he could not take his
eyes off Rodolph. The Schoolmaster's countenance was
ghastly ; he was in an agony of fear. The most pro-
found silence reigned within; nothing was heard but
the splash, splash of the rain without, as it fell from the
189
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
roof on to the pavement. Rodolph addressed the School-
master :
" Anselm Duresnel, you have escaped from the Bagne
at Rochefort, where you were condemned for life for
forgery, robbery, and murder ! "
" It's false ! " said the Schoolmaster, in a hollow voice,
and looking about him with his restless and glaring
glance.
" You are Anselm Duresnel, and you murdered and
robbed a cattle-dealer on the road to Poissy "
" It's a lie ! "
" You shall confess it presently."
The scoundrel looked at Rodolph with an air of
astonishment.
" This very night you came here to rob, and you have
stabbed the master of this house "
" It was you who suggested this robbery ! " assuming
an air of assurance. " I was attacked, and I defended
myself."
" The man you stabbed did not attack you, he was
unarmed. True, I did suggest this robbery to you,
I'll tell you why. Last night only, after having robbed
a man and woman :n the Cit^, you offered to kill me for
a thousand francs "
" I heard him," said the Chourineur.
The Schoolmaster darted at him a glance of deadliest
hate.
Rodolph continued :
" You see there was no occasion to tempt you to do
mischief."
" You are not my judge, and I will not answer you
another question."
" I'll tell you why I proposed this robbery to you. I
knew you were a runaway convict, you know the par-
ents of the unfortunate girl, all whose misfortunes have
been caused by your miserable accomplice, the Chouette.
I wished to draw you here by the temptation of a robbery,
190
THE PUNISHMENT.
because this was the only temptation that could avail
with you. Once in my power, I leave you the choice of
being handed over to the hands of justice, which will
make you pay with your head the assassination of the
cattle-dealer "
" It is false ! I did not commit that crime."
" Or of being conducted out of France, under my direc-
tion, to a place of perpetual confinement, where your lot
will be less painful than at the Bagne ; but I will only
allow you this relaxation of punishment on condition
that you give me the information which I desire to ac-
quire. Condemned for life, you have broken away from
your confinement, and by seizing upon you and placing
you hereafter beyond the possibility of doing injury, I
serve society ; and from your confession I may, perhaps,
find the means of restoring to her family a poor creature
much more unfortunate than guilty. This was my first
intention, it was not legal ; but your escape and your
fresh crimes forbid any such course on my part now, and
place you beyond all law. Yesterday, by a remarkable
revelation, I discovered that you are Anselm Duresnel "
" It's false ! I am not called Duresnel."
Rodolph took from the table the chain of the Chouette,
and pointing to the little Saint Esprit of lapis lazuli said,
in a threatening voice :
" Sacrilege ! You have prostituted to an infamous
wretch this holy relic, thrice holy, for your infant boy
had this pious gift from his mother and grandmother ! "
The Schoolmaster, dumfounded at this discovery,
lowered his head and made no response.
"You carried off your child from his mother fifteen
years ago, and you alone possess the secret of his exist-
ence. I had in this an additional motive for laying
hands on you when I had detected who you were. I
seek no revenge for what you have done to me personally,
but to-night you have again shed blood without provoca-
tion. The man you have assassinated came to you in
191
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
full confidence, not suspecting your sanguinary purpose.
He asked you what you wanted : ' Your money or your
life ! ' and you stabbed him with your poniard."
" So M. Murphy said when I first came to his aid,"
said the doctor.
" It's false ! He lied ! "
" Murphy never lies," said Rodolph, calmly. " Your
crimes demand a striking reparation. You came into
this garden forcibly ; you stabbed a man that you
might rob him ; you have committed another murder ;
you ought to die on this spot ; but pity, respect for your
wife and son, they shall save you from the shame of a
scaffold. It will be said that you were killed in a brawl
with weapons in your hand. Prepare, the means for
your punishment are at hand."
Rodolph's countenance was implacable. The School-
master had remarked in the next room two men, armed
with carbines. His name was known ; he thought they
were going to make away with him and bury in the
shade his later crimes, and thus spare his family the
new opprobrium. Like his fellows, this wretch was as
cowardly as he was ferocious. Thinking his hour was
come, he trembled, Lnd cried " Mercy ! "
" No mercy for you," said Rodolph. " If your brains
are not blown out here, the scaffold awaits you "
" I prefer the scaffold, I shall live, at least, two or
three months longer. Why, why should I be punished
at once ? Mercy ! mercy ! "
" But your wife your son they bear your name "
" My name is dishonoured already. If only for eight
days, let me live ! in mercy do ! "
'' Not even that contempt of life which is sometimes
displayed by the greatest criminals ! " said Rodolph, with
disgust.
" Besides, the law forbids any one to take justice into
their own hands," said the Schoolmaster, with assurance.
" The law ! the law ! " exclaimed Rodolph. " Do
192
THE PUNISHMENT.
you dare to invoke the law ? you, who have always lived
in open revolt and constant enmity aj^ainst society ? "
The ruffian bowed his head and made no answer ; then
added, in a more humble tone :
" At least, for pity's sake, spare my life ! "
" Will you tell me where your son is ? "
" Yes, yes, I will tell you all I know."
" Will you tell me who are the parents of the young
girl whose childhood the Chouette made one scene of
torture ? "
" In my pocketbook there are papers which will put
you on the track of the persons who gave her to the
Chouette."
" Where is your son ? "
" Will you let me live ? "
" First make a full confession."
" And then, when I have told you all " said the
Schoolmaster with hesitation.
" You have killed him ! "
" No, no ! I have confided him to one of my accom-
plices, who, when I was apprehended, effected his
escape."
" What did he do with him ? "
" He brought him up, and gave him an education
which fitted him to enter into a banking-house at
Nantes, so that we might get information, manage an
introduction to the banker, and so facilitate our plans.
Although at Rochefort, and preparing for my escape, I
arranged this plan and corresponded in cipher with my
friend "
" Oh, mon Dieu ! his child ! his son ! This man appals
me ! " cried Rodolph, with horror, and hiding his head
between his hands.
" But it was only of forgery that we thought," ex-
claimed the scoundrel ; " and when my son was informed
what was expected of him, he was indignant, told all to
his employer, and quitted Nantes. You will find in my
193
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
pocketbook notes of all the steps taken to discover his
traces. The last place we ascertained he had lived in
was the Rue du Temple, vrhere he was known under the
name of Francois Germain ; the exact address is also in
my pocketbook. You see I do not wish to conceal any-
thing, I have told you everything I know. Now keep
your promise. I only ask you to have me taken into
custody for this "night's robbery."
" And the cattle-merchant at Poissy ? "
" That affair can never be brought to light, there
are no proofs. I own it to you^ in proof of the sincerity
with which I am speaking, but before any other person
I should deny all knowledge of the business."
" You confess it, then, do you ? "
" I was destitute, without the smallest means of liv-
ing, the Chouette instigated me to do it ; but now I
sincerely repent ever having listened to her. I do, in-
deed. Ah ! would you but generously save me from the
hands of justice, I would promise you most solemnly to
forsake all such evil practices for the future."
" Be satisfied, your life shall be spared ; neither will I
deliver you into the hands of the law."
" Do you, then, pardon me ? " exclaimed the School-
master, as though doubting what he heard. " Can it
be? Can you be so generous as to forgive?"
" I both judge you and award your sentence," cried
Rodolph, in a solemn tone. " I will not surrender you to
the power of the laws, because they would condemn you
to the galleys or the scaffold ; and that must not be.
No, for many reasons. The galleys would but open a
fresh field for the development of your brutal strength
and villainy, which would soon be exercised in endeav-
ouring to obtain domination over the guilty or unfortu-
nate beings you would be associated with, to render
yourself a fresh object of horror or of dread ; for even
crime has its ambition, and yours has long consisted in
a preeminence in vicious deeds and monstrous vices,
194
THE PUNISHMENT.
while your iron frame would alike defy the labours of
the oar or the chastisement of those set over you. And
the strongest chains may be broken, the thickest wall
pierced through, steep ramparts have been scaled be-
fore now, and you might one day burst your yoke and
be again let loose upon society, like an infuriated beast,
marking your passage with murder and destruction ; for
none would be safe from your Herculean strength, or
from the sharpness of your knife ; therefore such conse-
quences must be avoided. But since the galleys might
fail to stop your infamous career, how is society to be
preserved from your brutal violence ? The scaffold
comes next in consideration "
" It is my life, then, you seek ! " cried the ruffian.
My life ! Oh, spare it ! "
" Peace, coward ! Hope not that I mean so speedy a
termination to your just punishment. No ; your eager
craving after a wretched existence would prevent you
from suffering the agony of anticipated death, and, far
from dwelling upon the scaffold and the block, your
guilty soul would be filled with schemes of escape and
hopes of pardon ; neither would you believe you were
truly doomed to die till in the very grasp of the execu-
tioner ; and even in that terrible moment it is probable
that, brutalised by terror, you would be a mere mass of
human flesh, offered up by justice as an expiatory offer-
ing to the manes of your victims. That mode of settling
your long and heavy accounts will not half pay the debt.
No ; poor, wretched, trembling craven ! we must devise a
more terrific method of atonement for you. At the
scaffold, I repeat, you would cling to hope while one
breath remained within you ; wretch that you are, you
would dare to hope ! you, who have denied all hope and
mercy to so many unhappy beings ! No, no ! unless you
repent, and that with all your heart, for the misdeeds of
your infamous life, I would (in this world, at least) shut
out from you the faintest glimmer of hope "
195
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" What man is this ? What have I ever done to injure
him ? whence comes he thus to torture me ? where
am I ? " asked the Schoolmaster, in almost incoherent
tones, and nearly frantic with terror.
Rodolph continued :
" If even you could meet death with a man's courage,
I would not have you ascend the scaffold ; for you it
would be merely the arena in which, like many others,
you would make a disgusting display of hardened feroc-
ity ; or, dying as you have lived, exhale your last sigh
with an impious scoff or profane blasphemy. That
must not be permitted. It is a bad example to set be-
fore a gazing crowd the spectacle of a condemned being
making sport of the instrument of death, swaggering
before the executioner, and yielding with an obscene
jest the divine spark infused into man by the breath of
a creating God. To punish the body is easily done ; to
save the soul is the great thing to be laboured for and
desired. ' All sin may be forgiven,' said our blessed
Saviour, but from the tribunal to the scaffold the pas-
sage is too short, time and opportunity are required to
repent and make atonement ; this leisure you shall have.
May God grant thtX you turn it to the right purpose ! "
The Schoolmaster remained utterly bewildered ; for
the first time in his life a vague and confused dread of
something more horrible far than death itself crossed his
guilty mind, he trembled before the suggestions of
his own imagination.
Rodolph went on :
"Anselm Duresnel, I will not sentence you to the
galleys, neither shall you die "
" Then do you intend sending me to hell ? or what are
you going to do with me ? "
" Listen ! " said Rodolph, rising from his seat with an
air of menacing authority. ^' You have wickedly abused
the great bodily strength bestowed upon you, I will par-
alyse that strength ; the strongest have trembled before
196
THE PUNISHMENT.
you, I will make you henceforward shrink in the pres-
ence of the weakest of beings. Assassin ! murderer !
you have plunged God's creatures into eternal night;
your darkness shall commence even in this life. Now
this very hour your punishment shall be proportioned
to your crimes. But," added Rodolph, with an accent
of mournful pity, " the terrible judgment I am about to
pronounce will, at least, leave the future open to your
efforts for pardon and for peace. I should be guilty as
you are were I, in punishing you, to seek only for ven-
geance, just as is my right to demand it ; far from being
unrelenting as death, your sentence shall bring forth
good fruits for hereafter ; far from destroying your soul,
it shall help you to seek its salvation. If, to prevent
you from further violating the commandments of your
Maker, I for ever deprive you of the beauties of this
outer world, if I plunge you into impenetrable dark-
ness, with no other companion than the remembrance of
your crimes, it is that you may incessantly contemplate
their enormity. Yes, separated for ever from this ex-
ternal world, your thoughts must needs revert to yourself,
and your vision dwell internally upon the bygone scenes
of your ill-spent life ; and I am not without hope that
such a mental and constantly presented picture will send
the blush of shame even upon your hardened features,
that your soul, deadened as it now is to every good and
holy impulse, will become softened and tender by repent-
ance. Your language, too, will be changed, and good and
prayerful woids take place of those daring and blasphe-
mous expressions which now disgrace your lips. You are
brutal and overbearing, because you are strong ; you will
become mild and gentle when you are deprived of that
strength. Now your heart scoffs at the very mention of
repentance, but the day will come when, bowed to the
earth with deep contrition, you will bewail your victims
in dust and ashes. You have degraded the intelligence
placed within you by a supreme power, you have re-
197
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
duced it to the brutal instincts of rapine and murder;
from a man formed after the image of his Creator, you
have made yourself a beast of prey: one day, as I trust
and believe, that intelligence will be purified by remorse
and rendered again guiltless through divine expiation.
You, more inhuman than the beast which perisheth,
have trampled on the tender feelings by which even ani-
mals are actuated, you have been the destroyer of your
partner and your offspring. After a long life, entirely
devoted to the expiation of your crimes, you may ven-
ture to implore of the Almighty the great though unmer-
ited happiness of obtaining the pardon of your wife and
son, and dying in their presence."
As Rodolph uttered these last words his voice trem-
bled with emotion, and he was obliged to conclude.
The Schoolmaster's terrors had, during this long dis-
course, entirely yielded to an opinion that he was only
to be subjected to a long lecture on morality, and so
forth, and then discharged upon his own promise of
amendment ; for the many mysterious words uttered by
Rodolph he looked upon as mere vague expressions in-
tended to alarm him, nothing more. Still further
reassured by the mild tone in which Rodolph had ad-
dressed him, the ruffian assumed his usually insolent air
and manner as he said, bursting into a loud and vulgar
laugh :
" Well done, upon my word ! A very good sermon,
and very well spoken ! Only we must recollect where
we leave off in our moral catechism, that ,ve may begin
all right next lesson day. Come, let us have something
lively now. What do you say, master ; will you guess a
charade or two, just to enliven us a bit ? "
Instead of replying, Rodolph addressed the black
doctor :
" Proceed, David ! And if I do wrong, may the
Almighty punish me alone ! "
The negro rang ; two men entered. David pointed
198
THE PUNISHMENT.
to a side door, which opened into an adjoining
closet.
The chair in which the Schoolmaster remained bound,
so as to be incapable of the smallest movement, was
then rolled into the anteroom.
" Are you going to murder me, then ? Mercy ! mercy ! "
shrieked the wretched man, as he was being removed.
" Gag him ! " cried the negro, entering the closet.
Rodolph and the Chourineur were left alone.
" M. Rodolph,'' said the Chourineur, pale and tremb-
ling, " M. Rodolph, what is going to be done ? I never
felt so frightened. Pray speak ; I must be dreaming,
surely. What have they done to the Schoolmaster ?
He does not cry out, all is so silent; it makes me
more fearful still ! "
At this moment David issued from the cabinet ; his
complexion had that livid hue peculiar to the negro
countenance, while his lips were ashy pale.
The men who had conveyed the Schoolmaster into the
closet now replaced him, still bound in his chair, on the
spot he had previously occupied in Rodolph's presence.
" Unbind him, and remove the gag ! " exclaimed
David.
There was a moment of fearful silence while the two
attendants relieved the Schoolmaster of his gag and un-
tied the cords which bound him to the chair. As the
last ligature gave way, he sprang up, his hideous coun-
tenance expressing rage, horror, and alarm. He ad-
vanced one step with extended hands, then, falling back
into the chair, he uttered a cry of unspeakable agony,
and, raising his hands towards the ceiling, exclaimed,
with maddened fury :
" Blind, by heaven ! "
" Give him this pocketbook, David," said Rodolph.
The negro placed a small pocketbook in the trem-
bling hands of the Schoolmaster.
"You will find in that pocketbook wherewithal to
199
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
provide yourself with a home and the means of living
for the remainder of your days. Go, seek out some safe
and solitary dwolling, where, by humble repentance, you
may seek to propitiate an offended God ! You are free !
Go and repent; the Lord is merciful, and his ears are
ever open to such as truly repent."
" Blind ! quite blind ! " repeated the Schoolmaster,
mechanically grasping the pocketbook.
" Open the doors, let him depart ! '' said Rodolph.
" Blind ! blind ! " repeated the bewildered and dis-
comfited ruffian.
" You are free ; you have the means of providing for
yourself ; begone ! "
" And whither am I to go ? " exclaimed he, with the
most unbounded rage. " You have taken away my
sight ; how, then, do I know in which direction to go ?
Call you not this a crime thus to abuse your power over
one unhappily in your hands ? Thus to "
" To abuse my power ! " repeated Rodolph, in a solemn
voice. " And how have you employed the power granted
to you ? How used your superior strength ? "
' Death ! how gladly would I now accept you ! "
cried the wretched man. " To be henceforward at every
one's mercy, to fear the weakest, the smallest object !
a child might now master me ! Gracious God ! what
will become of me ? "
" You have plenty of money."
" It will be taken from me ! " cried the ruffian.
" Mark those words, ' It will be taken from me ! '
See how they fill you with fear and dread ! You have
plundered so many, unmindful of their helpless, destitute
condition, begone ! "
" For the love of God," cried the Schoolmaster, in a
suppliant tone, " let some person lead me forth ! What
will become of me in the streets ? Oh, in mercy kill
me ! take my miserable life ! but do not turn me out
thus wretched, thus helpless ! Kill, for pity's sake, and
200
THE PUNISHMENT.
save me from being crushed beneath the first vehicle 1
encounter ! "
" No ! Live and repent."
" Repent ! " shouted the Schoolmaster, in a fearful
voice. " Never ! I will live for vengeance, for deep
and fearful vengeance ! " And again he threw himself
from the chair, holding his clenched fists in a menacing
attitude towards the ceiling, as though calling upon
Heaven to witness the fixedness of his resolve. In an
instant his step faltered ; he again hesitated, as though
fearful of a thousand dangers.
"Alas! alas! I cannot proceed, I dare not move!
And I, lately so strong and so dreaded by all, look at
me now ! Yet no one pities me, no one cares for me,
no hand is stretched out to help the wretched blind
upon his lonely way ! "
It is impossible to express the stupefaction and alarm
expressed by the countenance of the Chourineur during
this terrible scene. His rough features exhibited the
deepest compassion for his fallen foe, and approaching
Rodolph, he said, in a low tone :
" M. Rodolph, he was an accomplished villain, and
has only got what he richly deserves; he wanted to
murder me a little while ago, too. But he is now blind,
he does not even know how to find his way out of
the house, and he may be crushed to death in the
streets ; may I lead him to some safe place, where, at
least, he may remain quiet for a time ? "
" Nobly said ! " replied Rodolph, kindly pressing the
hand of the Chourineur. " Go, my worthy fellow ! Go
with him, by all means ! "
The Chourineur approached the Schoolmaster and laid
his hand on his shoulder ; the miserable villain started.
" Who touches me ?" asked he, in a husky voice.
" It is I."
" I ? Who ? Who are you, friend or foe ? "
" The Chourineur."
201
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" And you have come to avenge yourself now you find
I am incapable of protecting myself, I suppose ? "
" Nothing of the sort. Here, take my arm ; you can-
not find the way out by yourself; let me lead you
there "
" You, Chourineur ? You ! "
" Yes, for all you doubt it ; but you vex me by not
seeming to like my help. Come, hold tight by me ; I
will see you all right before I leave you."
" Are you quite sure you do not mean me some harm ?
that you are only laying a trap to ensnare me ? "
" I am not such a scoundrel as to take advantage of
your misfortune. But let us begone. Come on, old
fellow ; it will be daylight directly."
" Day ! which I shall never more behold ! Day and
night to me are henceforward all the same ! " exclaimed
the Schoolmaster, in such piteous tones that Rodolph,
unable longer to endure this scene, abruptly retired,
followed by David, who first dismissed his two assistants.
The Chourineur and the Schoolmaster remained alone.
After a lengthened silence the latter spoke first, by in-
quiring whether it were really true that the pocketbook
presented to him contained money.
"Yes, I can positively speak to its containing five
thousand francs," replied the Chourineur, " since I put
them in it with my own hand. With that sum you
could easily place yourself to board with some quiet,
good sort of people, who would look to you, in some
retired spot in the country, where you might pass your
days happily. Or would you like me to take you to the
ogress's?"
" She ! she would not leave me a rap."
" Well, then, will you go to Bras Rouge ?"
" No, no ! He would poison me first and rob me
afterwards."
" Well, then, where shall I take you ? "
"I know not. Happily for both, you are no thief,
202
THE PUNISHMENT.
Chourineur. Here, take my pockctbook, and conceal it
carefully in my waistcoat, that La Chouette may not see
it ; she would plunder me of every sou."
" Oh, bless you ! the Chouette is quite safe just now ;
she lies in the HOpital Beaujon. While I was strug-
gling with you both to-night I happened to dislocate her
leg, so she's obliged to lie up for the present."
" But what, in heaven's name, shall I do with this
black curtain continually before my eyes ? In vain I
try to push it away ; it is still there, fixed, immovable ;
and on its surface I see the pale, ghastly features of
those "
He shuddered, and said in a low, hoarse voice, " Chou-
rineur, did I quite do for that man last night ? "
" No."
" So much the better," observed the robber. And
then, after some minutes' silence, he exclaimed, under
a fresh impulse of ungovernable fury, "And it is you I
have to thank for all this ! Rascal ! scoundrel ! I hate
you ! But for you, I should have ' stiffened ' my man and
walked off with his money. My very blindness I owe to
you ; my curses upon you for your meddling interfer-
ence ! But through you I should have had my blessed
eyes to see my own way with. How do I know what
devil's trick you are planning at this moment ? "
" Try to forget all that is past, it can't be helped
now ; and do not put yourself in such a terrible way,
it is really very bad for you. Come, come along now,
no nonsense will you ? yes or no ? because I am
regularly done up, and must get a short snooze some-
where. I can tell you I have had a bellyful of such
doings, and to-morrow I shall get back to my timber-
pile, and earn an honest dinner before I eat it. I am
only waiting to take you wherever you decide upon
going, and then on goes my nightcap and I goes to
sleep."
" But how can I tell you where to take me, when I do
203
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
not know myself ? My lodging No, no, that will not
do ; I should be obliged to tell "
" Well, then, hark ye. Will you, for a day or two,
make shift with my crib ? I may meet with some de-
cent sort of people, who, not knowing who you really
are, would receive you as a boarder ; and we might say
you were a confirmed invalid, and required great care
and perfect retirement. Now I think of it, there is a
person of my acquaintance, living at Port St. Nicolas,
has a mother, a very worthy woman, but in humble
circumstances, residing at St. Mand^ : very likely she
would be glad to take charge of. you. What do you say,
will you come or not ? "
" One may trust you, Chourineur. I am not at all
fearful of going, money and all, to your place ; happily
you have kept yourself honest, amidst all the evil ex-
ample others have set you."
" Ay, and even bore the taunts and jests you used
to heap upon me, because I would not turn prig like
yourself."
" Alas ! who could foresee ? "
"Now, you see, if I had listened to you, instead of
trying to be of real service to you, I should clean you
out of all your cash."
" True, true. But you are a downright good fellow,
and have neither malice nor hatred in your heart," said
the unhappy Schoolmaster, in a tone of deep dejection
and humility. " You are a vast deal better to me
than, I fear, I should have been to you under the same
circumstances."
" I believe you, too. Why, M. Rodolph himself told
me I had both heart and honour."
" But who the devil is this M. Rodolph ? " exclaimed
the Schoolmaster, breaking out fresh at the mention
of his name. " He is not a man ; he is a monster, a
fiend, a "
" Hold, hold ! " cried the Chourineur. " Now you are
204
THE PUNISHMENT.
going to have another fit, which is bad for you and very-
disagreeable to me, because it makes you abuse my
friends. Come, are you ready ? Shall we set forth on
our journey ? "
" We are going to your lodging, are we not, Chou-
rineur ? "
" Yes, yes, if you are agreeable."
" And you swear to me that you bear me no ill-will
for the events of the last twelve houi-s ? "
" Swear it ? Of course I swear it. Why, I have no
ill-will against you nor anybody."
" And you are certain that he (the man, I mean) is
not dead ? "
" I am as sure of it as that I am living myself."
"That will at least give me one crime the less to
answer for. If they only knew And that little old
man of the Rue du Roule and that woman of the
Canal St. Martin But it is useless thinking of all
those things now ; I have enough to occupy my thoughts
without trying to recall past misfortunes. Blind !
blind ! " repeated the miserable wretch, as, leaning on
the arm of the Chourineur, he slowly took his depar=
ture from the house in the All^e des Veuves.
205
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE ISLE -ADAM.
A MONTH has elapsed since the occurrence of the
events we have just narrated. We now conduct the
reader into the little town of the Isle-Adam, situated in
a delightful locality on the banks of the Oise, and at
the foot of a forest.
The least things become great events in the country ;
and so the idlers of Isle- Adam, who were on the morn-
ing before us walking in the square before the church,
were very anxiously bestirring themselves to learn when
the individual would arrive who had recently become the
purchaser of the most eligible premises for a butcher in
that town, and which were exactly opposite to the church.
One of those idlers, more inquisitive than his compan-
ions, went and asked the butcher-boy, who, with a merry
face and active hands, was very busy in completing the
arrangements of the shop. This lad replied that he did
not know who was the new proprietor, for he had bought
the property through an agent. At this moment two
persons, who had come from Paris in a cabriolet,
alighted at the door of the shop.
The one was Murphy, quite cured of his wound, and
the other the Chourineur. At the risk of repeating a
vulgar saying, we will assert that the impression pro-
duced by dress is so powerful, that the guest of the
" cribs " of the Cit^ was hardly to be recognised in his
present attire. His countenance had undergone the
same change ; he had put off, with his rags, his savage,
206
THE ISLE- AD AM.
coarse, and vulgar air; and to see him walk with both
his hands in the pockets of his long and warm coat of
dark broadcloth, he might have been taken for one
of the most inoffensive citizens in the world.
" 'Faith, my fine fellow, the way was long and the
cold excessive ; were they not ? "
" Why, I really did not perceive it, M. Murphy ; I am
too happy, and joy keeps one warm. Besides, when I
say happy, why "
" What ? "
" Yesterday you came to seek for me at the Port St.
Nicolas, where I was unloading as hard as I could to
keep myself warm. I had not seen you since the night
when the white-haired negro had put out the School-
master's eyes. By Jove ! it quite shook me, that affair
did. And M. Rodolph, what a countenance ! he who
looked so mild and gentle ! I was quite frightened at
that moment ; I was, indeed "
"Well, what then?"
" You said to me, ' Good day, Chourineur.' ' Good
day, M. Murphy,' says I. ' What, you are up again, I
see ! So much the better, so much the better. And
M. Rodolph ? ' ' He was obliged to leave Paris some
days after the affair of the All^e des Veuves, and he
forgot you, my man.' ' Well, M. Murphy, I can only
say that if M. Rodolph has forgotten me, why I shall
be very sorry for it, that's all.' ' I meant to say, my
good fellow, that he had forgotten to recompense your
services, but that he should always remember them.'
So, M. Murphy, those words cheered me up again di-
rectly. Tonnerre! I I shall never forget him. He
told me I had heart and honour, that's enough."
" Unfortunately, my lad, monseigneur left without
giving any orders about you. I have nothing but what
monseigneur gives me, and I am unable to repay as I
could wish all that I owe you personally."
" Come, come, M. Murphy, you are jesting with me."
207
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" But why the devil did you not come back again to
the All^e des Veuves after that fatal night? Then
monseigneur wculd not have left without thinking of
you."
" Why, M. Rodolph did not tell me to do so, and I
thought that perhaps he had no further occasion for
me."
" But you might have supposed that he would, at
least, desire to express his gratitude to you."
" Did you not tell me that M. Rodolph has not forgot-
ten me, M. Murphy?"
"Well, well, don't let us say another word about
it; only I have had a great deal of trouble to find
you out. You do not now go to the ogress's?"
" No."
"Why not?"
" Oh, from some foolish notions I have had."
" Very well. But to return to what you were tell-
ing me "
"To what, M. Murphy?"
"You told me, I am glad I have found you, and
still happy, perhaps "
" Oh, yes, M. Murphy ! Why, you see, when you
came to where I was at work at the timber-yard, you
said, ' My lad, I am not rich, but I can procure you a
situation where your work will be easier than on the
Quai, and where you will gain four francs a day.' Four
francs a day ! Vive la Charte ! I could not believe it ;
'twas the pay of an adjutant sub-officer! I replied,
' That's the very thing for me, M. Murphy ! ' but you
said then that I must not look so like a beggar, as that
would frighten the employer to whom you would take
me. I answered, ' I have not the means of dressing
otherwise.' You said to me, ^ Come to the Temple.' I
followed you. I chose the most spicy attire that Mother
Hubart had, you advanced me the money to pay her,
and in a quarter of an hour I was as smart as a land-
208
THE ISLE -ADAM.
lord or a dentist. You appointed me to meet you this
morning at the Porte St. Denis, at daybreak ; I found
you there in a cab, and here we are.''
" Well, do you find anything to regret in all this ? "
" Why, I'll tell you, M. Murphy. You see, to be
dressed in this way spoils a fellow ; and so, you see,
when I put on again my old smock-frock and trousers, I
sha'n't like it. And then, to gain four francs a day,
I, who never earned but two, and that all at once !
why, I seem to have made too great a start all of a
sudden, and that it cannot last. I would rather sleep
all my life on the wretched straw bed in my cock-loft,
than sleep five or six nights only in a good bed. That's
my view of the thing."
" And you are by no means peculiar in your view ;
but the best thing is to sleep always in a good bed."
" And no mistake ; it is better to have a bellyful of
victuals every day than to starve with hunger. Ah !
here is a butchery here," said the Chourineur, as he
listened to the blows of the chopper which the boy was
using, and observed the quarters of beef through the
curtains.
" Yes, my lad ; it belongs to a friend of mine.
Would you like to see it whilst the horse just recovers
his wind ? "
" I really should, for it reminds me of my boyish
days, if it was only when I had Montfaugon for a
slaughter-house and broken-down horses for cattle. It
is droll, but if I had the means, a butcher's is the trade
in which I should set up, for I like it. To go on a
good nag to buy cattle at fairs, to return home to
one's own fireside, to warm yourself if cold, or dry
yourself if wet, to find your housekeeper, or a good,
jolly, plump wife, cheerful and pleasant, with a parcel
of children to feel in your pockets to see if you have
brought them home anything! And then, in the
morning, in the slaughter-house, to seize an ox by the
209
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
horns, particularly when he's fierce, nom de nom ! he
must be fierce ! then to put on the ring, to cleave
him down, cut him up, dress him, Tonnerre ! that
would have been my ambition, as it was the Goua-
leuse's to suck barley-sugar when she was a little 'un.
By the way, that poor girl, M. Murphy, not seeing
her any more at the ogress's, I supposed that M.
Rodolph had taken her away from there. That's a
good action, M. Murphy. Poor child ! she never liked
to do wrong, she was so young ! And then the habit !
Ah, M. Rodolph has behaved quite right ! "
" I am of your opinion. But will you come into the
shop until our horse has rested awhile ? "
The Chourineur and Murphy entered the shop, and
then went to see the yard, where three splendid oxen
and a score of sheep were fastened up ; they then visited
the stable, the chaise-house, the slaughter-house, the
lofts, and the out-buildings of the house, which were
all in excellent order, and kept with a cleanliness and
care which bespoke regularity and easy circumstances.
When they had seen all but the up-stairs. Murphy
said:
" You must own that my friend is a lucky fellow.
This house and property are his, without counting a
thousand crowns in hand to carry on his business with ;
and he is, besides, only thirty-eight, strong as a bull,
with an iron constitution, and very fond of his busi-
ness. The industrious and civil journeyman that you
saw in the shop supplies his place, with much capa-
bility, when he goes to the fairs to purchase cattle.
I say again, is he not a lucky fellow?"
" He is, indeed, M. Murphy. But, you see, there
are lucky and unlucky people ; and when I think that
I am going to gain four francs a day, and know how
many there are who only earn the half, or even
less "
" Will you come up and see the rest of the house ? "
210
THE ISLE -ADAM.
" With all my heart, M. Murphy.'*
" The person who is about to employ you is up-
stairs."
" The person who is going to employ me ? "
" Yes."
" Why, then, didn't you tell me that before ? "
"I'll tell you "
" One moment," said the Chourineur, with a down-
cast and embarrassed air, taking Murphy by the arm ;
" listen whilst I say a word to you, which perhaps
M. Rodolph did not tell you, but which I ought not to
conceal from the master who employs me, because,
if he is offended by it why then, you see why,
afterwards "
" What do you mean to say ? "
" I mean to say "
" Weil, what ? "
" That I am a convict, who has served his time,
that I have been at the Bagne," said Chourineur, in
a low voice.
" Indeed ! " replied Murphy.
" But I never did wrong to any one," exclaimed
the Chourineur ; "and I would sooner die of hunger
than rob ; but I have done worse than rob," he added,
bending his head down ; " I have killed my fellow
creature in a passion. But that is not all," he contin-
ued, after a moment's pause. '*I will tell everything
to my employer; I would rather be refused at first
than detected afterwards. You know him, and if you
think he would refuse me, why, spare me the refusal,
and I will go as I came."
" Come along with me," said Murphy.
The Chourineur followed Murphy up the staircase ;
a door opened, and they were both in the presence of
Rodolph.
" My good Murphy," said he, " leave us together
awhile."
211
CHAPTER XIX.
RECOMPENSE.
" Vive la Charte ! " cried the Chourineur. " How
precious glad I am to see you again, M. Rodolph or,
rather, my lord ! "
" Good day, my excellent friend. I am equally glad
to see you."
" Oh, what a joker M. Murphy is ! He told me you
had gone away. But stay, my lord "
'' Call me M. Rodolph ; I like that best."
*' Well, then, M. Rodolph, I have to ask your pardon
for not having been to see you after the night with the
Schoolmaster. I see now that I was guilty of a great
rudeness ; but I do not suppose that you had any desire
to see me ? "
" I forgive you," said Rodolph, smiling ; and then
added, " Murphy has shown you all over the house ? "
" Yes, M, Rodolph ; and a fine house and fine shop it
is, all so neat and so comfortable ! Talking of comfor-
table, I am the man that will be so, M. Rodolph I M.
Murphy is going to put me in the way of earning four
francs a day, yes, four francs a day ! "
" I have something better than that to propose to you,
my good fellow."
" Better ! It's unpolite to contradict you, but I think
that would be difficult. Four francs a day ! "
" I tell you I have something better : for this house,
all that it contains, the shop, and a thousand crowns
which are in this pocketbook, all are yours."
21'^
RECOMPENSE.
The Chourineur smiled with a stupid air, flattened his
long-napped hat between his knees, and squeezed it con-
vulsively, evidently not understanding what Rodolph said
to him, although his language was plain enough.
Rodolph, with much kindness, said to him :
" I can imagine your surprise ; but I again repeat, this
house and this money are yours, they are your prop-
erty."
The Chourineur became purple, passed his horny hand
over his brow, which was bathed with perspiration, and
stammered out, in a faltering voice :
" What ! eh ! that is indeed my property ! "
" Yes, your property ; for I bestow it all upon you.
Do you understand ? I give it to you."
The Chourineur rocked backwards and forwards on his
chair, scratched his head, coughed, looked down on the
ground, and made no reply. He felt that the thread of
his ideas had escaped him. He heard quite well what
Rodolph said to him, and that was the very reason he
could not credit what he heard. Between the depth of
misery, the degradation in which he had always existed,
and the position in which Rodolph now placed him, there
was an abyss so wide that the service he had rendered to
Rodolph, important as it was, could not fill it up.
"Does what I give you, then, seem beyond your
hopes ? " inquired Rodolph.
" My lord," said the Chourineur, starting up suddenly,
" you offer me this house and a great deal of money,
to tempt me ; but I cannot take them ; I never robbed in
my life. It is, perhaps, to kill ; but I have too often
dreamed of the sergeant," added he, in a hoarse tone.
" Oh, the unfortunate ! " exclaimed Rodolph, with bitter-
ness. " The compassion evinced for them is so rare, that
they can only explain liberality as a temptation to
crime ! "
Then addressing the Chourineur, in a voice full of
gentleness :
213
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" You judge me wrong, you mistake : I shall require
from you nothing but what is honourable. What I give
you, I give because you have deserved it.''
" I," said the Chourineur, whose embarrassments re-
commenced, " I deserve it ! How ? "
" I will tell you. Abandoned from your infancy,
without any knowledge of right or wrong, left to your
natural instinct, shut up for fifteen years in the Bagne
with the most desperate villains, assailed by want and
wretchedness, compelled by your own disgrace, and the
opinion of honest men, to continue to haunt the low dens
infested by the vilest malefactors, you have not only
remained honest, but remorse for your crime has out-
lived the expiation which human justice had inflicted
upon you."
This simple and noble language was a new source
of astonishment for the Chourineur ; he contemplated
Rodolph with respect, mingled with fear and gratitude,
but was still unable to convince himself that all he
heard was reality.
" What, M. Rodolph, because you beat me, because,
thinking you a workman, like myself, because you spoke
* slang ' as if you had learned it from the cradle, I told
you my history over two bottles of wine, and afterwards
I saved you from being drowned, you give me a house
money I shall be master ! Say really, M. Rodolph,
once more, is it possible ? "
" Believing me like yourself, you told me your history
naturally and without concealment, without withholding
either what was culpable or generous. I have judged
you, and judged you well, and I have resolved to recom-
pense you."
" But, M. Rodolph, it ought not to be ; there are poor
labourers who have been honest all their lives, and
who "
" I know it, and it may be 1 have done for many
others more than I am doing for you ; but, if the man
214
RECOMPENSE.
who lives honestly in the midst of honest men, encour-
aged by their esteem, deserves assistance and support,
he who, in spite of the aversion of good men, remains
honest amidst the most infamous associates on earth,
he, too, deserves assistance and support. This is not
all ; you saved my life, you saved the life of
Murphy, the dearest friend I have ; and what I do
for you is as much the dictate of personal gratitude
as it is the desire to withdraw from pollution a good
and generous nature, which has been perverted, but not
destroyed. And that is not all."
" What else have I done, M. Rodolph ? "
Rodolph took his hand, and, shaking it heartily,
said :
"Filled with commiseration for the mischief which
had befallen the very man who had tried just before
to kill you, you even gave him an asylum in your
humble dwelling, No. 9, close to Notre Dame."
" You knew, then, where I lived, M. Rodolph ? "
" If you forget the services you have done to me, I do
not. When you left my house you were followed,
and were seen to enter there with the Schoolmaster."
" But M. Murphy told me that you did not know
where I lived, M. Rodolph."
" I was desirous of trying you still further ; I wished
to know if you had disinterestedness in your generosity,
and I found that, after your courageous conduct, you
returned to your hard daily labour, asking nothing,
hoping for nothing, not even uttering a word of re-
proach for the apparent ingratitude with which I repaid
your services ; and when Murphy yesterday proposed to
you employment a little more profitable than that of
your habitual toil, you accepted it with joy, with
gratitude."
" Why, M. Rodolph, do you see, sir, four francs a day
are always four francs a day. As to the service I ren-
dered you, why, it is rather I who ought to thank you."
215
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
How so ? "
" Yes, yes, M. Rodolph," he added, with a saddened
air, " I do not forget thai, since I knew you, it was you
who said to me those two words, ' You have both heart
and honour ! ' It is astonishing how I have thought of
that. They are only two little words, and yet those two
words had that effect. But, in truth, sow two small
grains of anything in the soil, and they will put forth
shoots."
This comparison, just and almost poetical as it was,
struck Rodolph. In sooth, two words, but two magic
words for the heart that understood them, had almost
suddenly developed the generous instincts which were
inherent in this energetic nature.
" You placed the Schoolmaster at St. Mand^ ? " said
Rodolph.
" Yes, M. Rodolph. He made me change his notes
for gold, and buy a belt, which I sewed round his body,
and in which I put his ' mopuses ; ' and then, good day !
He boards for thirty sous a day with good people, to
whom that sum is of much service. When I have time
to leave my wood-piles, I shall go and see how he gets
on."
" Your wood-piles ! You forget your shop, and that
you are here at home ! "
" Come, M. Rodolph, do not amuse yourself by jesting
with a poor devil like me ; you have had your fun in
' proving ' me, as you term it. My house and my shop are
songs to the same tune. You said to yourself, ' Let us
see if this Chourineur is such a gulpin as to believe that
I will make him such a present.' Enough, enough, M.
Rodolph ; you are a wag, and there's an end of the
matter."
And he laughed long, loud, and heartily.
" But, once more, believe "
" If I were to believe you, then you would say, ' Poor
Chourineur ! go ! you are a trouble to me now.' "
216
RECOMPENSE.
Rodolph began to be really troubled how to convince
the Chourineur, and said in a solemn, impressive, and
almost severe tone :
" I never make sport of the gratitude and sympathy
with which noble conduct inspires me. I have said this
house and this establishment are yours, if they suit you,
for the bargain is conditional. I swear to you, on my
honour, all this belongs to you ; and I make you a
present of it, for the reasons I have already given."
The dignified and firm tone, and the serious expres-
sion of the features of Rodolph, at length convinced the
Chourineur. For some moments he looked at his pro-
tector in silence, and then said, in a voice of deep
emotion :
" I believe you, my lord, and I thank you much. A
poor man like me cannot make fine speeches, but once
more, indeed, on my word, I thank you very much. All
I can say is, that I will never refuse assistance to the
unhappy ; because Hunger and Misery are ogresses of the
same sort as those who laid hands on the poor Goualeuse ;
and, once in that sink, it is not every one that has the
fist strong enough to pull you out again."
' My worthy fellow, you cannot prove your gratitude
more than in speaking to me thus."
" So much the better, my lord ; for else I should have
a hard job to prove it."
" Come, now, let us visit your house ; my good old
Murphy has had the pleasure, and I should like it
also."
Rodolph and the Chourineur came down-stairs. At
the moment they reached the yard, the shopman, address-
ing the Chourineur, said to him, respectfully :
" Since you, sir, are to be my master, I beg to tell you
that our custom is capital. We have no more cutlets or
legs of mutton left, and we must kill a sheep or two
directly."
^'Parhleu!^^ said Rodolph to the Chourineur; "here
217
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
is a capital opportunity for exercising your skill. I
should like to have the first sample, the open air has
given me an appotite, and I will taste your cutlets."
" You are very kind, M. Rodolph," said the Chouri-
neur, in a cheerful voice ; " you flatter me, but I will do
my best."
" Shall I bring two sheep to the slaughter-house, mas-
ter ? " asked the journeyman.
" Yes ; and bring a well-sharpened knife, not too thin
in the blade, and strong in the back."
" I have just what you want, master. There, you
could shave with it. Take it "
" Tonnerre, M. Rodolph ! " said the Chourineur, taking
off his upper coat with haste, and turning up his shirt-
sleeves, which displayed a pair of arms like a prize-fight-
er's ; " this reminds me of my boyish days and the
slaughter-house. You shall see how I handle a knife !
Nom de nom ! I wish I was at it. The knife, lad ! the
knife ! That's it ; I see you know your trade. This is
a blade ! Who will have it ? Tonnerre ! with a tool like
this I could face a wild bull."
And the Chourineur brandished his knife, his eyes
began to fill with blood ; the beast was regaining the
mastery ; the instinct and thirst for blood reappeared in
all the fullness of their fearful predominance.
The butchery was in the yard, a vaulted, dark place,
paved with stones, and lighted by a small, narrow
opening at the top.
The man drove one of the sheep to the door.
" Shall I fasten him to the ring, master ? "
" Fasten him ! Tonnerre ! and I with my knees at lib-
erty ? Oh, no ; I will hold him here as fast as if in a
vice. Give me the beast, and go back to the shop."
The journeyman obeyed. Rodolph was left alone with
the Chourineur, and watched him attentively, almost
anxiously.
" Now, then, to work ! " said he.
218
RECOMPENSE.
" Oh, I sha'n't be long. Tonnerre ! you shall see how
I handle a knife ! My hands burn, and I have a singing
in my ears ; my temples beat, as they used when I was
going to ' see red.' Come here, thou Ah, Madelon ! let
me stab you dead ! "
Then his eyes sparkled with a fierce delight, and, no
longer conscious of the presence of Rodolph, the Chou-
rineur lifted the sheep without an effort ; with one spring
he carried it off as a wolf would do, bounding towards
his lair with his prey.
Rodolph followed him, and leaned on one of the wings
of the door, which he closed. The butchery was dark ;
one strong ray of light, falling straight down, lighted up,
d la Rembrandt, the rugged features of the Chourineur,
his light hair, and his red whiskers. Stooping low, hold-
ing in his teeth a long knife, which glittered in the
" darkness visible," he drew the sheep between his legs,
and, when he had adjusted it, took it by the head,
stretched out its neck, and cut its throat.
At the instant when the sheep felt the keen blade, it
gave one gentle, low, and pitiful bleat, and, raising its
dying eyes to the Chourineur, two spurts of blood jetted
forth into the face of its slayer. The cry, the look, the
blood that spouted out, made a fearful impression on
the man. His knife fell from his hands ; his features
grew livid, contracted, and horrible, beneath the blood
that covered them ; his eyes expanded, his hair stif-
fened; and then retreating, with a gesture of horror,
he cried, in a suffocating voice, " Oh, the sergeant ! the
sergeant ! "
Rodolph hastened to him : " Recover yourself, my
good fellow!"
" There ! there ! the sergeant ! " repeated the Chou-
rineur, retreating step by step, with his eyes fixed and
haggard, and pointing with his finger as if at some invis-
ible phantom. Then uttering a fearful cry, as if the
spectre had touched him, he rushed to the bottom of the
219
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
butchery, into the darkest corner ; and there, with his
face, breast, and arms against the wall, as if he would
break through it to escape from so horrible a vision, he
repeated, in a hollow and convulsive tone, "Oh, the
sergeant! the sergeant! the sergeant!"
220
CHAPTER XX.
THE DEPARTURE.
Thanks to the care of Murphy and Rodolph, who with
difficulty calmed his agitation, the Chourineur was com-
pletely restored to himself, and was alone with the prince
in one of the rooms on the first floor in the house.
" My lord," said he, despondingly, " you have heen
very kind, indeed, to me ; but, hear me : I would rather
be a thousand times more wretched than I have yet been
than become a butcher."
" Yet reflect a little."
" Why, my lord, when I heard the cry of the poor
animal which could not make the slightest resistance ;
when I felt its blood spring into my face, hot blood,
which seemed as coming from a living thing ; you can-
not imagine what I felt ; then I had my dream all over
again, the sergeant and those poor young fellows whom
I cut and stabbed, who made no defence, and died giving
me a look so gentle, so gentle that they seemed as if they
pitied me ! My lord, it would drive me mad ! "
And the poor fellow hid his face in his hands with a
convulsive start.
" Come, come, calm yourself."
" Excuse me, my lord ; but just now the sight of blood
of a knife I could not bear ; at every instant it
would renew those dreams which I was beginning to
forget. To have every day my hands and feet in blood,
to cut the throats of poor animals who do not so much
as make a struggle oh, no, no! I could not for the
221
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
world. I would rather lose my eyesight at once, like
the Schoolmaster, than be compelled to follow such a
business."
It is impossible to depict the energetic gesture, action,
and countenance of the Chourineur, as he thus expressed
himself. Rodolph was deeply affected by it, and satisfied
with the horrible effect which the sight of the blood
had caused to his prot^g^.
For a moment the savage feeling, the bloodthirsty in-
stinct, had overcome the human being in the Chourineur ;
but remorse eventually overwhelmed the instinct. That
was as it should be, and it was a fine lesson.
" Forgive me, my lord," said the Chourineur, in a fal-
tering voice ; " I make but a bad recompense for all your
kindness to me, but "
" Not at all, my good fellow ; I told you that our bar-
gain was conditional. I selected for you the business of
a butcher, because your inclinations and taste seemed to
lie in that direction "
" Alas ! my lord, that's true ; and, had it not been for
what you know of, that would have been the trade of all
others I should have chosen. I was only saying so to
M. Murphy a little while since."
" As it was just possible that your taste did not lie
that way, I have thought of another arrangement for you.
A person who has a large tract of property at Algiers
will give me up, for you, one of the extensive farms he
holds in that country. The lands belonging to it are
very fertile, and in full bearing ; but I will not conceal
from you, this estate is situated on the boundaries of the
Atlas mountains, that is, near the outposts, and exposed
to the frequent attacks of the Arabs, and one must be as
much of a soldier as a husbandman : it is, at the same
time, a redoubt and a farm. The man who occupies
this dwelling in the absence of the proprietor wiU ex-
plain everything to you ; they say he is honest and faith-
ful, and you may retain him there as long as you like.
222
THE DEPARTURE.
Once established there, you will not only increase your
means by your labour and ability, but render a real ser-
vice to your country by your courage. The colonists
have formed a militia, and the extent of your property,
the number of your tenants who will depend on you, will
make you the chief of a very considerable troop. Headed
by your courage, this band may be extremely useful in
protecting the properties which are throughout the plain.
I repeat to you, that this prospect for you would please
me very much, in spite of, or, rather, in consequence of the
danger ; because you could at the same time display your
natural intrepidity ; and because, having thus expiated,
and, as I may say, ransomed yourself from a great crime,
your restitution to society would be more noble, more
complete, more heroic, if it were worked out, in the
midst of perils in an unconquered clime, than in the
midst of the quiet inhabitants of a little town. If I did
not first offer you this, it was because it was probable
that the other would suit you, and the latter is so hazard-
ous that I would not expose you to it without giving you
the choice. There is still time, and, if this proposition
for Algiers does not suit you, tell me so frankly, and we
will look out for something else ; if not, to-morrow every-
thing shall be signed, and you will start for Algiers with
a person commissioned by the former proprietor of the
farm to put you in full possession. Two years' rent will
be due, and paid to you on your arrival. The land yields
three thousand francs a year : work, improve it, be active,
vigilant, and you will soon increase your comfort and
the security of the colonists, whom you will aid and assist
I am sure, for you will always be charitable and gener-
ous ; and remember, too, to be rich implies that we
should give much away. Although separated from you,
I shall not lose sight of you, and never forget that I and
my best friend owe our lives to you. The only proof of
attachment and gratitude I ask, is to learn to write and
read as quickly as you can, that you may inform me
223
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
regularly, once a week, what you do, and to address
yourself to me direct if you need any advice or assist-
ance."
It is useless to describe the extreme delight of the
Chourineur. His disposition, his instincts, are already
sufficiently known to the reader, so that he may under-
stand that no proposal could have been made more
acceptable to him.
Next day all was arranged, and the Chourineur set out
for Algiers,
224
CHAPTER XXI.
RESEARCHES.
Tee house which Rodolph had in the A\\6e des Yeuves
was not his usual place of residence ; he lived in one of
the largest mansions in the Faubourg St. Germain, situ-
ated at the end of the Rue Plumet and the Boulevard
des Invalides.
To avoid the honours due to his sovereign rank, the
prince had preserved his incognito since his arrival in
Paris, his charge d'affaires at the court of France having
announced that his master would pay his official and in-
dispensable visits under the name and title of the Count
de Duren. Thanks to this usage (a very common one in
the Northern courts), a prince may travel with as much
liberty as pleasure, and escape all the bore of ceremonious
introductions. In spite of his slight incognito, Rodolph
kept up in his mansion full state and etiquette. We will
introduce the reader into the hOtel of the Rue Plumet,
the day after the Chourineur had started for Algiers.
The clock had just struck ten, a. m. In the middle of
a large salon on the ground floor and which formed the
antechamber to Rodolph's business chamber. Murphy was
seated before a bureau, and sealing several despatches.
A groom of the chambers, dressed in black and wearing
a silver chain around his neck, opened the folding-doors
and announced :
" His Excellency M. le Baron de Graiin."
Murphy, vnthout ceasing from his employment, received
the baron with a nod at once cordial and familiar.
225
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" M. le Charge d' Affaires," said he, smiling, " will
you warm yourself at the fire ? I will be at your service
in one moment."
" M. the Private Secretary, I await your leisure,"
replied M. de Graiin, gaily, and making, with mock re-
spect, a low and respectful bow to the worthy squire.
The baron was about fifty years of age, with hair
gray, thin, and lightly curled and powdered. His chin,
rather projecting, was partly concealed in a high cravat
of white muslin, starched very stiffly, and of unimpeach-
able whiteness. His countenance was expressive of
great intelligence, and his carriage was distinguS ; whilst
beneath his gold spectacles there beamed an eye as
shrewd as it was penetrating. Although it was only ten
o'clock in the morning, M. de Graiin wore a black coat,
that was etiquette, and a riband, shot wdth several
bright colours, was suspended from his buttonhole. He
placed his hat on a chair and took his station near the
fireplace, whilst Murphy continued his work.
" His royal highness, no doubt, was up the best part
of the night, my dear Murphy, for your correspondence
appears considerable ? "
" Monseigneur went to bed at six o'clock this morn-
ing. He wrote, amongst other letters, one of eight pages
to the Grand Marshal, and dictated to me one equally
long to the Chief of the Upper Council, the Prince
Herkhaiisen-Oldenzaal, his royal highness's cousin."
" You know that his son. Prince Henry, has entered
as lieutenant in the guards in the service of his Majesty
the Emperor of Austria ? "
" Yes ; monseigneur recommended him most warmly
as his relation ; and he really is a fine, excellent young
man, handsome as an angel, and as good as gold."
" The fact is, my dear Murphy, that if the young
Prince Henry had had his entree to the grand ducal
abbey of Ste. Hermenegilde, of which his aunt is the
superior, the poor nuns "
226
RESEARCHES.
" Baron ! baron ! why "
"My dear sir, the air of Paris But let us talk
seriously. Shall I await the rising of his royal high-
ness to communicate all the particulars which I have
procured ? ''
" No, my dear baron. Monseigneur has desired that
he should not be called before two or three o'clock in
the afternoon ; he desires, also, that you send off this
morning these despatches by a special courier, instead of
waiting till Monday. You will entrust me with all the
particulars you have acquired, and I will communicate
them to monseigneur when he wakes. These are his
orders."
" Nothing can be better, and I think his royal highness
will be satisfied with what I have collected. But, my
dear Murphy, I hope the despatch of the special courier
is not a bad sign ; the last despatches which I had the
honour of sending to his royal highness "
" Announced that all was going on well at home ; and
it is precisely because my lord is desirous of expressing
as early as possible his entire satisfaction, that he wishes
a courier to be despatched this very day to Prince
Herkhaiisen-Oldenzaal, Chief of the Supreme Council."
" That is so like his royal highness ; were it to blame
instead of commend, he would observe less haste."
" Nothing new has transpired with us, my dear baron,
nothing at all. Our mysterious adventures "
" Are wholly unknown. You know that, since the
arrival of his royal highness in Paris, his friends have
become used to see him but little in public ; it is under-
stood that he prefers seclusion, and is in the habit of
making frequent excursions to the environs of Paris,
and, with the exception of the Countess Sarah Macgregor
and her brother, no person is aware of the disguises
assumed by his royal highness ; and neither of the per-
sonages I have mentioned have the smallest interest in
betraying the secret."
227
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Ah ! my dear baron," exclaimed Murphy, heaving a
deep sigh, " what an unfortunate thing it is that this
accursed counter.s should be left a widow at this very
important moment ! "
She was married, I think, in 1827 or 1828 ?"
"In 1827, shortly after the death of the unfortunate
child, who would now be in her sixteenth or seventeenth
year, and whose loss his royal highness seems daily more
to deplore."
" Far more so, indeed, than he appears to feel for the
loss of his legitimate offspring."
"And thus, my dear baron, we may account for the
deep interest his royal highness takes in the poor Goua-
leuse, arising as it does from the fact that the daughter
so deeply deplored would, had she lived, have been
precisely the same age as this unfortunate young crea-
ture."
" It is, indeed, an unfortunate affair that the Countess
Sarah, from whom we fancied we were for ever freed,
should have become a widow exactly eighteen months
after his royal highness had been deprived by death of
the wife with whom he had passed years of wedded
happiness. The countess, I am persuaded, looks upon
this double freedom from all marriage vows as a signal
intervention of Providence to further her views."
" And her impetuous passion has become more ardent
than ever, though she is well aware that my lord feels for
her the deepest aversion and well-merited contempt. Was
not her culpable indifference the cause of her child's
death ? Did she not cause Ah, baron," said Murphy,
leaving the sentence unfinished, " this woman is our evil
genius. God grant she may not reappear amongst us
laden with fresh misfortunes ! "
" But still, under present circumstances, any views
Countess Sarah may entertain must be absurd in the
greatest degree ; the death of the unfortunate child you
just now alluded to has broken the last tie which might
228
RESEARCHES.
have attached my lord to this dangerous woman. She
must be mad, as well as foolish, to persist in so hopeless
a pursuit."
" If she be mad, there is a dangerous * method in her
madness ; ' her brother, you are aware, partakes of her
ambitious schemes and obstinate opinions of ultimate
success. Although this worthy pair have as much reason
for utter despair as they had eighteen years since of
entire success "
" Eighteen years ! What an accumulation of evil
has been wrought during that period by the criminal
compliance of that rascally Polidori ! "
" By the way, talking of that miserable wretch, I have
traced that he was here about a year or two ago, suffer-
ing, no doubt, from the most perfect destitution, or else
subsisting by disgraceful and dishonourable practices."
" What a pity that a man so largely endowed with
penetration, talent, deep learning, and natural intelli-
gence, should sink so low ! "
" The innate perversity of his character marred all
these high qualities. It is to be hoped he and the
countess will not meet ; the junction of two such evil
spirits is indeed to be feared, for what frightful conse-
quences might there not result from it ! Now, touching
the facts you have been collecting, have you them about
you ? "
" Here," said the baron, drawing a paper from his
pocket, " are the various particulars I have been enabled
to collect touching the birth of a young girl known as
La Goualeuse, and also of the now residence of an
individual called Francois Germain, son of the School-
master."
" Be kind enough to read me the result of your in-
quiries, my dear De Graiin. I am well aware what are
his royal highness's intentions in the matter ; I shall be
able to judge then whether the information you possess
will be sufficient to enable him to carry them into effect.
229
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
You have every reason to be satisfied with the agent you
employ, I suppose ? "
*' Oh, he is a rare fellow ! so precise, methodical,
zealous, and intelligent! I am, indeed, sometimes
obliged to moderate his energy ; for I am well aware
there are certain points, the clearing up of which his
highness reserves for himself."
" And, of course, your agent is far from suspecting
the deep interest his royal highness has in the matter ? "
" Entirely so. My diplomatic position affords an ex-
cellent pretext for the inquiries I have undertaken. M.
Badinot (for such is the name of the person I am speak-
ing of) is a sharp, shrewd individual, having connections,
either recognised or concealed, in every grade of society.
He was formerly a lawyer, but compelled to quit his
profession from some very serious breach of trust ; he
has, however, retained very accurate recollections touch-
ing the fortunes and situations of his old clients; he
knows many a secret, which he boasts, with considerable
effrontery, of . having turned to a good account. By
turns, rich and poor, now successful, and then a ruined
man, he only ceased his speculations when none could
be found to take part in them with him ; reduced to live
from day to day by expedients more or less illegal, he
became a curious specimen of the Figaro school, so
long as his interest was concerned he would devote him-
self, soul and body, to his employer ; and we are sure of
his fidelity, for the simple reason that he has nothing
to gain, though a great deal to lose, by deceiving us ;
and, besides, I make him careful of our interests, even
unknown to himself."
" The particulars he has hitherto furnished us with
have been very correct and satisfactory."
" Oh, he has a very straightforward manner of going
to work ! And I assure you, my dear Murphy, that M.
Badinot is the very original type of one of those mys-
terious existences which are to be met with, and only
230
RESEARCHES.
possible, in Paris. He would greatly amuse his royal
highness, if it were not necessary to avoid their being
known to each other in this business."
" You can augment the pay of M. Badinot if you deem
it necessary."
" Why, really, five hundred francs a month, and his
expenses, amounting to nearly the same sum, appear to
me quite sufficient ; we shall see by and by."
" And does he not seem ashamed of the part he
plays?"
*' On the contrary, he is not a little vain of his
employment, and when he brings me any particulars
assumes a certain air of importance he would fain pass
off as due to his diplomatic functions ; for the fellow
either thinks, or feigns to do so, that he is deeply en-
gaged in state affairs, and ventures to observe at times,
in a sort of undertone, how very marvellous it is that
such close and intimate relationship should be found to
exist between every-day events and the destinies of king-
doms ! Yes, really, he had the impudence to remark to
me the other day, ' What complicated machinery is con-
tained in the grand machine of state affairs ! Who would
think now, M. le Baron, those little humble notes col-
lected by me will have their part to play in directing and
regulating the affairs of Europe ! ' "
" Yes, yes, rascals generally seek to veil their mean
and base practices beneath some high-sounding pretext.
But the notes you are to give me, my dear baron, have
you them with you ? "
" Here they are, drawn up precisely from the accounts
furnished by M. Badinot."
" Pray let me hear them ; I am all attention."
M. de Graiin then read as follows :
''''Note relative to Meur-de- Marie. About the begin-
ning of the year 1827, a man named Pierre Tournemine,
then under sentence in the galleys at Rochefort for for-
gery, proposed to a woman named Gervais, but also
231
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
known as La Chouette, to take perpetual charge of a
little girl, then between five and six years of age, for
a sum of one thousand francs paid down.
" The bargain being concluded, the child was delivered
over to the woman, with whom she remained two years,
when, unable longer to endure the cruelty shown her,
the little girl disappeared ; nor did the Chouette hear
anything of her for several years, when she unexpect-
edly met with her at a small public-house in the Cite,
nearly seven weeks ago. The infant, now grown into a
young woman, then bore the appellation of La Goualeuse.
" A few days previously to this meeting, the above
mentioned Tournemine, who had become acquainted
with the Schoolmaster at the galleys of Rochefort, had
sent to Bras Rouge (the regular, though concealed cor-
respondent of every rogue and felon either in prison or
out of it) a lengthened detail of every particular relative
to the child formerly confided to the woman Gervais,
otherwise the Chouette.
" From this account, and the declarations of the
Chouette, it appeared that one Madame S^raphin, house-
keeper to a notary named Jacques Ferrand, had in 1827
instructed Tournemine to find a person who, for the sum
of one thousand francs, would be willing to take the
entire charge of a child of from five to six years of age
whom it was desired to get rid of, as has before been
mentioned.
" The Chouette accepted the proposition, and received
both the child and the stipulated sum of money.
" The aim of Tournemine, in addressing these partic-
ulars to Bras Rouge, was to enable the latter to extort
money from Madame S^raphin, whom Tournemine con-
sidered but as the agent of a third party, under a threat
of revealing the whole affair unless well paid for silence.
" Bras Rouge entrusted the Chouette, long the estab-
lished partner in all the Schoolmaster's schemes of
villainy ; and this explains how so important a document
232
RESEARCHES.
found its way to that monster's possession, and also
accounts for the expression used by the Chouette at her
rencontre with the Goualeuse in the cabaret of the White
Rabbit, when, by way of tormenting her victim, she said,
' We have found out all about your parents, but you
shall never know who or what they are.'
"The point to be decided was as to the veracity of
the circumstances detailed by Tournemine in his letter
to the Chouette.
" It has been ascertained that Madame Sdraphin and
the notary, Jacques Ferrand, are both living ; the address
of the latter is Rue du Sentier, No. 41, where he passes
for a person of pious and austere life ; at least, he is con-
stant in his attendance at church, his attention to his
professional duties, close and severe, though some accuse
him of following up the severity of the law with unnec-
essary rigour. In his mode of living he observes a parsi-
mony bordering on avarice. Madame Seraphin still
resides with him, as manager of his household ; and M.
Jacques Ferrand, spite of his original poverty, has in-
vested thirty-five thousand francs in the funds, the
greatest part of this sum having been supplied to him
through a M. Charles Robert, a superior officer of the
National Guard, a young and handsome man, in high
repute with a certain class of society. 'Tis true that
some ill-natured persons are found to assert that, owing
either to fortunate speculations or lucky hits upon
the Stock Exchange, undertaken in partnership with the
above mentioned Charles Robert, the worthy notary
could now well afford to pay back the original loan with
high interest; but the rigidly austere and self-denying
life of this worthy man gives a flat denial to all such
gossiping reports, and, spite of the incredulity with
which he is occasionally listened to, he persists in styling
himself a man struggling for a maintenance. There can
e no manner of doubt but that Madame Seraphin, this
worthy gentleman's housekeeper, could, if she pleased,
233
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
throw an entire light upon every circumstance con-
nected with La Goualeuse."
" Bravo, my dear baron ! " exclaimed Murphy ; " noth-
ing can be better. These declarations of Tournemine
carry with them an appearance of truth, and it seems
more than probable that we may, through Jacques Fer-
rand, obtain the right clue to discovering the parents of
this unfortunate girl. Now tell me, have you been
equally successful in the information collected touching
the sen of the Schoolmaster ? "
" Perhaps, as regards him, I am not furnished with
such minute particulars ; but, upon the whole, I think
the result of our inquiries very satisfactory."
" Upon my word, your M. Badinot is a downright
treasure ! "
" You see. Bras Rouge is the hinge upon which every-
thing turns. M. Badinot, who has several acquaintances
in the police, pointed him out to us as the go-between
of several notorious felons, and knew the man directly
he was set to discover what had become of the ill-fated
son of Madame Georges Duresnel, the unfortunate wife
of this atrocious Schoolmaster."
" And it was in going to search for Bras Rouge, in
his den in the Cit^ (Rue aux Feves, No. 13), that my
lord fell in with the Chourineur and La Goualeuse. His
royal highness hoped, too, that the opportunity now
before him, of visiting these abodes of vice and wretch-
edness, might afford him the means of rescuing some
unfortunate being from the depths of guilt and misery.
His benevolent anticipations were gratified, but at what
risk it is painful even to remember."
" Whatever dangers attended the scheme, you, at
least, my dear Murphy, bravely bore your share in them."
" Was not I, for that very purpose, appointed charcoal-
man in waiting upon his royal highness ? " replied the
squire, smilingly.
" Say, rather, his intrepid body-guard, my worthy
234
RESEARCHES.
friend. But to touch upon your courage and devotion
is only to repeat what every one knows. I will, there-
fore, spare your modesty, and continue my relation.
Here are the various particulars we have been able to
glean concerning Fran9ois Germain, son of Madame
Georges and the Schoolmaster, properly called Duresnel :
" About eighteen months since, a young man, named
FrauQois Germain, arrived in Paris from Nantes, where
he had been employed in the banking-house of Noel
and Co.
" It seems, both from the confession of the School-
master as well as from several letters found upon him,
that the scoundrel to whom he had entrusted his unfor-
tunate offspring, for the purpose of perverting his young
mind, and rendering him one day a worthy assistant to
his unprincipled father in his nefarious schemes, pro-
posed to the young man to join in a plot for robbing his
employers, as well as to forge upon the firm to a consid-
erable amount. This proposition was received by the
youth with well-merited indignation, but, unwilling to
denounce the man by whom he had been brought up,
he first communicated anonymously to his master the
designs projected against the bank, and then privately
quitted Nantes, that he might avoid the rage and fury
of those whose sinful practices his soul sickened and
shuddered to think of, far less to bear the idea of partici-
pating in.
" These wretches, aware that they had betrayed them-
selves to the young man, and dreading the use he might
make of his information, immediately upon finding he
had quitted Nantes followed him to Paris, with the most
sinister intentions of silencing him for ever. After long
and persevering inquiries, they succeeded in discovering
his address, but, happily for the persecuted object of their
search, he had a few days previously encountered the
villain who had first sought to corrupt his principles, and,
well divining the motive which had brought him to Paris,
235
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
lost no time in changing his abode ; and so, for this time,
the Schoolmaster's hapless son escaped his pursuers.
Still, however, following up the scent, they succeeded in
tracing the youth to his fresh abode, 17 Rue du Temple.
One evening, however, he narrowly escaped falling into
an ambush laid for him (the Schoolmaster concealed
this circumstance from my lord), but again Providence
befriended him, and he escaped, though too much alarmed
to remain in his lodgings ; he once more changed his
abode, since which time all traces of him have been lost.
And matters had reached thus far when the Schoolmas-
ter received the just punishment of his crimes ; since
which period, by order of my lord, fresh inquiries have
been instituted, of which the following is the result.
" Francois Germain lived for about three months at
No. 17 Rue du Temple, a house rendered worthy of ob-
servation by the habits and ingenious practices of its in-
habitants. Germain was a great favourite among them,
by reason of his kind and amiable disposition, as well as
for the frank gaiety of his temper. Although his means
of livelihood appeared very slender, yet he had rendered
the most generous assistance to an indigent family occu-
pying the garrets cf the house. In vain has been every
inquiry made in the Rue du Temple touching the present
residence of Francois Germain, or the profession he was
supposed to follow ; every one in the house believed him
to be employed in some counting-house, or office, as he
went out early in the morning and never returned till
late in the evening. The only person who really knows
the present residence of the young man is a female,
lodging in the house No. 17 Rue du Temple, a young
and pretty grisette, named Rigolette, between whom and
Germain a very close acquaintance appears to have
existed. She occupies the adjoining room to that which
Germain tenanted, and which chamber, by the by, is still
vacant ; and it was under pretext of inquiring about it
that these particulars were obtained.''
236
RESEARCHES.
" Rigolette ! " exclaimed Murphy, after having been for
several minutes apparently in deep thought. " Yes, I
am sure I know her."
" You ! Sir Walter Murphy," replied the baron, much
amused. " You, most worthy and respectable father of
a family ! you know anything of pretty grisettes ! And so
the name of Mile. Rigolette is familiar to you, is it ?
Fie, fie ! Oh, positively I am ashamed of you ! "
" Ton my soul, my lord compelled me to have so
many strange acquaintances, that such a mere trifle as
this should pass for nothing. But wait a bit. Yes, now
I recollect perfectly, that when my lord was relating the
history of La Goualeuse, I could not help laughing at
the very odd name of Rigolette, which, as far as I can
call to mind, was the name of a prison acquaintance of
that poor Fleur-de-Marie."
" Well, then, just at this particular juncture Mile.
Rigolette may be of the utmost service to us. Let me
conclude my report :
" There might possibly be an advantage in engaging
the vacant chamber recently belonging to Germain, in
the Rue du Temple. We have no instructions to pro-
ceed further in our investigations, but, from some words
which escaped the porteress, there is every reason to
believe that not only would it be possible to find in this
house certain indications of where the Schoolmaster's
son may be heard of, through the means of Mile. Rigo-
lette, but the house itself would afford my lord an oppor-
tunity of studying human nature amid wants, difficulties,
and misery, the very existence of which he is far from
suspecting.
" Thus you see, my dear Murphy," said M. de Graiin,
finishing his report and presenting it to his companion,
" you see evidently that it is from the notary, Jacques
Ferrand, we must hope to obtain information respecting
the parentage of La Goualeuse, and that we must go to
Mile. Rigolette to trace the dw^elling of FrauQois Ger-
237
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
main. It seems to me a great point to have ascertained
the direction in which to search."
" Undoubtedlj, baron; you are quite right; and,
besides, I am sure my lord will find a fine field for ob-
servation in the house of which you speak. But I have
not yet done with you. Have you made any inquiries
respecting the Marquis d'Harville ? "
" I have ; and, so far as concerns money matters, his
royal highness's fears are wholly unfounded. M. Badi-
not affirms (and he is very likely to be well informed on
the subject) that the fortune of the marquis has never
been in a more prosperous condition, or better managed."
" Why, after havnig in vain exhausted every other
conjecture as to the secret grief which is preying upon
M. d'Harville, my lord imagined that it was just prob-
able the marquis had some pecuniary diiliculties ; had it
proved so, he would have removed them with that deli-
cate assumption of mystery you know he so frequently
employs to veil his munificence. But, since even this
conjecture has failed, he must abandon all hope of guess-
ing the enigma ; and this he will do the more reluc-
tantly, as his great desire to discover it arose out of his
ardent friendship for ^I. d'Harville."
"A friendship which is founded on a grateful recol-
lection of the important services rendered by the mar-
quis's father to his own parent. Are you aware, my
dear Murphy, that at the remodelling of the States in
1815, at the Germanic confederation, the father of his
royal highness had a chance of being excluded, from his
well-known attachment to Napoleon ? Thanks to the
friendship with which the Emperor Alexander honoured
him, the deceased Marquis d'Harville was enabled to
render most effectual service to the father of our patron.
The emperor, whose warm regard for the late marquis
had taken its date from the period of that nobleman's
emigration to Russia, exerted his powerful influence in
congress so successfully, that at the grand meeting to
238
RESEARCHES.
decide the destinies of the princes of Germany, the
father of our noble employer was reinstated in all his
pristine rif^hts. As for the friendship now subsisting
between the present marquis and his royal highness, 1
believe it commenced when, as mere boys, they met to-
gether on a visit paid by the then reigning grand duke
to the late Marquis d'Harville."
" So I have heard ; and they appear to have retained
a most lively recollection of this happy period of their
youth. Nor is this all I have to say on the subject of
the interest our noble master takes in every matter con-
cerning the house of D'llarville. So profound is his
gratitude for the services rendered to his father, that all
bearing the honoured name of D'Harville, or belonging
to the family, possess a powerful claim on the kindness
of the prince. Thus, not alone to her virtues or her
misfortunes does poor Madame Georges owe the increas-
ing and unwearied goodness of my lord."
" Madame Georges ! " exclaimed the astounded baron.
" What, the wife of Duresnel, the felon known as the
Schoolmaster ?"
" And the mother of Frangois Germain, the youth we
are seeking for, and whom, I trust, we shall find."
" Is the relation of M. d'Harville ?"
" She was his mother's cousin, and her most intimate
friend ; the old marquis entertained the most perfect
friendship and esteem for Madame Georges."
" But how, for heaven's sake, my dear Murphy, did
it ever come about that the D'Harville family ever per-
mitted a descendant of theirs to marry such a monster
as this Duresnel ? "
" Why, thus it was. The father of this unfortunate
woman was a M. de Lagny, who, previous to the Revo-
lution, possessed considerable property in Languedoc,
and who, having fortunately escaped the proscription so
fatal to many, availed himself of the first tranquillity
which succeeded these days of discord and anarchy to
230
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
establish his only daughter in marriage. Among the
various candidates for the hand of the young heiress
was this Durepnel, the representative of a wealthy and
respectable family, possessing powerful parliamentary in-
fluence, and concealing the depravity of his disposition
beneath the most specious exterior. To this man was
Mile, de Lagny united, by desire of her father; but a
very short time sufficed to strip the mask from his
vicious character, and to display his natural propensi-
ties. A gambler, a spendthrift, and profligate, addicted
to the lowest vices that can disgrace a human being, he
quickly dissipated, not only his own fortune, but that of
his wife also. Even the estate to which Madame Georges
Duresnel had retired was involved in the general ruin
occasioned by her worthless husband's passion for play,
and his dissolute mode of life ; and the unfortunate
woman would have been left without a shelter for her-
self or infant son but for the kind affection of her rela-
tion, the Marquise d'Harville, whom she loved with the
tenderness of a sister. With this valued friend Madame
Duresnel found a welcome home, while her wretched
husband, finding himself utterly ruined, plunged into
the blackest crimes, and stopped at no means, however
guilty and desperate, to supply his pleasures. He be-
came the associate of thieves, murderers, pickpockets,
and forgers, and ere long, falling into the hands of the
law, was sentenced to the galleys for the term of his
natural life. Yet, while suffering the just punishment
of his crimes, his base mind devised the double atrocity
of tearing the child from its miserable mother, for the
sake of breaking down every good principle it might
have imbibed, and of training it up in vicious readiness
to join his future schemes of villainy. You know the
rest. After the condemnation of her husband, Madame
Georges, without giving any reason for so doing, quitted
the Marquise d'Harville, and went to hide her shame
and her sorrows in Paris, where she soon fell into the
240
RESEARCHES.
utmost distress. It would occupy too much time to tell
you by what train of events my lord became aware of
the misfortunes of this excellent woman, as well as the
ties which connect her with the D'Harville family ; it is
sufficient that he came most opportunely and generously
to her assistance, induced her to quit Paris and establish
herself at the farm at Bouqueval, where she now is,
with the Goualeuse. In this peaceful retreat she has
found tranquillity, if not happiness ; and the overlook-
ing and management of the farm may serve to recreate
her thoughts, and prevent them from dwelling too deeply
on her past sorrows. As much to spare the almost
morbid sensibility of Madame Georges, as because he
dislikes to blazon forth his good deeds, my lord has
not even acquainted M. d'Harville with the fact of his
having relieved his kinswoman from such severe dis-
tress."
" I comprehend now the twofold interest which my
lord has in desiring to discover the traces of the son of
this poor woman."
" You may also judge by that, my dear baron, of the
affection which his royal highness bears to the whole
family, and how deep is his vexation at seeing the young
marquis so sad, with so many reasons to be happy."
" What can there be wanting to M. d'Harville ? He
unites all, birth, fortune, wit, youth ; his wife is charm-
ing, and as prudent as she is lovely."
'' True, and his royal highness only had recourse to
the inquiries we have been talking over after having
in vain endeavoured to penetrate the cause of M. d'Hai'-
ville's deep melancholy ; he showed himself deeply af-
fected by the kind attentions of monseigneur, but still
has been entirely reserved on the subject of his low
spirits. It may be some peine de coeurJ'^
" Yet it is said that he is excessively fond of his wife
and she does not give him the least cause for jealousy.
I often meet her in society, and, although she is con-
241
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
stantly surrounded by admirers (as every young and
lovely woman is), still her reputation is unsullied."
" The marqu's is always speaking of her in the highest
terms ; he has had, however, one little discussion with
her on the subject of the Countess Sarah Macgregor."
" Has she, then, seen her ? "
" By a most unlucky chance, the father of the Mar-
quis d'Harville knew Sarah Seyton of Halsburg, and
her brother Tom, seventeen or eighteen years ago, dur-
ing their residence in Paris, and when they were much
noticed by the lady of the English ambassador. Learn-
ing that the brother and sister were going into Germany,
the old marquis gave them letters of introduction to the
father of our noble lord, with whom he kept up a con-
stant correspondence. Alas ! my dear De Graiin, per-
haps but for these introductions many misfortunes would
have been avoided, for then monseigneur would not have
known this woman. When the Countess Sarah returned
hither, knowing the friendship of his royal highness for
the marquis, she presented herself at the Hotel d'Har-
ville, in the hope of meeting monseigneur ; for she shows
as much pertinacity in pursuing him as he evinces reso-
lution to avoid her.''
" Only imagine her disguising herself in male attire,
and following him into the Cite ! No woman but she
would have dreamt of such a thing."
" She, perhaps, hoped by such a step to touch his
royal highness and compel him to an interview, which
he has always refused and avoided. To return to
Madame d'Harville : her husband, to whom monsei-
gneur has spoken of Sarah as she deserved, has begged his
wife to see her as seldom as possible ; but the young
marquise, seduced by the hypocritical flatteries of the
countess, has gone somewhat counter to the marquis's
request. Some trifling differences have arisen, but not
of sufficient importance to cause or explain the extreme
dejection of the marquis."
242
RESEARCHES.
" Oh, the women ! the women ! My dear Murphy, I
am very sorry that Madame d'Harville should have
formed any acquaintance with this Sarah. So young
and charming a woman must suffer by the contact with
such an infernal "
'' Talking of infernal creatures," said Murphy, " here
is a communication relative to Cecily, the unworthy
spouse of the excellent David."
" Between ourselves, my dear Murphy, this auda-
cious metisse ^ well deserves the terrible punishment that
her husband, our dear black doctor, has inflicted on
the Schoolmaster by monseigneur's order. She has
also shed blood, and her unblushing infamy is astound-
ing."
" Yet she is so very handsome, so seductive ! A
perverted mind within an attractive outside always
inspires me with twofold disgust."
" In this sense Cecily is doubly hateful. But I hope
that this despatch annuls the last orders issued by
monseigneur with regard to this wretched creature."
" On the contrary, baron."
" My lord, then, desires that her escape from the
fortress in which she had been shut up for life may be
effected?"
" Yes."
" And that her pretended ravisher should bring her
to France, to Paris ? "
" Yes ; and, besides, this despatch orders the arrange-
ment to be carried out as soon as possible, and that
Cecily be made to travel hither so speedily that she may
arrive here in a fortnight."
" I am lost in astonishment ! Monseigneur has always
evinced such a horror of her ! "
" And that horror he still experiences ; if possible,
stronger than ever."
1 The Creole issue of a white and quadroon slave. The mHisBes only
differ from the whites by some peculiarities hardly perceptible.
243
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" And yet he causes her to be sent to him ! To be
sure, it will always be easy to apprehend Cecily again,
if she does not carry out what he requires of her.
Orders are given to the son of the gaoler of the fortress
of Geralstein to carry her off, as if he were enamoured of
her, and every facility will be given to him for effecting
this purpose. Overjoyed at this opportunity of escaping,
the metisse will follow her supposed ravisher, and reach
Paris ; then she will always have her sentence of con-
demn8tion hanging over her, always be but an escaped
prisoner, and I shall be always ready, when it shall
please his royal highness to desire, again to lay hands
upon and incarcerate her."
" I should tell you, my dear baron, that when David
learned from monseigneur of the proposed arrival of
Cecily, he was absolutely petrified, and exclaimed, 'I
hope that your royal highness will not compel me to
see the monster ? ' ' Make yourself easy,' replied mon-
seigneur ; ' you shall not see her, but I may require her
services for a particular purpose.' David felt relieved of
an enormous weight off his mind. Nevertheless, I am
sure that some very painful reminiscences were awak-
ened in his mind."
" Poor negro ! he loves her still. They say, too, that
she is yet so lovely ! "
" Charming ! too charming ! It requires the piti-
less eye of a Creole to detect the mixed blood in the all
but imperceptible shade which lightly tinges her rosy
finger-nails. Our fresh and hale beauties of the North
have not a more transparent complexion, nor a skin of
more dazzling whiteness."
" I was in France when monseigneur returned from
America, accompanied by David and Cecily, and I know
that that excellent man was from that time attached to
his royal highness by ties of the strongest gratitude ; but
I never learned how he became attached to the service
of our master, and how he had married Cecily, whom I
244
RESEARCHES.
saw, for the first time, about a year after his marriage;
and God knows the scandal that followed ! "
" I can tell you every particular that you may wish to
learn, my dear baron ; 1 accompanied monseigneur in
his voyage to America, when he rescued David and the
mStisse from the most awful fate."
*' You are always most kind, my dear Murphy, and I
am all attention," said the baron.
245
CHAPTER XXII.
HISTORY OF DAVID AND CECILY.
" Mr. Willis, a rich American planter, settled in
Florida,'' said Murphy, " had discovered in one of his
young black slaves, named David, who was employed in
the infirmary attached to his dwelling, a very remark-
able degree of intelligence, combined with a constant
and deep commiseration for the sick poor, to whom he
gave, with the utmost attention and care, the medicine
ordered by the doctors, and, moreover, so strong a pre- ,
possession for the study of botany, as applied to medi-
cine, that without any tuition he had composed and
classified a sort of flora of the plants around the dwell-
ing and the vicinity. The establishment of Mr. Willis,
situated on the borders of the sea, was fifteen or twenty
leagues from the nearest town ; and the medical men of
the district, ignorant as they were, gave themselves no
great deal of care or trouble, in consequence of the long
distance and the difficulty in procuring any means of
conveyance. Desirous of remedying so extreme an in-
convenience in a country subject to violent epidemics,
and to have at hand at all times a skilful practitioner,
the colonist made up his mind to send David to France
to learn surgery and medicine. Enchanted at this offer,
the young black set out for Paris, and the planter paid
all the expenses of his course of study. David, having
for eight years studied with great diligence and remark-
able effect, received the degree of surgeon and physician
with the most distinguished success, and then returned
246
HISTORY OF DAVID AND CECILY.
to America to place himself and his skill under the
direction of his master."
" But David ought to have considered himself free
and emancipated, in fact and in law, when he set foot
in France."
" David's loyalty is very rare : he had promised Mr.
Willis to return, and he did so. He did not consider as
his own the instruction which he had acquired with his
master's money; and, besides, he hoped to improve mor-
ally as well as physically the sufferings of the slaves, his
former companions; he trusted to become not only their
doctor, but their firm friend and defender with the
colonist."
" He must, indeed, be imbued with the most unflinch-
ing probity and the most intense love for his fellow
creatures to return to a master, an owner, after hav-
ing spent eight years in the midst of the society of the
most democratic young men in Europe."
" Judge of the man by this one trait. Well, he re-
turned to Florida, and, truth to tell, was used by Mr.
Willis with consideration and kindness, eating at his
table, sleeping under his roof. But this colonist was as
stupid, malevolent, selfish, and despotic as most Creoles
are, and he thought himself very generous in giving David
six hundred francs (24Z.) a year salary. At the end of
some months a terrible typhus fever broke out in the
plantation. Mr. Willis was attacked by it, but soon re-
stored through the careful attentions and efficacious
remedies of David. Out of thirty negroes dangerously
affected by this fatal disease, only two perished. Mr.
Willis, much gratified by the services which David had
so auspiciously rendered, raised his wages to twelve
hundred francs, to the extreme gratification of the black
doctor, whose fellows regarded him as a divinity amongst
them, for he had, with much difficulty it is true, obtained
from their master some few indulgences, and was hoping
to procure still more. In the meanwhile, he consoled
247
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
these poor people, and exhorted them to patience ; spake
to them of God, who watches over the black and the
white man with an equal eye ; of another world not peo-
pled with masters and slaves, but with the just and the
unjust; of another life in eternity, where man was no
longer the beast of burden, the property, the thing
of his fellow man, but where the victims of this world
were so happy that they prayed in heaven for their tor-
mentors. What shall I tell you more ? To those un-
happy wretches who, contrary to other men, count with
bitter joy the hours which bring them nearer to the
tomb, to those unfortunate creatures, who looked for-
ward only to nothingness hereafter, David breathed the
language and the hope of a free and happy immortality ;
and then their chains appeared less heavy and their toil
less irksome. He was their idol. A year passed away
in this manner. Amongst the handsomest of the female
slaves at the house was a metisse, about fifteen years of
age, named Cecily, and for this poor girl Mr. Willis took
a fancy. For the first time in his life his advances were
repulsed and obstinately resisted ; Cecily was in love,
and with David, who, during the late fearful distemper,
had attended her with the most vigilant care. After-
wards a deep and mutual love repaid him the debt of
gratitude. David's taste was too refined to allow him
to boast of his happiness before the time when he should
marry Cecily, which was to be when she had turned her
sixteenth year. Mr. Willis, ignorant of their love, had
thrown his handkerchief right royally at the pretty mS-
tisse, and she, in deep despair, sought David, and told
him all the brutal attempts that she had been subjected
to and with difficulty escaped. The black comforted
her, and instantly went to Mr. Willis to request her
hand in marriage."
" Diahle ! my dear Murphy, I can easily surmise the
answer of the American sultan, he refused ? "
" He did. He said he had an inclination for the girl
248
HISTORY OF DAVID AND CECILY.
himself; that in his life before he had never experienced
the repulse of a slave ; he meant to possess her, and he
would. David might choose another wife or mistress,
whichsoever might best suit his inclination ; there were
in the plantation ten capusses or metisses as pretty as
Cecily. David talked of his love, love so long and
tenderly shared, and the planter shrugged his shoulders;
David urged, but it was all in vain. The Creole had the
cool impudence to tell him that it was a bad ' example '
to see a master concede to a slave, and that he would
not set that ' example ' to satisfy a caprice of David's !
He entreated, supplicated, and his master lost his
temper. David, blushing to humiliate himself further,
spake in a firm tone of his services and disinterestedness,
that he had been contented with a very slender salary.
Mr. Willis was desperately enraged, and, telling him he
was a contumacious slave, threatened him with the
chain. David replied with a few bitter and violent
words ; and, two hours afterwards, bound to a stake,
his skin was torn with the lash, whilst they bore Cecily
to the harem of the planter in his sight."
" The conduct of the planter was brutal and horrible ;
it was adding absurdity to cruelty, for he must after
that have required the man's services."
" Precisely so ; for that very day the very fury into
which he had worked himself, joined to the drunkenness
in which the brute indulged every evening, brought on
an inflammatory attack of the most dangerous descrip-
tion, the symptoms of which appeared with the rapidity
peculiar to such affections. The planter was carried to
his bed in a state of the highest fever. He sent off an
express for a doctor, but he could not reach his abode in
less than six and thirty hours."
" Really, this attack seems providential. The desper-
ate condition of the man was quite deserved by him."
" The malady made fearful strides. David only could
save the colonist, but Willis, distrustful, as all evil-doers
249
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
are, imagined that the black would revenge himself by
administering poison ; for, after having scourged him
with a rod, he had thrown him into prison. At last,
horrified at the progress of his illness, broken down by
bodily anguish, and thinking that, as 'death also stared
him in the face, he had one chance left in trusting to
the generosity of his slave, after many distrusting
doubts, Willis ordered David to be unchained."
" And David saved the planter ? "
" For five days and five nights he watched and tended
him as if he had been his father, counteracting the dis-
ease, step by step, with great skill and perfect knowl-
edge, until, at last, he succeeded in defeating it, to the
extreme surprise of the doctor who had been sent for,
and who did not arrive until the second day."
" And, when restored to health at last, the colonist "
" Not desiring to blush before his own slave, whose
presence constantly oppressed him with the recollection
of his excessive nobleness of conduct, the colonist made
an enormous sacrifice to attach the doctor he had sent
for to his establishment, and David was again conducted
to his dungeon."
" Plorrible, but by no means astonishing. David must
have been in the eyes of his brutal master a complete
living remorse."
" Such conduct was dictated alike by revenge and jeal-
ousy. The blacks of Mr. Willis loved David with all
the warmth of gratitude, for he had saved them body
and soul. They knew the care he had bestowed on him
when he lay tossing with fever between life and death,
and, shaking off the deadening apathy which ordinarily
besets slavery, these unfortunate creatures evinced their
indignation, or rather grief, most powerfully when they
saw David lacerated by the whip. Mr. Willis, deeply
exasperated, affected to discover in this manifestation
the appearance of revolt, and, when he considered the
influence which David had acquired over the slaves, he
250
HISTORY OF DAVID AND CECILY.
believed him capable of placing himself at the head of a
rebellion to avenge himself of his wrongs. This fear
was another motive with the colonist for using David
in the most shameful manner, and entirely preventing
him from effecting the malicious designs of which he
suspected him."
" Considering him as actuated by an irrepressible
amount of terror, this conduct seems less stupid, but
quite as ferocious."
" A short time after these events we arrived in Amer-
ica. Monseigneur had freighted a Danish brig at St.
Thomas's, and we visited incognito all the settlements
of the American coast along which we were sailing.
We were most hospitably received by Mr. Willis, who,
the evening after our arrival, after he had been drinking,
and as much from the excitement of wine as from a
desire to boast, told us, in a horrid tone of brutal jesting,
the history of David and Cecily. I forgot to say that,
after having maltreated the girl, he had thrown her into
a dungeon also, as a punishment for her disdain of him.
His royal highness, on hearing Willis's fearful narration,
thought the man was either drunk or a liar ; but he
was drunk, it was no lie. To remove any and all
doubt, the colonist rose from the table, and desired
a slave to bear a lantern and conduct us to David's
cell."
"Well, what followed?"
" In my life I never saw so distressing a spectacle.
Pale, wan, meagre, half naked, and covered with wounds,
David and the unhappy girl, chained by the middle of
the body, one at one end and the other at the other
end of the dungeon, looked like spectres. The lantern
that lighted us threw over this scene a still more
ghastly hue. David did not utter a word when he saw
us; his gaze was fixed and fearful. The colonist said
to him, with cruel irony, ' Well, doctor, how goes it ?
You, who are so clever, why don't you cure yourself ? '
251
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
The black replied by a noble word and a dignified ges-
ture ; he raised his right hand slowly, his forefinger
pointed to the ?^oof, and, without looking at the colonist,
said in a solemn tone, ' God ! ' and then was silent.
* God ? ' replied the planter, bursting into a loud fit of
laughter, ' tell him, then, tell God to come and snatch
you from my power ! I defy him ! ' Then Willis, over-
come by fury and intoxication, shook his fist to heaven,
and said, in blasphemous language, ' Yes, I defy God to
carry off my slaves before they are dead ! ' "
" The man was mad as well as brutal."
" We were utterly disgusted. Monseigneur did not
say a word, and we left the cell. This dungeon was
situated, as well as the house, on the seashore. We re-
turned to our brig, which was moored a short distance
off, and at one o'clock in the morning, when all in the
building were plunged in profound sleep, monseigneur
went on shore with eight men well armed, and, going
straight to the prison, burst open the doors, and freed
David and Cecily. The two victims were carried on
board so quietly that they were not perceived ; and then
monseigneur and I went to the planter's house. Strange
contrast! These men torture their slaves, and yet do not
take any precaution against them, but sleep with doors
and windows open. We easily got access to the sleep-
ing-room of the planter, which was lighted on the inside
by a small glass lamp. Monseigneur awakened the man,
who sat upright in his bed, his brain still disturbed by
the effect of his drunkenness. ' You have to-night defied
God to carry off your two victims before their death,
and he has taken them,' said monseigneur. Then tak-
ing a bag which I carried, and which contained twenty-
five thousand francs in gold, he threw it on the fellow's
bed, and added, ' This will indemnify you for the loss of
your two slaves, to your violence that destroys I oppose
a violence that saves. God will judge between us.' We
then retreated, leaving Mr. Willis stupefied, motionless,
252
HISTORY OF DAVID AND CECILY.
and believing himself under the influence of a dream.
A few minutes later we were again on board the brig,
which instantly set sail."
" It appears to me, my dear Murphy, that his royal
highness overpaid this wretch for the loss of his slaves ;
for, in fact, David no longer belonged to him."
" We calculated, as nearly as we could, the expense
which his studies had cost for eight years, and then
the price, thrice over, of himself and Cecily as slaves.
Our conduct was contrary to the rights of property, I
know ; but if you had seen in what a horrible state we
found this unfortunate and half-dead couple, if you
had heard the sacrilegious defiance almost cast in the
face of the Almighty by this man, drunk with wine and
ferocity, you would comprehend how monseigneur de-
sired, as he said, on this occasion to act as it were in
behalf of Providence."
" All this is as assailable and as justifiable as the
punishment of the Schoolmaster, my worthy squire.
And had not this adventure any consequences ? "
" It could not. The brig was under Danish col-
ours ; the incognito of his royal highness was closely
kept; we were taken for rich Englishmen. To whom
could Willis have addressed his complaints, if he had
any to make ? In fact, he had told us himself, and the
medical man of monseigneur declared it in a procSs ver-
bal, that the two slaves could not have lived eight days
longer in this frightful dungeon. It required the great-
est possible care to snatch David and Cecily from
almost certain death. At last they were restored to
life. From this period David has been attached to the
suite of monseigneur as a medical man, and is most
devotedly attached to him."
" David married Cecily, of course, on arriving in
Europe ? "
" This marriage, which ought to have been followed
by results so happy, took place in the chapel of the
253
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
palace of monseigneur ; but, by a most extraordinary
revulsion of conduct, hardly was she in the full enjoy-
ment of an unhoped-for position, when, forgetting all
that David had suffered for her and what she had
suffered for him, blushing in the new world to be
wedded to a black, Cecily, seduced by a man of most
depraved morals, committed her first fault. It would
seem as though the natural perversity of this abandoned
woman, having till then slumbered, was suddenly awak-
ened, and developed itself with fearful energy. You
know the rest, and all the scandal of the adventures
that followed. After having been two years a wife,
David, whose confidence in her was only equalled by his
love, learned the full extent of her infamy, a thunder-
bolt aroused him from his blind security."
" They say he tried to kill his wife."
" Yes ; but, through the interference of monseigneur,
he consented to allow her to be immured for life in
a prison, and it is thence that monseigneur now seeks to
have her released, to your great astonishment, as well
as mine, my dear baron. But it is growing late, and his
royal highness is anxious that your courier should start
for Geralstein with as little delay as possible."
" In two hours' time he shall be on the road. So
now, my dear Murphy, farewell till the evening."
" Till the evening, adieu."
" Have you, then, forgotten that there is a grand ball
at the Embassy, and that his royal highness will
be present ? "
" True. I have always forgotten that, since the ab-
sence of Colonel Yerner and the Count d'Harneim, I
have the honour to fulfil the functions of chamberlain
and aide-de-camp."
" Ah, apropos of the count and the colonel, when
may we expect their return ? Will they have soon
completed their respective missions?"
" You know that monseigneur will keep them away as
254
HISTORY OF DAVID AND CECILY.
long as possible, that he may enjoy more solitude and
liberty. As to the errand on which his royal highness
has employed each of them, as an ostensible motive for
getting rid of them in a quiet way, sending one to
Avignon and the other to Strasbourg, I will tell you
all about it some day, when we are both in a dull mood ;
for I will defy the most hypochondriacal person in exist-
ence not to burst with laughter at the narrative, as well
as with certain passages in the despatches of these
worthy gentlemen, who have assumed their pretended
missions with so serious an air."
" To tell the truth, I have never clearly understood
why his royal highness attached the colonel and the
count to his private person."
" Why, my dear fellow, is not Colonel Verner the
accurate type of military perfection ? Is there, in the
whole Germanic confederation, a more elegant figure,
more flourishing and splendid moustaches, and a more
complete military figure ? And when he is fully deco-
rated, screwed in, uniformed, gold-laced, plumed, etc.,
etc., it is impossible to see a more glorious, self-satisfied,
proud, handsome animal."
" True, but it is his very good looks that prevent him
from having the appearance of a man of refined and
acute intellect."
" Well ! and monseigneur says that, thanks to the
colonel, he is in the habit of finding even the dullest
people in the world bearable. Before certain audiences,
which are of necessity, he shuts himself up with the
colonel for a half-hour or so, and then leaves him, full
of spirits and light as air, quite ready to meet bores
and defy them."
" Just as the Roman soldier who, before a forced
march, used to sole his sandals with lead, and so found
all fatigue light by leaving them off. I now discover the
usefulness of the colonel. But the Count d'Harneim?"
" Is also very serviceable to our dear lord ; for, always
255
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
hearing at his side the tinkling of this old cracked bell,
shining and chattering, continually seeing this soap-
bubble so puffed up with nothingness, so magnificently
variegated, and, as such, portraying the theatrical and pu-
erile phase of sovereign power, his royal highness feels
the more sensibly the vanity of those barren pomps and
glories of the world, and, by contrast, has often derived
the most serious and happy ideas from the contempla-
tion of his useless and pattering chamberlain.'^
" Well, well ; but let us be just, my dear Murphy : tell
me, in what court in the world would you find a more
perfect model of a chamberlain ? Who knows better
than dear old D'Harneim the numberless rules and
strict observances of etiquette ? Who bears with more
becoming demeanour an enamelled cross around his neck,
or more majestically comports himself when the keys of
office are suspended from his shoulders ? "
" Apropos, baron ; monseigneur declares that the
shoulders of a chamberlain have a peculiar physiog-
nomy : that is, he says, an appearance at once con-
strained and repulsive, which it is painful to look at;
for, alas and alackaday ! it is at the back of a chamber-
lain that the symbol of his office glitters, and, as mon-
seigneur avers, the worthy D'Harneim always seems
tempted to present himself backwards, that his impor-
tance may at once be seen, felt, and acknowledged."
" The fact is, that the incessant subject of the count's
meditations is to ascertain by what fatal imagination and
direction the chamberlain's key has been placed behind
the chamberlain's back ; for it is related of him that he
said, with his accustomed good sense, and with a kind of
bitter grief, ' What, the devil ! one does not open a door
with one's back, at all events ! ' "
" Baron, the courier ! the courier ! " said Murphy,
pointing to the clock.
" Sad old reprobate, to make me chatter thus ! It is
your fault. Present my respects to his royal highness,"
25G
HISTORY OF DAVID AND CECILY.
said M. de Graiin, takin^ his hat up in haste. " And
now, adieu till the evening, iny dear Murphy."
" Till the eveninf^, my dear haron, fare thee well. It
will be late before we meet, for I am sure that mon-
seigneur will go this very day to pay a visit to the
mysterious house in the Rue du Temple."
257
CHAPTER XXIII.
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
In order to profit by the particulars furnished by
Baron de Graiin respecting La Goualeuse and Germain,
the Schoolmaster's son, it became necessary for Rodolph
to visit the house in the Rue du Temple, formerly the
abode of that young man, whose retreat the prince like-
wise hoped to discover through the intervention of Mile.
Rigolette. Although prepared to find it a dlfiicult task,
inasmuch as it was more than probable, if the grisette
were really sufficiently in Germain's confidence to be
aware of his present abode, she also knew too well his
anxiety to conceal it to be likely to give the desired
information.
By renting the cnamber lately occupied by the young
man, Rodolph, besides being on the spot to follow up his
researches, considered he should also be enabled to
observe closely the different individuals inhabiting the
rest of the house.
The same day' on which the conversation passed be-
tween the Baron de Graiin and Murphy, Rodolph,
plainly and unpretendingly dressed, wended his way
about three o'clock, on a gloomy November afternoon,
towards the Rue du Temple.
Situated in a district of much business and dense pop-
ulation, the house in question had nothing remarkable
in its appearance ; it was composed of a ground floor,
occupied by a man keeping a low sort of dram-shop, and
four upper stories, surmounted by attics. A dark and
256
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
narrow alley led to a small yard, or, rather, a species
of square well, of about five or six feet in width, com-
pletely destitute of either air or light, and serving as
a pestilential receptacle for all the filth thrown by the
various occupants of the respective chambers from the
unglazed sashes with which each landing-place was
provided.
At the bottom of a damp, dismal-looking staircase,
a glimmering light indicated the porter's residence, ren-
dered smoky and dingy by the constant burning of
a lamp, requisite, even at midday, to enlighten the
gloomy hole, into which Rodolph entered for the pur-
pose of asking leave to view the apartment then
vacant.
A lamp, placed behind a glass globe filled with water,
served as a reflector; and by its light might be seen, at
the far end of the " lodge" (as in courtesy it was styled),
a bed, covered with a sort of patchwork counterpane,
exhibiting a mingled mass of every known colour and
material. A walnut-tree table graced the side of the
room, bearing a variety of articles suited to the taste
and ornamental notions of its owners. First in order
appeared a little waxen Saint John, with a very fat lamb
at his feet, and a large peruke of flowing white curls on
his head, the whole enclosed in a cracked glass case, the
joinings of which were ingeniously secured by slips of
blue paper ; secondly, a pair of old plated candlesticks,
tarnished by time, and bearing, instead of lights, two
gilded oranges, doubtless an offering to the porteress
on the last New Year's day ; and, thirdly, two boxes, the
one composed of variegated straw, the other covered
with multitudinous shells, but both smelling strongly of
the galleys or house of correction ^ ( let us hope, for
the sake of the morality of the porteress in the Rue du
Temple, that these precious specimens were not pre-
' These boxes were the exclusive manufacture of the criminals confined
either in the galleys or prisons, and who spent nearly all their spare hours in
makinj; them.
259
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
sented to her from the original owners and fabricators
of them) ; and, lastly, between the two boxes, and
just beneath x circular clock, was suspended a pair of
red morocco dress-boots, small enough for the feet of
fairies, but elaborately and skilfully designed and com-
pleted. This chef-d'oeuvre, as the ancient masters of the
craft would style them, joined to the fantastic designs
sketched on the walls representing boots and shoes,
abundantly indicated that the porter of this establish-
ment dev'oted his time and his talents to the repairing
of shoes and shoe leather.
At the instant when Rodolph ventured into the
smoky den, M. Pipelet, the porter, temporarily absent,
had left his better half, Madame Pipelet, as his repre-
sentative. This individual was seated by the stove in
the centre of the lodge, deeply engrossed in watching
the boiling of a pot placed over it. The description of
Madame Pipelet may be given in a few words. She was
the most ugly, forbidding, wrinkled, toothless old hag
one might meet in the course of a long life. Her dress
was dirty, tawdry, and untidy ; while her head-dress was
composed of a Brutus wig, originally of a blond colour,
but changed by time into every shade of red, brown, and
yellow, the stiff ends of the perished hair standing out
like the ears of wheat in a wheat-sheaf. Much did Ma-
dame Pipelet pride herself upon this tasteful covering to
her sexagenarian skull ; nor was it believed she ever
laid it aside, whether sleeping or waking.
At the sight of Rodolph the porteress inquired, in a
surely tone :
" Well, and pray what do you want ? ''
" I believe, madame," replied Rodolph, laying a pro-
found emphasis on the word madame, " I believe there is
an apartment to be let in this house ? "
The deep respect implied in his voice and words some-
what mollified the porteress, who answered, rather less
sourly :
260
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
" Yes, there is a room to let on the fourth floor, but
you cannot see it now, Alfred has gone out."
" You are speaking of your son, I presume, niadame ;
may I take the liberty of asking whether he is expected
in shortly ? '*
" I am not speaking of my son, but my husband. I
suppose there is no act of parliament why my Pipelet
should not be called ' Alfred.' Is there, pray ? "
" None, certainly, madame, that I am aware of ; but,
with your kind permission, I will await his return. I
am very desirous of taking the vacant chamber, both
the street and neighbourhood suit me ; and the admi-
rable order in which the house seems kept pleases me
excessiv^ely. But, previously to viewing the lodging I
am anxious to take, I should be very glad to ascertain
whether you, madame, could do me the favour to take
the management of my little housekeeping off my
hands ? I never like to have any one about me but the
authorised housekeeper belonging to the house, when
such arrangements meet with their approbation.'*
This proposition, so flatteringly expressed, and the
word "housekeeper" completely won Madame Pipelet,
who replied :
" With the greatest of pleasure, sir, I will attend to
all you require. I am sure I shall be proud to wait
upon such a gentleman ; and, for the small charge of
six francs a month, you shall be treated like a prince."
" Then for six francs a month, I may reckon upon
your valuable services. Will you permit me to ask your
name ? "
" Pomona Fortunata Anastasia Pipelet."
" Well, then, Madame Pipelet, having agreed as to
your own terms, will you be pleased to tell me those for
the apartment I wish to engage ? "
" With the adjoining small closet, one hundred and
fifty francs a month, not a farthing less. The princi-
pal lessee is a screw, a regular skinflint."
261
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
" What is his name ? "
" M. Bras Rouge."
This name, and the remembrances so unexpectedly
presented by it, made Rodolph start. ^
" I think, Madame Pipelet, you were saying that the
principal lessee of the house is "
" M. Bras Rouge."
" And he lives "
" Rue aux F^ves, No. 13. He also keeps an estaminet
near the Champs Ely sees."
All doubt was then at an end, it was the Bras
Rouge of infamous notoriety ; and singular indeed did
the circumstance of thus coming across him strike
Rodolph.
*' But though M. Bras Rouge is your principal lessee,
he is not, I presume, the owner of the house ; may I ask
who is ? "
" M. Bourdon ; but I have never had comnmnication
with any one besides M. Bras Rouge."
With the design of still further ingratiating himself
with the porteress, Rodolph resumed :
" My dear madame, this cold day would make a little
of something warm and comfortable very acceptable.
Might I venture to solicit the favour of your stepping
as far as the spirit-shop, kept so conveniently at hand,
and bring a bottle of cassia and two glasses ? For I feel
very tired, and the cold has quite seized me. Stay,
madame, we will have three glasses, if you please ; be-
cause I hope your husband will join us when he
returns."
So saying, he placed a franc in the fat, dirty hand of
the porteress.
" Ah, monsieur, you are determined to make us all
fall in love with you ! " cried Madame Pipelet, nodding
her approval of the commission, and thereby sending
the flush of pleasure into a face glowing with all the
fiery honours of an excited Bacchante.
262
A HOUSE IN TPIE RUE DU TEMPLE.
" To be sure ! There is nothing like a drop of really
good cordial such a day as this ; and they do keep most
excellent here at hand. I'll go, of course I will ; but
I shall only bring a couple of glasses, for Alfred and I
always drink out of the same glass. Poor old darling !
he is so very nice and particular in showing all those
sort of delicate attentions to women."
" Then go along, my good Madame Pipelet, and we
will wait till Alfred comes."
" But, then, suppose any one wants me whilst I am
out, who will mind the lodge ? "
" Oh, I'll take care of the lodge."
The old woman departed on her agreeable errand.
At the termination of a few minutes the postman
tapped at the lodge window, and putting his hand into
the apartment, presented two letters, merely saying,
" Three sous."
" Six sous, you mean, for two letters," replied Rodolph.
" One is free," answered the man.
Having paid and dismissed the postman, Rodolph
mechanically examined the two letters thus committed
to his charge ; but at a further glance they seemed to
him worthy a more attentive observation. The epistle
addressed to Madame Pipelet exhaled through its hot-
pressed envelope a strong odour of Russia leather ; it
bore, on a seal of red wax, the initials " C. R." sur-
mounted by a helmet, and supported by a cross of the
Legion of Honour. The direction was written in a firm,
bold hand. The heraldic device of the commingled
casque and cross made Rodolph smile, and confirmed
him in the idea that the writer of the letter in question
was not a female. Who was this scented, emblazoned
correspondent of old Anastasia Pipelet ? Rodolph felt
an undefinable curiosity to know. The other epistle,
written upon coarse and common paper, was united only
by a common wafer, pricked over with the point of a
pin, and was addressed to " M. C^sar Bradamanti, Oper-
263
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
ating Dentist." Evidently disguised, the superscription
was entirely composed of capital letters. Whether
founded on a true or false presage, this letter seemed to
Rodolph to wear a mournful look, as though evil or
misery were contained within its shabby folds. He per-
ceived that some of the letters in the direction were
fainter than the others, and that the paper there seemed
a little rumpled : a tear had evidently fallen upon it.
Madame Pipelet returned, bearing the bottle of cassia
and two glasses.
" I have dawdled, have I not, monsieur ? " said she,
gaily. " But let you once get into that good Fere
Joseph's shop, and it is hard work to get out again.
Oh, that old man is a very insinuating "
" Here, madame," interrupted Rodolph, " here are two
letters the postman left while you were gone."
" Dear me ! Two letters ! Pray excuse me, monsieur.
I suppose you paid for them ? "
" I did."
" You are very good. I tell you what, then, we will
settle that out of the first money you have to pay me ;
how much was it ? "
" Three sous,' answered Rodolph, much amused at
the ingenious method of reimbursement employed by
Madame Pipelet. " But may I, without offence, observe
that one of the letters is addressed to you, and that you
possess in the writer a correspondent whose billets-doux
are marvellously well perfumed ? "
" Let us see what it is about," said the porteress, tak-
ing the epistle in the scented envelope. " Yes, upon my
word, it is scented up like a real billet-doux! Now, I
should very much like to know who would dare write
me a love-letter ! He must be a villain ! "
" And suppose it had fallen into your husband's
hands, Madame Pipelet?''
" Oh, for goodness' sake don't mention that, or I
shall faint away in your arms ! But how stupid I am !
264
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
Now I know all about it," replied the fat porteress,
shrugging her shoulders. " To be sure ! to be sure !
It comes from the Commandant ! Lord bless me,
what a fright I have had ! for Alfred is as jealous as
a Turk."
" Here is another letter addressed to M. C^sar
Bradamanti."
" Ah ! to be sure, the dentist on the third floor. I
will put it in the letter-boot."
Rodolph fancied he had not caught the right words,
but, to his astonishment, he saw Madame Pipelet
gravely throw the letter alluded to into an old top-
boot hanging up against the wall. He looked at her
with surprise.
" Do you mean," said he at length, " to put the
gentleman's letter in "
" Oh, yes, that is all right," replied the porteress.
" I have put it in the letter-boot, there, you see. So
now nobody's letters can be mislaid ; and when the dif-
ferent lodgers return home, Alfred or myself turns the
boot upside down, we sort them out, and everybody
gets his own."
So saying, the porteress proceeded to break the seal
of the letter addressed to her ; which having done, she
turned it round and round, looked at it in every direc-
tion, then, after a short appearance of embarrassment
and uncertainty, she said to Rodoloph :
" Alfred generally reads my letters for me, because I
do not happen to be able to read them myself ; perhaps
you would not mind just looking over this for me ? "
" With the utmost pleasure ! " quickly replied Ro-
dolph, curious to dive into the mysteries of who Ma-
dame Pipelet's correspondent might be ; and forthwith
he read what follows, written upon hot-pressed paper,
stamped in its right-hand corner with the helmet, the let-
ers " C. R.," the heraldic supporters, and the cross or
honour.
285
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" To-morrow (Friday), about eleven o'clock, let there be a
good (not an overfierce) fire lighted in both rooms ; have every-
thing well dusted, and remove the coverings from the furniture,
taking especiai care not to scratch the gilding, or to soil or
bm-n the carpet while lighting the fires. If I should not be in
about one o'clock, when a lady will arrive in a hackney-coach
and inquire for me by the name of M. Charles, let her be shown
up to the apartment ; after which the key is to be taken down-
stairs again, and kept till my arrival."
Spite of the want of finished composition displayed in
this hillet, Rodolph perfectly comprehended to whom
and what it alluded, and merely added, after perusing
it:
" Who lives on the first floor, then ? "
The old woman placed her yellow, shrivelled finger
upon her pendulous lip, and replied, by a half -malicious
grin :
" Hush ! There is a woman in the way, silence ! "
''' Oh, my dear Madame Pipelet, I merely asked be-
cause, before living in a house, one likes to know a
little."
" Yes, yes ! Of course, everybody likes to know all
they can ; that is all fair enough ; and I am sure I have
no objection to tell you all I know myself, and that is
but very little. Well, but to begin. About six weeks
ago a carpet-maker came here to look at the first floor,
which was then to let, and to ask the price, and other
particulars about it. Next day he came again, accom-
panied by a young man of fair complexion, small mous-
taches, and wearing a cross of honour and very fine
linen. The carpet-maker called him commandant."
" A military man, I suppose ?" said Rodolph.
"Military ! " exclaimed Madame Pipelet, with a chuckle.
" Not he ! Why, Alfred might as well call himself porter
to a prince."
" How so ? "
" Why, he is only in the National Guard ! The car-
pet-maker only called him commandant to flatter him :
266
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
just the same as it tickles up Alfred's vanity to be styled
concierge instead of porter. So when the commandant
(that is the only name we know him by) had
looked over the rooms, he said to the upholsterer, his
friend,' Well, I think the place will do for me, just see
the landlord, and arrange all about it.' ' Yes, com-
mandant,' says the other. And the very next day the
upholsterer-man signed the lease with M. Bras Rouge
(in his own name, mind you) ; and, further, paid six
months in advance, because, he said, the gentleman did
not wish to be bored about references. And such a
power of fine furniture as was sent into the first floor !
Sophems (sarcophagus) curtains, all silk ; glasses set in
gold, and everything you can mention, all beautiful
enough to astonish you ; just, for all the world, like one
of them grand caf^s on the Boulevards ! As for the
carpets, oh, you never trod on the like of them, I'll be
bound. Put your foot on them, and you'd fancy you
was stepping on velvet, and take it off again for fear of
spoiling it. When everything was completed, the com-
mandant came to look at it, just to see if he could find
out anything more he wanted ; but he could not. So
then he spoke to Alfred, and says he, ' Could you take
charge of my rooms and keep them in nice order, light
fires from time to time, and get them ready for me when
I wish to occupy them ? I shall not be here often,' says
he, ' and would always write you a line before coming,
to give you time to prepare them.' * Yes, commandant,
I can,' answers my flatterer of an Alfred. ' And what
shall you charge ? ' ' Twenty francs a month, comman-
dant.' ' Twenty francs ! ' exclaimed the commandant.
' Why, porter, you are jesting, surely ! ' And hereupon
he began bating Alfred down in the most shabby man-
ner, trying to squeeze poor people like us out of two or
three miserable francs, when he had been squandering
thousands in fitting up his grand apartments, which,
after all, he did not mean to live in ! However, after a
267
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
deal of battling, we got twelve francs a month out of him,
a paltry, pitiful, two-farthing captain ! What a dif-
ference, now, between you and him ! " added the porter-
ess, addressing Rodolph with an admiring glance. " You
don't call yourself fine names and titles, you only look
like a plain body, you must be poor, or you would not
perch yourself on the fourth floor ; and yet you agreed
with me for six francs, without attempting to bate me
down ! "
'' And when did the commandant pay you his next
visit?"
" I'll tell you, and good fun it is, too. My gentle-
man must have been nicely choused by somebody. Three
times did he write (same as to-day), ordering us to light
a fire and have everything ready for the reception of a
lady he expected would come. Come ! Yes, I daresay
he may expect a long time first, I rather think."
" Nobody came then ? "
" Listen. The first time the commandant arrived,
strutting and swelling like a turkey-cock, humming and
singing, after his manner, all the gay tunes of the day,
walking up and down his fine room with hii hands stuck
in his pockets, and occasionally stopping to arrange his
hair before the glass, we were watching him all the
time. Well, this went on for two or three hours, when, I
suppose, he knew it was no use waiting any longer ; so
he came down-stairs very softly, and with quite a different
manner to the pride and consequence he had marched
up with. By way of teasing him, Pipelet and I went out
to him and said, ' Commandant, there has been no lady
whatever to inquire for you.' * Yery well ! Yery well ! '
exclaimed he, half mad and half ashamed of being
laughed at, and, buttoning up his coat, he walked off as
fast as he could. The next time, before he came him-
self, a small note was brought here by a man, directed to
M. Charles ; I strongly suspected he was done again, and
Pipelet and me were enjoying a hearty good laugh over it
268
I
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
when the commandant arrived. * Captain,' says I, putting
the back of my hand up to my wig, by way of military
salute, * here is a letter for you, but I am afraid it con-
tains news of a second countermarch against you.' He
looked at me sour as a crab, snatched the letter from my
hand, read it, turned scarlet as a boiled lobster, then
walked off, pretending to whistle ; but he was finely
vexed, ready to hang himself, I could see he was,
and it was rare nuts to me. ' Go, and swallow
that pill, my two-farthing captain,' says I to myself ; ' that
serves you right for only giving twelve francs a month
for minding your apartments.' "
" And the third time ? "
" Ah, the third time I really thought it was all
right. The commandant arrived more stuck up with
pride than ever ; his eyes staring with self-satisfied
admiration at himself and the certainty of not being
disappointed this time. Let me tell the truth about
him ; he really is a good-looking man, and dresses well,
though he stinks of musk like a civet cat. Well, there
was my gentleman arrayed in all his finery, and scarcely
condescending to look at us poor folks; he seemed as
though he conferred a favour on the earth by deigning
to walk on it, and went, sticking his nose into the air,
as if he meant to touch the clouds with it. He took
the key, and said to us, as he passed up-stairs, in a
jeering, self-complacent tone, as though to revenge him-
self for having been laughed at twice before, ' You will
direct the lady to my apartments when she comes.'
Well, Pipelet and I were so anxious to see the lady he
expected, though we did not much reckon upon her
keeping her appointment, even if she ever made one,
that we went and hid ourselves behind the little door
that belongs to the alley ; and, behold ! in a short time
a blue hackney-coach, with its blinds drawn down,
stopped at the entrance to the house. ' There she
is ! ' says I to Alfred. * There is his madame ; let's keep
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
back a bit for fear we frighten her away.' The coach-
man got off his box and opened the door. Then we
saw a female, closely covered with a black veil, and
carrying a muff; she had apparently been crying, for
she kept her handkerchief to her face ; for when the
steps were let down, instead of alighting, she said some
few words to the driver, who, much surprised, shut the
door up again."
" Then the lady did not get out ? "
" No ! she threw herself back in the coach and
pressed her handkerchief tightly to her eyes. I rushed
out, and before the coachman had time to get on his
seat again, I called out, ' Hallo, there, coachy ! are you
going back again ? ' ' Yes,' says he. * Where ? ' says
I. ' Where I came from,' answers he. ' And where
did you come from ? ' asks I again. ' From the Rue
St. Dominique, corner of the Rue Belle Chasse.' "
Rodolph started at these words. His dearest friend,
the Marquis d'Harville, who, as elsewhere stated, had
been for some time labouring under a deep melancholy
none could penetrate, lived in the very place just men-
tioned by Madame Pipelet. Could this mysterious
female in the blue fiacre be the Marquise d'Harville ?
And was it from the lightness and frivolity of her con-
duct that the mind of her excellent husband was bowed
down by doubts and misgivings ? These painful sug-
gestions crowded on Rodolph's mind, but, although well
acquainted with all the various guests received by the
marquise, he could recollect no one answering the de-
scription of the commandant : added to which, any
female might have taken a hackney-coach from that
spot without necessarily living in the street. There was
really nothing to identify the unknown of the blue fiacre
with Madame d'Harville, and yet a thousand vague
fears and painful suspicions crossed his mind ; his
uneasy manner and deep abstraction did not escape the
porteress.
270
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
" What are you thinking of, sir ? " asked she at length.
" I was wondering what could have induced the lady,
after coming to the very door, to change her mind so
suddenly."
" There is no saying ; some sudden thought, dread
or fear, for we poor women are but weak, cowardly
things," said the porteress, assuming a timid, frightened
manner. " Well, I think if it had been myself now, com-
ing secretly to visit Alfred, I should have had to try
back a great many times before I could have screwed
up my courage to venture in. But then, as for visiting
your great dons in this kind of way, I never could have
done such a thing. No, never ! I am sure there is
nobody under the face of heaven can say I ever give
them the least freedom, I should think not, indeed,
while my poor dear old darling of a husband is left."
" No doubt, no doubt, Madame Pipelet ; but about
the young person you were describing in the blue
fiacre?''
" Oh ! mind, I don't know whether she was young or
old ; I could not even catch a glimpse of the tip of her
nose ; all I can say is she went as she came, and that
is all about it. As for Alfred and me, we were better
pleased than if we had found ten francs."
'Why so?"
" By enjoying the rage and confusion of the com-
mandant when he found himself a third time disap-
pointed; but, instead of going and telling him at once
that his ' madame ' had been and gone, we allowed him
to fume and fret for a whole hour. Then I went softly
up-stairs with only my list slippers on. I reached his
door, which I found half shut ; as I pushed against it,
it creaked ; the staircase is as black as night, and the
entrance to the apartment quite as obscure. Scarcely
had I crept into the room, when the commandant caught
me in his arms, saying, in a languishing voice, ' My dear-
est angel ! what makes you so late ? ' "
271
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Spite of the serious nature of the thoughts crowding
upon his mind, Rodolph could not restrain a smile as he
surveyed the grotesque periwig and hideously wrinkled,
carbuncled visage of the heroine of this comic scene.
Madame Fipelet, however, resumed her narration with
a mirthful chuckle that increased her ugliness :
" That was a go, wasn't it ? But stop a bit. Well,
I did not make the least reply, but, almost keeping in my
breath, I waited to see what would be the end of this
strange reception. For a minute or two the comman-
dant kept hugging me up, then, all of a suddeny the brute
pushed me away, exclaiming with as much disgust as
though he had touched a toad, ' Who the devil are you ? '
' Me, commandant, the porteress, Madame Pipelet;
and, as such, I will thank you to keep your hands off my
waist, and not to call me your angel, and scold me for
being late. Suppose Alfred had heard you, a pretty busi-
ness we should have made of it ! ' ' What the deuce
brings you here ? ' cried he. ' Merely to let you know
the lady in the hackney-coach has just arrived ! ' ' Well,
then, you stupid old fool, show her up directly. Did
I not tell you to do so ? ' ' Yes, commandant ; you
said I was to sho w her up.' * Then why do you not obey
me ? ' ' Because the lady ' ' Speak out, woman, if
you can ! ' ' The lady has gone again.' ' Something you
have said or done, then, to offend her, I am sure ! '
roared he in a perfect fury. ' Not at all, commandant.
The lady did not alight, but when the coach stopped and
the driver opened the door, she desired him to take her
back to where she came from.' ' The vehicle cannot
have got far by this time,' exclaimed the commandant,
hastening towards the door. ' It has been gone upwards
of an hour,' answered I, enjoying his fury and disap-
pointment. * An hour ! an hour ! and what, in the devil's
name, hindered you from letting me know this sooner ? '
^ Because, commandant, Alfred and I thought we would
spare you a^ long as we could the tidings of this third
272
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
breakdown, which we fancied might be too much for
you.' Come, thinks I, there is something to make you
remember flinging me out of your arms, as though it
made you sick to touch me. ' Begone ! ' bawled out the
commandant. ' You hideous old hag ! You can neither
say nor do the thing that is right, and with this he pulled
off his dressing-gown and threw his beautiful Greek cap,
made of velvet embroidered with gold, on the ground : it
was a real shame, for the cap was a downright beauty ;
and as for the dressing-gown, oh, my ! it would set any-
body longing. Meanwhile the commandant kept pacing
the room, with his eyes glaring like a wild beast and
glowing like two glow-w^orms."
" But were you not afraid of losing his employ ? "
" He knew too well what he was about for that ; we
had him in a fix, we knew where his ' madame ' lived,
and had he said anything to us, we should have threat-
ened to expose the whole affair. And who do you think
for his beggarly twelve francs would have undertaken to
attend to his rooms, a stranger ? No ! That we would
have prevented ; we would soon have made the place too
hot to hold any person he might appoint, poor, shabby
fellow that he is ! What do you think ? He actually had
the meanness to examine his wood and put out the quan-
tity he should allow to be burnt while he was away. He
is nothing but an upstart, I am sure, a nobody, who
has suddenly tumbled into money he does not know how
to spend properly, a rich man's head and a beggar's
body, who squanders with one hand and nips and pinches
with the other. I do not wish him any harm, but it
amuses me immensely to think how he has been be-
fooled ; and he will go on believing and expecting from
day to day, because he is too vain to imagine he is being
laughed at. At any rate, if the lady ever comes in
reality, I will let my friend the oyster-woman next door
know ; she enjoys a joke as well as I do, and is quite
as curious as myself to find out what sort of person
273
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
she is, whether fair or dark, pretty or plain. And
who knows ? this woman may be cheating some easy-
going simpleton of a husband for the sake of our two-
penny-halfpenny of a commandant ! Well, that is no
concern of mine, but I am sorry, too, for the poor, dear,
deceived individual, whoever he may be. Dear me !
Dear me ! My pot is boiling over, excuse me a minute,
I must just look to it. Ah, it is time Alfred was in, for
dinner is quite ready, and tripe, you know, should never
be kept waiting. This tripe is done to a turn. Do you
prefer the thick or thin tripe ? Alfred likes it thick.
The poor darling has been sadly out of spirits lately, and
I got this dainty dish to cheer him up a bit ; for, as Alfred
says himself, that for a bribe of good thick tripe he would
betray France itself, his beloved France. Yes, the dear
old pet would change his country for such fine fat tripe
as this, he would."
While Madame Pipelet was thus delivering her domes-
tic harangue upon the virtues of tripe and the powerful
influence it possessed over even the patriotism of her
husband, Rodolph was buried in the deepest and most
sombre reflections. The female, whose visits to the
house had just been detailed, be she the Marquise
d'Harville or any other individual, had evidently long
struggled with her imprudence ere she had brought her-
self to grant a first and second rendezvous, and then,
terrified at the probable consequences of her imprudence,
a salutary remorse had, in all probability, prevented her
from fulfilling her dangerous engagement. It might be
that the fine person this M. Charles was described as
possessing had captivated the senses of Madame d'Har-
ville, whom Rodolph knew well as a woman of deep feel-
ing, high intellect, and superior taste, of an elevated turn
of mind, and a reputation unsullied by the faintest breath
of slander. After long and mature consideration, he suc-
ceeded in persuading himself that the wife of his friend
had nothing to do with the unknown female in the blue
274
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
fiacre, Madame Pipelet, having completed her culinary
arrangements, resumed her conversation with Rodolph.
" And who lives on the second floor ? " inquired he of
the porteress.
" Why, Mother Burette does, a most wonderful
woman at fortune-telling ; bless you, she can read in
your hand the same as a book, and many quite first-rate
people come to her to have the cards consulted when
they are anxious about any particular matter. She
earns her weight in gold, and that is not a trifle, for
she is a rare bundle of an old body. However, tell-
ing fortunes is only one of her means of gaining a
livelihood."
" Why, what does she do besides ? "
" She keeps what you would call a pawnbroker's shop
upon a small scale."
" I see ; your second-floor lodger lends out again the
money she derives from her skill in foretelling events by
reading the cards."
" Exactly so ; only she is cheaper and more easy to
deal with than the regular pawnbrokers : she does not
confuse you with a heap of paper tickets and duplicates,
nothing of the sort. Now suppose : Some one brings
Mother Burette a shirt worth three francs ; well, she
lends ten sous upon condition of being paid twenty at
the end of the week, otherwise she keeps the shirt for
ever. That is simple enough, is it not ? Always in round
figures, you see, a child could understand it. And the
odd things she has brought her as pledges you would
scarcely believe. You can hardly guess what she some-
times is asked to lend upon. I saw her once advance
money upon a gray parrot that swore like a trooper,
the blackguard did."
"A parrot? But to what amount did she advance
money ?"
" I'll tell you ; the parrot was well known ; it belonged
to a Madame Herbelot, the widow of a factor, living
275
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
close by, and it was also well understood that Madame
Herbelot valued the parrot as much as she did her life.
Well, Mother Burette said to her, ' I will lend you ten
francs on your bird, but if by this day week at twelve
o'clock I do not receive twenty francs with interest (it
would amount to that in round numbers), if I am not
paid my twenty francs, with the expenses of his keep, I
shall give your Polly a trifling dose of arsenic mixed
with his food. ' She knew her customer well, bless you !
However, by this threat Mother Burette received her
twenty francs at the end of seven days, and Madame
Herbelot got back her disagreeable, screaming parrot."
" Mother Burette has no other way of living besides
the two you have named, I suppose ?"
" Not that I know of. I don't know, however, what
to say of some rather sly and secret transactions, carried
on in a small room she never allows any one to enter,
except M. Bras Rouge and an old one-eyed woman, called
La Chouette."
Rodolph opened his eyes with unmixed astonishment
as these names sounded on his ear, and the porteress,
interpreting the surprise of her future lodger according
to her own notions, said :
" That name would make any one stare with astonish-
ment. Certainly La Chouette is uncommonly odd ; is it
not?"
" It is, indeed. Does the woman who is so styled
come here frequently ?"
^' We saw her the day before yesterday, for the first
time these six weeks. She was rather lame, I observed."
" And what do you suppose she wants with the for-
tune-telling woman ? "
" That I do not know ; at least, as to what takes place
in the little room I was telling you of, where La Chouette
alone is admitted with M. Bras Rouge and Mother
Burette. I have, however, particularly observed that
on those occasions the one-eyed woman always has a
276
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
large bundle with her in her basket, and that M. Bras
Rouge also carries a parcel of some size beneath his
cloak, and that they always return empty-handed."
" And what can these packets contain ? "
" The Lord above knows, for I don't ; only they kick
up the devil's own row with them, whatever they are.
And then such whiffs of sulphur, charcoal, and melted
lead, as you go up the stairs ; and blow, blow, blow, like
a smith's forge. I verily believe Mother Burette has
dealings with the old one, and practises magic in this
private apartment ; leastways, that is what M. C^sar
Bradamanti, our third-floor lodger, said to me. A very
clever individual is M. C^sar. When I say an ' indi-
vidual,' I mean an Italian, though he speaks as good
French as you or me, excepting his accent, and that is
nothing. Oh, he is very clever, indeed ! knows all about
physic ; and pulls out teeth, not for the sake of the
money but the honour of his profession, yes, really,
sir, for downright honour. Now, suppose you had six
decayed teeth, and he says the same thing to all who
choose to listen to him, well, then he will take out five
for nothing, and only charge you for the sixth. Besides
which, he sells all maimer of remedies for all sorts of
complaints, diseases of the lungs, coughs, colds, every
complaint you can name ; but then he makes his own
drugs, and he has for his assistant the son of our princi-
pal lessee, little Tortillard. He says that his master is
going to buy himself a horse and a red coat, and to sell
his drugs in the market-places, and that young Tortillard
is to be dressed like a page and be at the drum, to
attract customers."
" This seems to me a very humble occupation for the
son of your principal lessee."
" Why, his father says unless he gets a pretty strong
hand over him, and a tolerably powerful taste of whip-
cord, in the way of a sound thrashing, every now and
then, he is safe to come to the scaffold. And he is
277
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
about the ugliest, most spiteful, ill-disposed young rascal
one would wish to meet : he has played more than one
abominable trick upon poor M. Cesar Bradamanti, who
is the best creature possible ; for he cured Alfred of a
rheumatic attack, and I promise you we have not for-
gotten it. Yet there are some people wicked enough
to But no, I wdll not tell you : it would make the
hair of your head stand on end. As Alfred says, if it
were true, it would send him to the galleys."
" Why, what do they accuse him of ? "
"Oh, I really cannot tell you ! I can't, indeed ; for it
is so "
" Then we will drop the subject."
" And to say such things of a young man ! Upon my
life and soul, it is too bad."
" Pray, Madame Pipelet, do not give yourself the
trouble of saying any more about it: let us speak of
other matters."
" Why, I don't know but, as you are to live in the
house, it is only fair and right to prepare you for any
falsehoods you may hear. I suppose you are sufficiently
well off to make the acquaintance of M. C^sar Brada-
manti, and unless you are put on your guard against
these reports, they might lead to your breaking off with
him. So, just put your ear down and I'll whisper what
it is people say about him."
And the old woman, in a low tone, muttered a few
words as Rodolph inclined his head ; he started from
her, with mingled disgust and horror.
" Impossible ! " exclaimed he. " Surely human nature
is not capable of such crimes ! "
" Shocking ! Is it not ? But treat it as I do, all
scandal and lies. What, do you think the man who
cured Alfred's rheumatism, who draws five teeth out
of six for nothing, who has testimonies (testimonials)
from every prince and king in the world, and, above
all, pays as he goes, down on the nail, would go for to
278
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
do such things ? Not he ! I'll stake my blessed life
upon it."
While Madame Pipelct thus vented her indignant
opinion concerning the reports in circulation, Rodolph
recalled to his memory the letter he had seen addressed
to the quack dentist; he remembered the counterfeited
writing and the coarse, common paper, stained with tears,
which had well-nigh obliterated part of the address,
too well did he see in the mysterious grief-stained epistle
the opening of a drama of deep and fearful import ; and
while these sad presages filled his mind, a powerful
impression whispered within him that the dreadful
doings ascribed to the Italian were not altogether
unfounded.
" Oh, I declare, here comes Alfred ! " exclaimed the
porteress. " Now he will tell you his opinion of all
these spiteful stories about poor M. Bradamanti. Bless
you! Alfred thinks him as innocent as a lamb, ever
since he cured his rheumatics."
M. Pipelet entered the lodge with a grave, magisterial
air. He was about sixty years of age, comfortably fat,
with a large, broad countenance, strongly resembling in
its cast and style the faces carved upon the far-famed
nutcrackers of Nuremberg; a nose, of more than ordi-
nary proportions, helping to complete the likeness. An
old and dingy-looking hat, with a very deep brim, sur-
mounted the whole. Alfred, who adhered to this upper
ornament as tenaciously as his wife did to her Brutus
wig, was further attired in an ancient green coat, with
immense flaps turned up with grease, if so might be
described the bright and shiny patches of long-accu-
mulated dirt, which had given an entirely different hue
to some portions of the garment. But, though clad in a
hat and coat esteemed by Pipelet and his wife as closely
resembling full dress, Alfred had not laid aside the mod-
est emblem of his trade, but from his waist uprose the
buff-coloured triangular front of hia leathern apron,
279
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
partly concealing a waistcoat boasting nearly as great a
variety of colours as did the patchwork counterpane of
Madame Pipelet.
The porter's recognition of Rodolph as he entered was
gracious in the extreme ; but, alas ! he smiled a melan-
choly welcome, and his countenance and languid air
marked a man of secret sorrow.
" Alfred," said Madame Pipelet, when she had intro-
duced her two companions, " here is a gentleman after
the apartment on the fourth floor, and we have only been
waiting for you to drink a glass of cordial he sent for."
This delicate attention won for Rodolph the entire
trust and confidence of the melancholy porter, who,
touching the brim of his hat, said, in a deep bass voice
worthy of being employed in a cathedral :
" We shall give the gentleman every satisfaction as
porters, and, doubtless, he will act the same by us as a
lodger ; ' birds of a feather flock together,' as the proverb
says." Then, interrupting himself, M. Pipelet anxiously
added, " Providing, sir, you are not a painter ! "
" No, 1 am not a painter, but a plain merchant's
clerk."
'' My most humble duty to you, sir. I congratulate
you that Nature did not make you one of those monsters
called artists."
" Artists, monsters ! " returned Rodolph. " Tell me,
pray, why you style them so."
Instead of replying, M. Pipelet elevated his clasped
hands towards the ceiling, and allowed a heavy sound,
between a grunt and a groan, to escape his overcharged
breast.
" You must know, sir," said Madame Pipelet, in a
low tone, to Rodolph, " that painters have embittered
Alfred's life ; they have worried my poor old dear
almost out of his senses, and made him half stupefied,
as you see him now." Then speaking loud, she added,
in a caressing tone, " Oh, never mind the blackguard,
280
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
there's a dear, but try and forget all about it, or you
will be ill, and unable to eat the nice tripe I have got
for your dinner."
" Let us hope I shall have courage and firmness enough
for all things," replied M. Pipelet, with a dignified and
resigned air ; " but he has done me much harm ; he has
been my persecutor, almost my executioner, long have
I suffered, but now I despise him ! Ah," said he, turn-
ing to Rodolph, " never allow a painter to enter your
doors ; they are the plague the ruin the destruction
of a house ! "
" You have, then, had a painter lodging with you, I
presume ? "
" Unhappily, sir, I did have one," replied M. Pipelet,
with much bitterness, and that one named Cabrion.
Ah!"
At the recollections brought back by this name, the
porter's declaration of courage and endurance utterly
failed him, and again his clenched fists were raised, as
though to invoke the vengeance he had so lately de-
scribed himself as despising.
"And was this individual the last occupant of the
chamber I am about engaging ? " inquired Rodolph.
" No, no ! The last lodger was an excellent young man
named M. Germain. No, this Cabrion had the room
before he came. Ah, sir, since Cabrion left, he has all
but driven me stark staring mad ! "
" Did you, then, so much regret him ? " asked Rodolph.
" Regret him ! Regret Cabrion ! " screamed the
astounded porter ; " why, only imagine, M. Bras Rouge
paid him two quarters' rent to induce him to quit the
place, for, unluckily, he had taken his apartments for a
term. What a scamp he was ! You have no idea of the
horrible tricks he played off upon all the lodgers as well
as us. Why, just to give you one little proof of his vil-
lainy, there was hardly a single wind instrument he did
not make use of as a sort of annoyance to the lodgers ;
281
(f
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
from the French horn to the flageolet, he made use of
all, and even carried his rascality so far as to play false
and to keep blowing the same note for hours together ;
it was enough to worry one out of one's senses. Well, I
suppose there were upwards of twenty different petitions
sent to our chief lessee, M. Bras Rouge, to turn the beggar
out ; and, at last, he was only got rid of by paying him
two quarters' rent, rather droll, is it not, for a landlord
to pay his lodger ? But, bless you, the house was so up-
set by him that he might have had any price so he would
but take himself off ; however, he did go. And now you
suppose we were clear of M. Cabrion ? I'll tell you.
Next night, about eleven o'clock, I was in bed, when
rap, rap, rap, comes to the gate. I pulls up the string,
somebody walks up to my door, ' How do you do, porter ? '
says a voice ; ' will you oblige me with a lock of your
hair ? ' * Somebody has mistaken the door,' says my
wife. So I calls out to the stranger, ' You are wrong,
friend, you want next door.' ' I think not,' returns the
voice ; ' this is No. 17, is it not, and the porter's name
is Pipelet ? I'm all right ; so please to open the door
and oblige me with a lock of your beautiful hair.' My
name is Pipelet, certainly,' answers I. ' Well, then,
friend Pipelet, Cabrion has sent me for a piece of your
hair ; he says he must and he will have it.' "
As Pipelet uttered the last words he gave his head a
mournful shake, and, folding his arms, assumed an atti-
tude of martyrlike resolution.
" Do you perceive, sir ? He sends to me, his mortal
enemy, whom he overwhelmed with insults and continu-
ally outraged in every way, to beg a lock of my hair,
a favour which even ladies have been known to refuse
to a lover ! "
" But, supposing this Cabrion had been as good a
lodger as was M. Germain," replied Rodolph, with some
difficulty preserving the gravity of countenance, " do
you think you might have accorded him the favour ? "
282
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
" Not to the best lodger that treads shoe-leather would
I grant a similar request," replied the man in the flapped
hat, waving it majestically over his brows as he spoke ;
" it is contrary to my principles and habits to give my
hair to any one, only I should have refused with the
most scrupulous regard to politeness."
" That is not all," chimed in the porter ess. " Only
conceive, sir, the abominable conduct of that Cabrion,
who, from morning to night, at all hours and at all
times, sends a swarm of vagabonds like himself to ask
Alfred for a lock of his hair, always for Cabrion ! "
" Ah, monsieur," sighed out poor Pipelet, " had I
committed the most atrocious crimes, my sleep could
not have been rendered more broken and unrefreshing ;
scarcely do I fall into a doze than I wake starting with
the idea of being called by that cursed Cabrion! I sus-
pect everybody, in each person who approaches me I
see an emissary from my persecutor come to request a
lock of my hair. I am losing my good spirits, my
temper, and becoming gloomy, suspicious, peevish, and
ill-natured. This infernal Cabrion has murdered my
whole life ! "
And Pipelet heaved so profound a sigh that his hat,
vibrating for some time from the consequences of the
convulsive shake of the head occasioned thereby, fell
forward and completely veiled his care-stricken features.
" I can well understand, now,'* said Rodolph, " that
you are not particularly partial to painters ; but I sup-
pose the M. Germain you were praising so highly made
up for the bad treatment you received from M. Cabrion ? "
" Yes, yes, sir ; as I told you, M. Germain was a
delightful young man, so honourable and kind-hearted,
open as the day, and ever ready to serve and oblige ; he
was cheerful and merry as need be, but then he always
kept his high spirits within proper bounds instead of
worrying people to death by his unmeaning hoaxes, like
that Cabrion, who I wish was at the devil ! "
283
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Come, come, my good M. Pipelet, I must not let
you thus excite yourself ; and who, now, is the person
fortunate enough to possess such a pattern of a lodger
as this M. Gerinain seems to have been ? "
" That is more than I can tell you ; no one knows
whither he has gone, nor are they likely, except, indeed,
through Mile. Rigolette."
"And who is Mile. Rigolette ? " demanded Rodol ph.
"Why, she is a needlewoman, also living on the
fourth floor," cried Madame Pipelet ; " another pattern
lodger, always pays her rent in advance, and keeps her
little chamber so nice and clean ; then she is well behaved
to every one, so merry and happy, like a bird, though,
poor thing ! very like a caged bird, obliged to work
early and late to earn two francs a day, and often not
half that, let her try ever so hard."
" How does it happen that Mile. Rigolette should
be the only person entrusted with the secret of M.
Germain's present abode ? "
" Why, when he was going away, he came to us and
said," returned Madame Pipelet, " * I do not expect any
letters ; but if, by chance, any should come, please to
give them to Mile. Rigolette.' And she is well worthy
of his confidence, if his letters were filled with gold;
don't you think so, Alfred ? "
" The fact is," said the porter, in a severe tone, " that
I know no harm of Mile. Rigolette, excepting her per-
mitting herself to be wheedled over by that vile scamp,
Cabrion."
" But you know, Alfred, that nothing more than a few
harmless attentions passed between them," interrupted
the porteress ; " for, though Mile. Rigolette is as
merry as a kitten, she is as prudent and correct as I
am myself. You should see the strong bolts she has
inside her door; and if her next-door neighbour will
make love to her, that is not her fault ; it follows as a
matter of course when people are so close to each other.
284
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
It was just the same with the travelling-clerk we had
here before Cabrion, and so it was when M. Germain
took the room this abominable painter occupied. So, as
I say, there is no blame to Mile. Rigolette ; it arises
out of the two rooms joining one another so closely,
naturally that brings about a little flirtation, but nothing
more."
" So, then, it becomes a matter of course, does it,"
said Rodolph, " that every one who occupies the apart-
ment I am to have should make love to Mile. Rigolette ? "
" Why, of course, monsieur ; how can you be good
neighbours without it, don't you see ? Now, imagine
yourself lodging in the very next room to a nice, pretty,
obliging young person, like Mile. Rigolette ; well, then,
young people will be young people, sometimes you
want a light, sometimes a few live coals to kindle
up your fire, maybe a little water, for one is sure
always to find plenty of fresh spring water at Mile.
Rigolette's, she is never without it ; it is her only
luxury, she is like a little duck, always dabbling in it ;
and if she does happen to have a little leisure, such a
washing down of floors and cleaning of windows ! Never
the least soil or neglect about either herself or her
apartment, and so you will find."
" And so M. Germain, by reason of his close proximity
to Mile. Rigolette, became what you style upon perfectly
neighbourly terms with her ? "
" Oh, bless you, yes ! Why, the two seemed cut out for
each other, so young and so good-looking ! It was quite
a pleasure to look at them as they came down-stairs of
a Sunday to take the only walk, poor things ! they could
afford themselves throughout the week ; she dressed in a
smart little cap and a gown that cost, probably, not more
than twenty-five sous the ell, but made by herself, and
that so tastily that it became her as much as though it
had been of satin ; he, mind ye, dressed and looking like
a regular gentleman."
285
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" And M. Germain has not been to see Mile. Rigolette,
I suppose, since he quitted the house ? "
" No, mons^'eur ; unless on Sunday, for Mile. Rigo-
lette has no time during the other six days of the
week to think of sweethearting. Why, the poor girl
rises at five or six o'clock, and works incessantly till ten
or eleven o'clock at night, never once leaving her room
except for a few minutes in the morning, when she goes
out to buy food for herself and her two canary-birds ;
and the three eat but very little, just a penn'orth of milk,
a little bread, some chickweed, bird-seed, and clear fresh
water, and the whole three of them sing away as merrily
as though they fared ever so sumptuously. And Mile.
Rigolette is kind and charitable, too, as far as lies
in her power ; that is to say, she gives her time, her
sleep, and her services ; for, poor girl ! she can scarcely
manage to keep herself by working closely for twelve hours
a day. Those poor, unfortunate creatures in the attics,
whom M. Bras Rouge is going to turn into the streets in
two or three days' time, if even he wait so long, why.
Mile. Rigolette and M. Germain sat up with the children
night after night ! "
" You have a distressed family, then, here ? "
" Distressed ! Oh, God bless you, my good sir, I think
we have, indeed. Why, there are five young children,
an almost dying mother, an idiotic grandmother, and
their only support a man who, though he slaves like a
negro, cannot even get bread enough to eat, and a cap-
ital workman he is, too ; three hours' sleep out of the
twenty-four is all he allows himself, and what sleep it
is ! broken by his children crying for food, by the groans
of his sick wife tossing on her miserable straw bed, or
the idiotic screams of the poor bedridden old grand-
mother, who sometimes howls like a wolf, from hunger,
too, for, poor creature ! she has not sense or reason to
know better, and when she gets very hungry you may
hear cries and screams all down the staircase.''
286
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
" Horrible ! " exclaimed Rodolph, with a shudder ;
" and does no one afford them any assistance ? "
" Truly, sir, we do all we can ; we are but poor our-
selves ; however, since the commandant has allowed me
his paltry twelve francs a month for looking after his
apartments, I have managed once a week to make a
little broth for these poor, unfortunate creatures. Mile.
Rigolette deprives herself of her night's rest, and sits up,
poor girl (though it burns her candles), contriving out
of one bit and the other of her cutting out, to make up
a few clothes for the children ; sometimes from the
morsels left of her work she manages a small nightcap
or gown ; and M. Germain, who had not a franc more
than he knew what to do with, used to pretend, from
time to time, that he had received a present of a few bot-
tles of wine from his friends; and Morel (that is the
name of the workman with the sick family) was sure to be
invited to share it with him ; and it was really wonder-
ful to see how refreshed and strengthened poor Morel
used to seem after M. Germain had made him take a
good pull at his wine, to put, as he used to say, a little
life and soul into his half-exhausted body."
" And the surgeon-dentist, what did he do for this
wretched family ? "
" M. Bradamanti ? " said the porter. " Ah ! he cured
my rheumatism, and I owe him my eternal gratitude ;
biit from that day 1 said to my wife, ' Anastasia, M.
Bradamanti ' hum ! hum ! did I not say so,
Anastasia ? "
" Exactly ; that is precisely what you did say."
" But I want to know what this M. Bradamanti did
to assist the poor starving beings in your garrets."
" Why, you see, monsieur, when I mentioned to M.
Bradamanti the misery and utter destitution of poor
Morel by the way, he first began the conversation by
complaining that the raving and screaming of the old
idiot woman throughout the night for food prevented
287
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
him from sleeping, and that he found it very unpleasant ;
however, he listened to my description of the state the
whole family was in, and then he said, ' Well, if they
are so much distressed, you may tell them that if they
want any teeth drawn, I will excuse them paying even
for the sixth.' "
" I tell you what, Madame Pipelet," said Rodolph, " I
have a decidedly bad opinion of this man. And your
female pawnbroker, was she more charitable ? "
u Yerv much after the fashion of M. Bradamanti,"
said the porteress; "she lent a few sous upon their
wretched clothes; every garment they had has passed
into her hands, and even their last mattress ; but they
were not long coming to the last, for they never had but
two."
" But she gave them no further aid ? "
" Help them, poor creatures ! Not she. Mothei'
Burette is as great a brute in her way as her lover,
M. Bras Rouge, is in . his ; for between you and I,"
added the porteress, with an uncommonly knowing wink
of the eye and sagacious shake of the head, " there is
something rather tender going on between these two."
" Really ! " cried Rodolph.
" I think so, I do, upon my life. And why not ?
Why, the folks in St. Martin are as loving as the rest
of the world ; are they not, my old pet ? "
A melancholy shake of the head, which produced a
corresponding motion in the huge black hat, was M.
Pipelet's only answer. As for Madame Pipelet, since she
had begun expressing sympathy for the poor sufferers
in the attics, her countenance had ceased to strike
Rodolph as repulsive, and he even thought it wore an
agreeable expression.
" And what is this poor MorePs trade ?"
" A maker of false jewelry ; he works by the piece ;
but, dear me ! that sort of work is so much imitated,
and so cheaply got up that For a man can but
288
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
work his best, and he cannot do more than he can ;
besides, when you have got to find bread for seven
persons without reckoning yourself, it is rather a hard
job, I take it. And though his eldest daughter does her
best to assist the family, she has but very little in her
power."
" How old is this daughter ? "
" About eighteen, and as lovely a young creature as you
would see in a long summer's day. She lives as servant
with an old miserly fellow, rich enough to buy and sell
half Paris, a notary, named M. Jacques Ferrand."
" M. Jacques Ferrand ! " exclaimed Rodolph, surprised
at the fresh coincidence which brought under his notice
the very individual from whom, or from whose confiden-
tial housekeeper, he expected to glean so many particu-
lars relative to La Goualeuse. " M. Jacques Ferrand,
who lives in the Rue du Sentier, do you mean ? "
inquired he.
" The very same ; are you acquainted with him ? "
" Not at all ; but he does the law business for the firm
1 belong to."
" Ah ! then you must know that he is a regular
money-grubbing old usurer ; but then, let me do the man
justice. He is strictly religious, and devout as a monk ;
never absent from mass or vespers, making his Easter
offerings, and going regularly to confession. If he ever
enjoys himself, it is only along with the priests, drinking
holy water, and eating blessed bread. Oh, he is almost
a saint in the strictness of his life ; but, then, his heart
is as hard as iron, and as stern and rigid towards others
as he is severe towards himself. Why, poor Louise,
daughter to our sick lodger, has been his only servant
for the last eighteen months. And what a good girl she
is ! Gentle as a lamb in temper and disposition, but will-
ing as a horse to work ; and he only gives this poor
thing, who slaves herself to death for him, eighteen
francs a month, not a farthing more, I give you my
2S9
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
word ; and out of this she only keeps back six francs for
her own maintenance, and hands over the other twelve
to her starving family ; that has been all their depend-
ence for some time past ; but when seven persons have
to live upon it, it does not go far."
" But what does the father earn, I mean, provided
he is industrious ? "
" Industrious ! God bless you, he has always over-
worked himself ; he is the soberest, steadiest creature
alive ; and I verily believe that if he had the promise of
obtaining any favour he liked to ask of Heaven, it would
be that the day might be made doubly as long as it now
is, that he might earn bread enough to stop the cries of
his starving brats."
" Then the father cannot earn enough if he were to
try ever so hard, it seems ?"
" Why, the poor man was ill abed for three months,
and that threw them all behind ; his wife's health was
quite ruined by the fatigue of nursing him and the
severe want she experienced of common necessaries for
herself and family. She now lies in a dying state ; they
have had nothing for all that period besides Louise's
wages and what they could obtain from Mother Burette
upon the few wretched articles they could dispose of.
True, the master for whom Morel had worked advanced
them a trifle, out of respect for a man he had always
found punctual and honest when he could work. But,
la! Eight people only to be found in bread, that is what
I say, just imagine how hard it must be to keep life
and soul together upon such small means ; and if you
could only see the hole they are all huddled together in
But do not let us talk any more about that, mon-
sieur, for our dinner is ready, and the very thought of
their wretched garret turns my stomach. However,
happily, M. Bras Rouge is going to clear the house of
them, when I say happily, I don't mean it ill-naturedly
in the least ; but since these poor Morels have fallen into
290
A HOUSE IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
such misery, and it is quite out of our power to help
them, why let them go and be miserable elsewhere ; it
will be a heartache the less for us all."
" But, if they are turned out from here, where will
they go to ? "
" Truly, I don't know."
" And how much can this poor workman earn daily
when in health, and without any calls upon his time or
attention ? "
" Why, if he had not to attend to his old mother,
nurse his sick wife, and look after the five children, he
could earn his three or four francs a day, because
he works like a downright slave ; but now that at least
three-quarters of his time are taken up with the family,
he can hardly manage to earn forty sous."
" That is little, indeed, poor creatures ! "
" Yes, it is easy to say poor creatures, but there are
so many equally poor creatures, that, as w^e can do
nothing for them, it is no use to worry ourselves about
it, is it, Alfred ? And, talking of consoling ourselves,
there stands the cassia, and we have never thought of
tasting it."
" To tell you the truth, Madame Pipelet, after what I
have just heard I have no inclination to partake of it.
You and M. Pipelet must drink my health in it when I
am gone."
" You are extremely kind, sir," said the porter ; " but
will you not like to see the rooms up-stairs ? "
" I shall be glad to do so, if perfectly convenient ; and,
if they suit, I will engage them at once and leave a
deposit."
The porter, followed by Rodolph, emerged from the
gloomy lodge, and proceeded up-stairs.
291
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FOUR STORIES.
The damp, dark staircase looked still more gloomy
through the fog of a November day. The entrance to
each separate set of apartments in this house bore its
own peculiar and distinctive character to the observant
eye. Thus, the door conducting to those of the com-
mandant bore evidences of having been recently painted
in close imitation of ebony, being further set off with
a brass knob rubbed up to a most dazzling brightness,
while a gay-coloured bell-rope, finished by an enormous
tassel of scarlet silk, contrasted strongly with the mean
and shabby wall against which it hung.
The door of the flight above, where dwelt the female
money-lender and dealer in divination, was singularly
characterised by the appearance of that mystical symbol
of deep wisdom and oracular knowledge, an owl, which,
stuffed to resemble life as closely as the artist could
contrive it, was nailed on a small bracket just above the
doorway ; while a sort of small wicket, latticed with
wire-work, enabled all visitors to be duly scrutinised ere
they were admitted.
The dwelling of the Italian charlatan, who was said
to pursue such fearful avocations, had, likewise, its whim-
sical mode of designating the pursuits of its occu-
pant, whose name, traced in large letters formed of
horses' teeth upon a square black board, was nailed
to the entrance-door; while, instead of adopting the
classical agency of a deer's foot or a hare's pad for
292
THE FOUR STORIES.
the handle of his bell, there hung dangling from the
cord the hand and arm of a dried ape, the withered
limb, the shrivelled hand, with its five fingers, each so
distinctly preserved, and the articulation of every joint
so clearly defined, the tiny tips bearing the nails long
and taper as those of a human creature, presented a
close and hideous resemblance to the hand and arm
of a child.
As Rodolph passed before a door so singularly indic-
ative of all his worst suspicions, he fancied he could
detect the sound of smothered sobs from within.
Then rose up a cry so full of agony, of convulsive,
irrepressible misery, a cry as if wrung from a
breaking heart or the last wail of expiring nature,
that the whole house seemed to reecho it. Rodolph
started ; then, by a movement more rapid than thought
itself, he rushed to the door and violently pulled the bell.
" What is the matter, sir ? " inquired the astonished
porter.
" That cry ! '' said Rodolph ; " did you not hear it ? '^
" Yes, yes, I heard it ; I dare say it is some person
whose teeth M. Bradamanti is taking out ; perhaps he
may be taking out several, and it is painful ! "
This explanation, though a probable one, did not
satisfy Rodolph as to the horrid scream which still
resounded in his ears. Though he had rung the bell
with considerable violence, no person had as yet replied
to his summons ; he could distinctly hear the shutting
of several doors, and then, behind a small oval glass let
in beside the door, and on which Rodolph had mechanic-
ally kept his eyes fixed, he saw the haggard, cadaverous
countenance of a human being ; a mass of reddish hair
strongly mixed with gray, and a long beard of the same
hue, completed the hideous ensemble ; the face was seen
but for an instant, and vanished as quickly as though it
had been a mere creation of fancy, leaving Rodolph in
a state of perturbation impossible to describe.
293
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Short as had been the period of this apparition's
visit, he had yet in those brief instants recalled features
precisely similar and for ever engraved on his memory,
the eyes shining with the colour and brilliancy of the
aqua marina beneath their bushy sandy eyebrows, the
livid complexion, the nose thin, projecting, and curving
like an eagle's beak, with its nostrils so curiously expanded
and carved out till they exposed a portion of the nasal
cartilage, resembled closely a certain Polidori, whose
nnme had been so unceremoniously committed by Murphy,
in his conversation with Graiin, to regions not mention-
able to polite ears. Though Rodolph had not seen Poli-
dori during the last sixteen or seventeen years, he had
a, thousand reasons for keeping every feature well in his
remembrance. The only thing that told against the
identity of the individual he believed existed under
the disguised name of this quack dentist was the cir-
cumstance of his having red hair, while the Polidori of
Rodolph's acquaintance had almost black. That Rodolph
experienced no wonder (always supposing his conjectures
as to the identity correct) at finding a man whose pro-
found learning, rare talent, and vast intelligence he well
knew, sunk to such a degradation, it might even be in-
famy, was because he knew equally well that all these
high attainments and noble gifts were allied to such
entire perversity, such wild and irregular passions, incli-
nations so corrupt, and, above all, an affected scorn and
contempt for the opinion of the world, which might lead
this man, when want and misery overtook him, to seek,
from choice, the lowest and least honourable paths of
subsistence, and to enjoy a sort of malevolent satisfac-
tion in the idea of him, the talented, the learned,
burying all these precious treasures beneath the ignoble
calling to which he had devoted his vast powers of mind
and body. Still, be it remembered that, spite of the
close resemblance between the charlatan surgeon-dentist
and the Polidori of bygone years, there still existed dis-
294
THE FOUR STORIES.
crepancies so great that Rodolph balanced, in deep uncer-
tainty, respecting their proving to be one and the same
person.
At length, turning to Pipelet, he inquired :
" How long has this M. Bradamanti been an inmate of
this house ? "
" About a year, sir, as nearly as I can remember,
yes, it is a year ; I recollect he took the lodgings in the
January quarter. Oh, he is a very regular and exact
lodger; he cured me of a desperate attack of rheu-
matism."
" Madame Pipelet was telling me of the reports which
are circulated of him."
" How could she be so foolish ? "
" Nay, pray do not fear me ! I assure you I may
safely be trusted."
" But, really, sir," rejoined Pipelet, " I do not think
there is the least dependence to be placed in such
reports. I do not believe them, for one. I never can
believe them ; my modesty would not let me," added M.
Pipelet, turning very red, and preceding his new lodger
to the floor above.
The more resolved upon clearing up his doubts in
proportion to the very great annoyance he felt that
the residence of Polidori in the same house would
prove to him, and becoming momentarily more dis-
posed to affix a painful solution to the enigma of the
piercing cry he had heard from the apartments of
the Italian, Rodolph bound himself by a rigid prom-
ise to investigate the matter, so as to place it beyond
the power of a doubt, and followed the porter to the
upper floor, where was situated the chamber he was
desirous of engaging.
It was easy to ascertain the abode of his next-door
neighbour Mile. Rigolette. Thanks to the charming
gallantry of the painter, Pipelet's mortal foe, the door
of her chamber was ornamented after the manner of
295
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Watteau, with a panel design representing about half a
dozen fat little chubby Loves, grouped round a space
painted sky blue, and on which was traced, in pink
letters, " Mademoiselle Rigolette^ Dressmaker,^'' These
plump little Cupids had all a task to perform besides
encircling this important announcement. One held the
thimble of Mile. Rigolette upon his tiny finger ; another
held her scissors ; a third was provided with a smoothing-
iron for her use ; whilst a fourth held up a mirror, as if
to tempt the young sempstress to forsake her work for
the more gratifying view of her own pretty countenance.
The whole was surrounded with a well-chosen wreath of
flowers, whose gay colours contrasted agreeably with the
sea-green colour of the door ; the whole offering a very
unfavourable contrast to the mean and shabby-looking
staircase. At the risk of opening anew the bleeding
wounds of Alfred, Rodolph ventured to observe, while
pointing to the door of Mile. Rigolette :
" This, I suppose, is the work of M. Cabrion ? "
" It is ; he destroyed the painting of the door by daub-
ing it over with a parcel of fat, indecent children he
called his loves. Had it not been for the entreaties of
Mile. Rigolette, and the weakness of M. Bras Rouge, I
would have scratched it all off, as well as this palette
filled with horrid monsters, with their equally abomi-
nable master, whom you can see drawn amongst them.
You may know him by his steeple-crowned hat."
And there, sure enough, on the door of the room
Rodolph was about to hire, might be seen a palette sur-
rounded by all kinds of odd and whimsical creatures,
the witty conceit of which might have done honour to
Callot. Rodolph followed the porter into a tolerably
good-sized room, accessible by a small entrance-closet,
or antechamber, having two windows opening into the
Rue du Temple. Some fantastic sketches from the
pencil of M. Cabrion, on the second door, had been
scrupulously respected by M. Germain. Rodolph saw
296
THE FOUR STORIES.
too many reasons for desiring to obtain this lodging to
hesitate further ; therefore, modestly placing a couple of
francs in the hand of the porter, he said :
" This chamber will exactly suit me. Here is a
deposit to complete the bargain. To-morrow I will send
in my furniture ; but let me beg of you not to destroy the
merry creatures painted on the palette at the entrance.
It is really very droll ! Don't you think so ? "
" Droll ! " groaned poor Pipelet ; " not I ! Ah, sir,
how would you like to dream night after night that you
were being hunted by a legion of little ugly devils like
these on the door, with Cabrion at their head urging
them on, and then fancying you are trying to get away,
and cannot? Oh, I have woke all in a perspiration
from such dreams hundreds of times since that infamous
Cabrion began persecuting me."
" Why, honestly speaking, I cannot say the chase
would be a very agreeable one, even though but a dream.
However, tell me, have I any need to see M. Bras
Rouge your great man here - about renting this
apartment?"
" None whatever, sir. He rarely comes near the place,
except when he has any private matters to arrange with
Mother Burette. I am the only person to treat with
about hiring apartments. I must beg the favour of your
name."
" Rodolph."
" Rodolph what ? "
" Plain Rodolph, M. Pipelet, nothing more, if you
please."
" Just as you please, sir. I did not ask from curiosity.
Every man has a right to his own free will, as well as to
decide upon the name he chooses to be called."
" What do you think, M. Pipelet, as to the propriety
of my going to-morrow, as a new neighbour of Morel's,
to inquire whether I can be of any service to them ?
Since my predecessor, M. Germain, was permitted to
297
\
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
assist them according to his means, why should they not
accept of what trifling help I can afford ? "
" Why, sir, I see no harm in your going to call on the
Morels, because it may please the poor things ; but I
hardly see much good it can do, as they are so shortly
to be turned out of the house." Then, as if suddenly
struck with a new idea, M. Pipelet exclaimed, winking at
Rodolph with what he intended should be a very facetious
and penetrating look, " I see, I see, you mean to begin
making acquaintance with the lodgers at the top of the
house, that you may be able to work your way down
to Mile. Rigolette. Ah, I've found you out, you see,
pretty girl "
" Well, I think you have discovered my intentions, so
I will confess at once that I mean to try and be on
friendly terms with my agreeable neighbour."
" There is no harm in that, sir, it is customary ;
only all correct, all right and honourable, you under-
stand. Between you and me, I strongly suspect Mile.
Rigolette heard us coming up-stairs, and that she is
watching to have a look as we go down. I will make a
noise purposely in locking the door ; if you look sharp,
you will see her as we pass the landing." And, true to
the porter's suspicions, the door so tastefully enlivened
by the fat Cupids, a la Watteau, was seen to open gently,
and Rodolph had a brief view of a little, turned-up nose,
and a pair of large, staring black eyes, peeping through
the narrow space ; but, as he slacked his steps, the door
was hastily shut. " I told you* she was watching us,"
said the porter. Then added, " Excuse me one instant,
sir ; I want to step up to my warehouse."
"Where is that?"
"At the top of this ladder is the landing-place, on
which the door of Morel's garret opens, and in the wain-
scoting of this landing is a small dark cupboard, where I
keep my leather, and the wall is so full of cracks, that
when I am in this hole I can see and hear everything,
298
THE FOUR STORIES.
the same as if I was in Morel's room. Not that I wish
to spy what the poor creatures are about, God knows,
quite the contrary. But please to excuse me for a few
minutes, sir, whilst I fetch my bit of leather. If you
will have the goodness to go down-stairs, I will rejoin
you."
And, so saying, Pipelet commenced ascending the
steep ladder communicating with his warehouse, as he
styled it, a somewhat perilous feat for a person of his
age.
Rodolph, thus left alone, cast another glance towards
the chambers of Mile. Rigolette, remembering with deep
interest all he had heard of her being the favour-
ite companion of the poor Goualeuse, and recalling also
the information she was said to possess touching the
residence of the Schoolmaster's son, when the sound of
some person quitting the apartments of the quack doctor
below attracted his attention, and he could distinctly
hear the light step of a female, with the rustling of a
silk dress. Rodolph paused till the sounds had died
away, and then descended the stairs. Something white
had fallen about half-way down ; it had evidently been
dropped by the person who had just quitted Polidori.
Rodolph picked it up, and carried it to one of the narrow
windows which lighted the staircase. It was a pocket-
handkerchief, of the finest cambric, trimmed with costly
lace, and bearing in one corner the initials " L. N."
beautifully embroidered, and surmounted with a ducal
coronet. The handkerchief was literally soaked in tears.
Rodolph's first impulse was to follow the person from
whose hand this mute evidence of deep woe had fallen,
with the view of restoring it, but, reflecting that such a
step might be mistaken for impertinent curiosity, he
determined to preserve it carefully, as the first link in
an adventure he found himself almost involuntarily
engaged in, and from which he augured a painful and
melancholy termination. As he returned to the por-
200
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
teress, he inquired whether a female had not just come
down-stairs.
"A femal.3! No indeed, sir, it was a fine, tall,
slender-looking lady, not a female, and covered over with
a thick black veil. She has come from M. Bradamanti.
Little Tortillard fetched a coach for her, and she has
just driven away in it. What struck me was the impu-
dence of that little beggar to seat himself behind the
coach. I dare say, though, it was to see where the lady
went to, for he is as mischievous as a magpie, and as
prying as a ferret, for all his club-foot."
" So, then," thought Rodolph, " the name and address
of this unhappy lady will soon be known to this im-
poster, since it is, doubtless, by his directions she is
followed and watched by this imp of an emissary."
" Well, sir, and what do you think of the apartment ?
Will it suit you ? " inquired Madame Pipelet.
" Nothing could have suited me better. I have taken
it, and to-morrow I shall send in my furniture."
" Well, then, thank God for a good lodger ! I am
sure it was a lucky chance for us sent you here."
" I hope you will find it so, madame. I think it is well
understood between us that you undertake to manage all
my little domestic matters for me. I shall come and
superintend the removal of my goods. Adieu ! "
So saying, Rodolph left the lodge. The results of his
visit to the house in the Rue du Temple were highly
important, both as regarded the solution of the deep
mystery he so ardently desired to unravel, and also as
affording a vride field for the exercise of his earnest
endeavours to do good and to prevent evil. After mature
calculation, he considered himself to have achieved the
following results :
First, he had ascertained that Mile. Rigolette was
in possession of the address of Germain, the School-
master's son. Secondly, a young female, who, from
appearances, might unhappily be the Marquise d'Har-
300
THE FOUR STORIES.
ville, had made an appointment with the commandant
for the morrow, perhaps to her own utter ruin and
disgrace ; and Rodolph had (as we have before men-
tioned) numerous reasons for wishing to preserve the
honour and peace of one for whom he felt so lively an
interest as he took in all concerning M. d'Harville. An
honest and industrious artisan, crushed by the deepest
misery, was, with his whole family, about to be turned
into the streets through the means of Bras Rouge.
Further, Rodolph had undesignedly caught a glimpse of
an adventure in which the charlatan Cdsar Bradamanti
(possibly Polidori) and a female, evidently of rank and
fashion, were the principal actors. And, finally. La
Chouette, having lately quitted the hospital, where she
had been since the affair in the AUde des Yeuves, had
reappeared on the stage, and was evidently engaged in
some underhand proceedings with the fortune-teller and
female money-lender who occupied the second floor of
the house.
Having carefully noted down all these particulars,
Rodolph returned to his house, Rue Plumet, deferring
till the following day his visit to the notary, Jacques
Ferrand.
It will be no doubt fresh in the memory of our
readers, that on this same evening Rodolph was engaged
to be present at a grand ball given by the ambassador of
. Before following our hero in this new excursion,
let us cast a retrospective glance on Tom and Sarah,
personages of the greatest importance in the development
of this history.
301
CHAPTER XXV.
TOM AND SARAH.
Sarah Seyton, widow of Count Macgregor, and at
this time thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age, was of
an excellent Scotch family, daughter of a baronet, and
a country gentleman. Beautiful and accomplished, an
orphan at seventeen years old, she had left Scotland
with her brother, Thomas Seyton of Halsbury. The
absurd predictions of an old Highland nurse had excited
almost to madness the two leading vices in Sarah's char-
acter, pride and ambition ; the destiny predicted for
her, and in which she fully believed, was of the highest
order, in fact, sovereign rank. The prophecy had
been so often repeated, that the young Scotch girl even-
tually fully credited its fulfilment ; and she constantly
repeated to herself, to bear out her ambitious dream,
that a fortune-teller had thus promised a crown to the
handsome and excellent creature who afterwards sat on
the throne of France, and who was queen as much by
her graces and her kind heart as others have been by
their grandeur and majesty.
Strange to say, Thomas Seyton, as superstitious as
his sister, encouraged her foolish hopes, and resolved on
devoting his life to the realisation of Sarah's dream,
a dream as dazzling as it was deceptive. However, the
brother and sister were not so blind as to believe implic-
itly in this Highland prophecy, and to look absolutely
for a throne of the first rank in a splendid disdain of
secondary royalties or reigning principalities; on the
302
TOM AND SARAH.
contrary, so that the handsome Scotch lassie should one
day encircle her imperial forehead with a sovereign
crown, the haughty pair agreed to condescend to shut
their eyes to the importance of the throne they coveted.
By the assistance of the Almanack de G-otha for the
year of grace 1819, Seyton arranged, before he left Scot-
land, a sort of vSynopsis of the ages of all the kings and
ruling powers in Europe then unmarried.
Although very ridiculous, yet the brother and sister's
ambition was freed from all shameful modes; Seyton
was prepared to aid his sister Sarah in snatching at the
thread of the conjugal band by which she hoped even-
tually to fasten a crown upon her brows. He would be
her participator in any and all stratagems which could
tend to consummate this end ; but he would rather have
killed his sister than see her the mistress of a prince,
even though the liaison should terminate in a marriage
of reparation.
The matrimonial inventory that resulted from Seyton
and Sarah's researches in the Almanack de Gotka was
satisfactory. The Germanic Confederation furnished
forth a numerous contingent of young presumptive sov-
ereigns. Seyton was not ignorant of the sort of German
wedlock which is called a " left-handed marriage," to
which, as being legitimate to a certain extent, he would,
as a last resource, have resigned his sister. To Ger-
many, then, it was resolved to bend their steps, in order
to commence this search for the royal spouse.
If the project appears improbable, such hopes ridicu-
lous, let us first reply by saying that unbridled ambition,
excited by superstitious belief, rarely claims for itself the
light of reason in its enterprises, and will dare the wild-
est impossibilities ; yet, when we recall certain events,
even in our own times, from high and most reputable
morganatic marriages between sovereigns and female
subjects, down to the loving elopement of Miss Penelope
Smith and the Prince of Capua, we cannot refuse some
303
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
chance of fortunate result to the imagination of Seyton
and Sarah. Let us add that the lady united to a very
lovely persor, singular abilities and very varied talents ;
whilst there were added a power of seduction the more
dangerous as it was united to a mind unbending and
calculating, a disposition cunning and selfish, a deep
hypocrisy, a stubborn and despotic will, all covered by
the outward show of a generous, warm, and impassioned
nature.
In her appearance, there was as much deceit as in her
mind. Her full and dark eyes, now sparkling, now lan-
guishing, beneath her coal black brow, could well dissim-
ulate all the warmth of love and desire. Yet the
burning impulses of love never throbbed beneath her icy
bosom ; no surprise of the heart or of the senses ever
intervened to disturb the cold and pitiless calculations
of this woman, crafty, selfish, and ambitious. When
she reached the Continent, she resolved, in accordance
with her brother's advice, not to commence her conjugal
and regal campaign until she had resided some time in
Paris, where she determined to complete her education,
and rub off the rust of her native country, by associating
with a society which was embellished by all that was
elegant, tasteful, and refined. Sarah was introduced
into the best society and the highest circles, thanks to
the letters of recommendation and considerate patronage
of the English " ambassador's " lady and the old Marquis
d'Harville, who had known Tom and Sarah's father in
England.
Persons of deceitful, calculating, and cold dispositions
acquire with great facility language and manners quite
in opposition to their natural character, as with them all
is outside, surface, appearance, varnish, bark ; or they
soon find that, if their real characters are detected,
they are undone ; so, thanks to the sort of instinct of
self-preservation with which they are gifted, they feel all
the necessity of the moral mask, and so paint and costume
304
TOM AND SARAH.
themselves with all the alacrity and skill of a practised
comedian. Thus, after six months' residence in Paris,
Sarah was in a condition to contest with the most
Parisian of Parisian women, as to the piquant finish of
her wit, the charm of her liveliness, the ingenuousness
of her flirtation, and the exciting simplicity of her looks,
at once chaste and passionate.
Finding his sister in full panoply for his campaign,
Seyton left with her for Germany, furnished with the
best letters of introduction. The first state of the Ger-
man Confederation which headed Sarah's " road-book "
was the Grand Duchy of Gerolstein, thus styled in the
diplomatic and infallible Almanach de Gotha for the year
of grace 1819 :
" Genealogy of the Sovereigns of Europe and their Families.
GEROLSTEIN.
" Grand Duke : Maximilian Rodolph, 10th December, 1764.
Succeeded his father, Charles Frederic Rodolph, 21st
April, 1785. Widower January, 1808, by decease of his wife,
Louisa Amelia, daughter of John Augustus, Prince of
BURGLEN.
" Son: Gustavus Rodolph, born 17th April, 1803.
" Mother : Dowager Grand Duchess Judith, widow of the Grand
Duke, Charles Frederic Rodolph, 21st April, 1785."
Seyton, with much practical good sense, had first
noted down on his list the youngest princes whom he
coveted as brothers-in-law, thinking that extreme youth
is more easily seduced than ripened age. Moreover, we
have already said that the brother and sister were par-
ticularly recommended to the reigning Duke of Gerol-
stein by the old Marquis d'Harville, caught, like the rest
of the world, by Sarah, whose beauty, grace, and, above
all, delightful manners, he could not sufficiently admire.
It is superfluous to say that the presumptive heir of
the Grand Duchy of Gerolstein was Gustavus Rodolph :
he was hardly eighteen when Tom and Sarah were pre-
305
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
sented to his father. The arrival of the young Scotch
lady was an event in the German court, so quiet, simple,
and almost patriarchal in its habits and observances.
The Grand Duke, a most worthy gentleman, governed
his states with wise firmness and paternal kindness.
Nothing could exceed the actual and moral happiness of
the principality, whose laborious and steady population,
by their soberness and piety, presented a pure specimen
of the German character. This excellent people enjoyed
so much real felicity, and were so perfectly contented
with their condition, that the enlightened care of the
Grand Duke was not much called into action to preserve
them from the mania of constitutional innovations. As
far as modern discovery went, and those practical
suggestions which have a wholesome influence over the
well-being and morals of his people, the Grand Duke
was always anxious to acquire knowledge himself, and
apply it invariably for the use and benefit of his people,
his residents at the capitals of the different states of
Europe having little else to occupy themselves whilst on
their mission but to keep their master fully informed as
to the rise and progress of science and all the arts which
are connected with public welfare and public utility.
We have said that the Duke felt as much affection as
gratitude for the old Marquis d'Harville, who, in 1815,
had rendered him immense service ; and so, thanks to
his powerful recommendation, Sarah of Halsbury and her
brother were received at the court of Gerolstein with
every distinction, and with marked kindness. A fort-
night after her arrival, the young Scotch girl, endued
with so profound a spirit of observation, had easily pene-
trated the firm character and open heart of the Grand
Duke. Before she began to seduce his son, a thing
of course, she had wisely resolved to discover the
disposition of the father. Although he had appeared to
dote on his son, she was yet fully convinced that this
father, with all his tenderness, would never swerve from
306
TOM AND SARAH.
certain principles, certain ideas as to the duty of princes,
and would never consent to what he would consider a
mSsalliance for his son, and that not through pride, but
from conscience, reason, and dignity. A man of this firm
mould, and the more affectionate and good in proportion
as he is firm and determined, never abates one jot of that
which affects his conscience, his reason, and his dignity.
Sarah was on the point of renouncing her enterprise
in the face of obstacles so insurmountable ; but, reflect-
ing that, as Rodolph was very young, and his gentleness
and goodness, his character at once timid and medita-
tive, were generally spoken of, she thought she might
find compensation in the feeble and irresolute disposition
of the young prince, and therefore persisted in her
project, and again revived her hopes.
On this new essay, the management of herself and
brother were most masterly. The young lady knew full
well how to propitiate all around her, and particularly
the persons who might have been jealous or envious of
her accomplishments, and she caused her beauty and
grace to be forgotten beneath the veil of modest sim-
plicity with which she covered them. She soon became
the idol, not only of the Grand Duke, but of his mother,
the Dowager Grand Duchess Judith, who, in spite of, or
through, her ninety years of age, loved to excess every
thing that was young and charming.
Sarah and her brother often talked of their departure,
but the sovereign of Gerolstein would never consent to
it ; and that he might completely attach the two to him,
he pressed on Sir Thomas Seyton the acceptance of the
vacant post of his " first groom of the chamber," and
entreated Sarah not to quit the Grand Duchess Judith,
as she could not do without her. After much hesita-
tion, overcome by the most pressing entreaties, Sarah
and Seyton accepted such brilliant offers, and decided
on establishing themselves at the court of Gerolstein,
where they had been for two months.
307
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Sarah, who was an accomplished musician, knowing
the taste of the Grand Duchess for the old masters, and,
above all, for Gluck, sent for the chef-d^oeuvre of this
attractive composer, and fascinated the old princess by
her unfailing complaisance, as well as the remarkable
skill with which she sang those old airs, so beautiful in
their melody, so expressive in their character.
As for Seyton, he knew how to make himself very
useful in the occupation which had been conferred upon
him. He was a good judge of horses, was orderly and
firm in his conduct and arrangements, and so, jn a
short time, completely remodelled the stables of the
Grand Duke, which, up to that time, had been neglected,
and become disorganised.
The brother and sister were soon equally beloved,
f^ted, and admired in this court. The master's prefer-
ence soon commands the preference of those below him.
Sarah required, in aid of her future projects, too much
aid not to employ her insinuating powers in acquiring
partisans. Her hypocrisy, clothed in most attractive
shapes, easily deluded the simple-hearted Germans, and
the general feeling soon authorised the extreme kindness
of the Grand Duke.
Thus, then, our designing pair were established at the
court of Gerolstein, agreeably and securely placed with-
out any reference to Rodolph. By a lucky chance, some
days after the arrival of Sarah, the young prince had
gone away to the inspection of troops, with an aide-de-
camp and the faithful Murphy. This absence, doubly
auspicious to the views of Sarah, allowed her to arrange
at her ease the principal threads of the fillet she was
weaving, without being deterred by the presence of the
young prince, whose too open admiration might, per-
haps, have awakened the suspicions of the Grand Duke.
On the contrary, in the absence of his son, he did not,
unfortunately, reflect that he was admitting into the
closest intimacy a young girl of surpassing beauty, and
308
I
TOM AND SARAH.
of lively wit, as Rodolph must discover at every moment
of the day.
Sarah was perfectly insensible to a reception so kind
and generous, to the full confidence with which she
was introduced into the very heart of this sovereign
family. Neither brother nor sister paused for a moment
in their bad designs ; they determined upon a principle
to bring trouble and annoyance into this peaceable and
happy court ; they calmly calculated the probable results
of the cruel divisions they should establish between a
father and son, up to that period so tenderly united.
A few words concerning Rodolph's early days may be
necessary. During his infancy, he had been extremely
delicate. His father reasoned thereon in this strange
manner : " English country gentlemen are generally re-
markable for their robust health. This advantage
results generally from their bodily training, which is
simple, rural, and develops their full vigour. Rodolph
must leave the hands of women ; his temperament is
delicate, and, perhaps, by accustoming this child to live
like the son of an English farmer (with some few
exceptions), I shall strengthen his constitution."
The Grand Duke sent to England for a man worthy
of the trust, and capable of directing such a course of
bodily culture, and Sir Walter Murphy, an athletic speci-
men of a Yorkshire country gentleman, was entrusted
with this important charge. The direction which he
gave to the mind and body of the young prince were
such as entirely coincided with the views and wishes of
the Grand Duke. Murphy and his pupil lived for many
years* in a beautiful farmhouse, situated in the midst of
woods and fields, some leagues from the capital of Gerol-
stein, and in a most picturesque and salubrious spot.
Rodolph, free from all etiquette, and employed with
Murphy in outdoor labour proportionate to his age,
lived the sober, manly, and regular life of the country,
309
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
having for his pleasure and amusement the violent exer-
cises of wrestling, pugilism, riding on horseback, and
hunting. In the midst of the pure air of the meadows,
woods, and mountains, he underwent an entire change,
and grew up as vigorous as a young oak ; his pale
cheek became suffused with the ruddy glow of health ;
always lithe and active, he underwent now the most
severe fatigues, his address, energy, and courage supply-
ing what was deficient in his muscular power ; so that,
when only in his fifteenth or sixteenth year, he was
always the conqueror in his contests with young men
his superiors in age.
His scientific education necessarily suffered from the
preference given to his physical training, and Rodolph's
knowledge was very limited ; but the Grand Duke very
wisely reflected that, to have a well-informed mind, it
must be supported by a strong physical frame, and that,
this acquired, the intellectual faculties would develop
themselves the more rapidly.
The kind Walter Murphy was by no means a sage,
and could only convey to Rodolph some primary instruc-
tion ; but no one knew better than he how to inspire his
pupil with the feeling of what is just, loyal, and generous,
and a horror of every thing that was mean, low, and
contemptible. These repugnances, these powerful and
wholesome admonitions, took deep and lasting root in
the very soul of Rodolph ; and although, in after life,
these principles were violently shaken by the storm of
passions, yet they were never eradicated from his heart.
The levin bolt strikes, splits, and rends the deeply
planted tree ; but the sap still maintains its hold in the
roots, and a thousand green branches spring fresh from
what was taken for a withered and dead tree.
Murphy, then, gave to Rodolph, if we may use the ex-
pression, health to both body and mind ; he made him
robust, active, and daring, with a love for all that was
good and right, and a hatred for whatsoever was wicked
310
TOM AND SARAH.
and bad. Having fulfilled his task to admiration, the
squire, called to England on very important business,
left Germany for some time, to the great regret of
Rodolph, who loved him extremely.
His son's health having been so satisfactorily estab-
lished, the Grand Duke turned his most serious attention
to the mental education of his dearly beloved son. A
certain Doctor Cesar Polidori, a renowned linguist, a
distinguished chemist, learned historian, and deeply
versed in the study of all the exact and physical sci-
ences, was entrusted with the charge of cultivating and
improving the rich but virgin soil so carefully and well
prepared by Murphy. This time the Grand Duke's
choice was a most unfortunate one, or, rather, his re-
ligious feelings were infamously imposed upon by the
person who introduced the doctor to him, and caused
him to think on Polidori as the preceptor of the young
prince. Atheist, cheat, and hypocrite, full of stratagem
and trick, concealing the most dangerous immorality,
the most hardened scepticism, under an austere exterior,
profoundly versed in the knowledge of human nature,
or, rather, only having tried the worst side, the
disgraceful passions of humanity, Doctor Polidori was
the most hateful Mentor that could have been entrusted
with the education of a young man.
Rodolph left with the deepest regrets the independent
and animating life which he had hitherto led with
Murphy to go and become pale with the study of books,
and submit himself to the irksome ceremonies of his
father's court, and he at once entertained a strong
prejudice against his tutor. It could not be otherwise.
On quitting his young friend, the poor squire had
compared him, and with justice, to a young wild colt,
full of grace and fire, carried off from his native prairies,
where he had dwelt, free as air, and joyous as a bird, to
be bridled and spurred, that he might under that system
learn how to moderate and economise those powers
311
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
which, hitherto, he had only employed in running and
leaping in any way he pleased.
Rodolph began by telling Polidori that he had no taste
for study, but that he greatly preferred the free exercise
of his arms and legs, to breathe the pure air of the fields,
to traverse the woods and the mountains, and that a
good horse and a good gun were preferable to all the
books in the universe. The doctor was prepared for
this antipathy, and was secretly delighted at it, for, in
another way, the hopes of this man were as ambitious as
those of Sarah. Although the grand duchy of Gerolstein
was only a secondary state, Polidori indulged the idea of
being one day its Richelieu, and of making Rodolph play
the part of the do-nothing prince. But, desirous above
all things of currying favour with his pupil, and of mak-
ing him forget Murphy, by his own concession and com-
pliance, he concealed from the Grand Duke the young
prince's repugnance for study, and boasted of his appli-
cation to, and rapid progress in, his studies ; whilst some
examinations arranged between himself and Rodolph,
which had the air of being impromptu questions,
confirmed the Grand Duke in his blind and implicit
confidence. By degrees the dislike which Rodolph at
first entertained for the doctor changed, on the young
prince's part, into a cool familiarity, very unlike the
real attachment he had for Murphy. By degrees, he
found himself leagued with Polidori (although from
very innocent causes) by the same ties that unite two
guilty persons. Sooner or later, Rodolph was sure to
despise a man of the age and character of the doctor,
who so unworthily lied to excuse the idleness of his
pupil. This Polidori knew ; but he also knew that if we
do not at once sever our connections with corrupt minds
in disgust, by degrees, and in spite of our better reason,
we become familiar with and too frequently admire
them, until, insensibly, we hear without shame or re-
proach those things mocked at and vituperated which
312
TOM AND SARAH.
we formerly loved and revered. Besides, the doctor
was too cunning all at once to shock certain noble senti-
ments and convictions which Rodolph had derived from
the admirable lessons of Murphy. After having vented
much raillery on the coarseness of the early occupations
of his young pupil, the doctor, laying aside his thin
mask of austerity, had greatly aroused the curiosity and
heated the fancy of the young prince, by the exaggerated
descriptions, strongly drawn and deeply coloured, of the
pleasures and gallantries which had illustrated the reigns
of Louis XIV., the Regent, and especially Louis XV.,
the hero of C^sar Polidori. He assured the misled boy,
who listened to him with a fatal earnestness, that
pleasures, however excessive, far from demoralising a
highly accomplished prince, often made him merciful
and generous, inasmuch as fine minds are never more
predisposed to benevolence and clemency than when
acted upon by their own enjoyments. Louis XV. the
hien aime, the well-beloved, was an unanswerable proof of
this. And then, added the doctor, how entirely have
the greatest men of all ages and all countries abandoned
themselves to the most refined epicureanism, from
Alcibiades to Maurice of Saxony, from Anthony to the
great Cond^, from Caesar to Vendome ! Such conversa-
tions must make deep and dangerous impressions on a
young, ardent, and virgin mind, and such theories could
not be without their results.
In the midst of this well regulated and virtuous court,
accustomed, after the example of its ruler, to honest
pleasures and harmless amusements, Rodolph, instructed
by Polidori, dreamt of the dissipated nights of Ver-
sailles, the orgies of Choisy, the attractive voluptuousness
of the Parc-au-Cerfs, and also, from time to time, of
some romantic amours contrasting with these. Neither
had the doctor failed to prove to Rodolph that a prince
of the Germanic Confederation should not have any
military pretension beyond sending his contingent to the
313
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Diet. The feeling of the time was not warlike. Accord-
ing to the doctor, to pass his time delightfully and idly
amongst womeuand the refinements of luxury, to repose
from time to time from the animation of sensual pleasures,
amidst the delightful attractions of the fine arts, to
hunt occasionally, not as a Nimrod, but as an intelligent
epicurean, and enjoy the transitory fatigues which make
idleness and repose taste but the sweeter, this, this
was the only life which a prince should think of enjoying,
who (^SLiid this was his height of happiness) could find a
prime minister capable of devoting himself boldly to the
distressing and overwhelming burden of state affairs.
Rodolph, in abandoning himself to ideas which were
free from criminality, because they did not spring from
the circle of fatal probabilities, resolved that when Prov-
idence should call to himself the Grand Duke, his father,
he would devote himself to the life which C^sar Polidori
had painted to him under such brilliant and attractive
colours, and to have as his prime minister one whose
knowledge and understanding he admired, and whose
blind complaisance he fully appreciated.' It is useless to
say that the young prince kept the most perfect silence
upon the subject of those pernicious hopes which had
been excited within him. Knowing that the heroes of
the Grand Duke's admiration were Gustavus Adolphus,
Charles XII., and the great Frederic (Maximilian
Rodolph had the honour of belonging to the royal house
of Brandenburg), Rodolph thought, reasonably enough,
that the prince, his father, who professed so profound
an admiration for these king-captains, always booted
and spurred, continually mounted on their chargers, and
engaged in making war, would consider his son out of
his senses if he believed him capable of wishing to dis-
place the Tudescan gravity of his court by the introduc-
tion of the light and licentious manners of the Regency.
A year eighteen months passed away. At the
end of this time Murphy returned from England, and
314
TOM AND SARAH.
wept for joy on again embracing his young pupil. After
a few days, although unable to discover the reason
of a change which so deeply afflicted him, the worthy
squire found Rodolph chilled and constrained in his
demeanour towards him, and almost rude when he re-
called to him his sequestered and rural life. Assured
of the natural kind heart of the young prince, and warned
by a secret presentiment. Murphy thought him for a time
perverted by the pernicious influence of Doctor Polidori,
whom he instinctively abhorred, and resolved to watch
very narrowly. The doctor, for his part, was very much
annoyed by Murphy's return, for he feared his frankness,
good sense, and keen penetration. He instantly resolved,
therefore, cost what it might, to ruin the worthy Eng-
lishman in Rodolph's estimation. It was at this crisis
that Seyton and Sarah were presented and received at
the court of Gerolstein with such extreme distinction.
We have said that Rodolph, accompanied by Murphy,
had been absent from the court on a journey for some
weeks. During this absence the doctor was by no means
idle. It is said that intriguers discover and recognise
each other by certain mysterious signs, which allow of
them observing each other until their interests decide
them to form a close alliance, or declare unremitting
hostilitv.
Some days after the establishment of Sarah and her
brother at the court of the Grand Duke, Polidori be-
came a close ally of Seyton^s. The doctor confessed to
himself, with delectable cynicism, that he felt a natural
affinity for rogues and villains, and so he said that with-
out pretending to discover the end which Sarah and her
brother desired to achieve, he was attracted towards
them by a sympathy so strong as to lead him to imagine
that they plotted some devilish purpose. Some questions
of Seyton's as to the disposition and early life of Rodolph,
questions which would have passed without notice with
a person less awake to all that occurred than the doctor,
315
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
in a moment enlightened him as to the ulterior aims of
the brother and sister ; all he doubted was, that the aspi-
rations of the Scotch lady were at the same time hon-
ourable as well as ambitious. The arrival of this lovely
young woman appeared to Polidori a godsend. Rodolph's
mind was already inflamed with amorous imaginings;
Sarah might become, or be made, the delicious reality
which should substantiate so many glorious dreams.
It was not to be doubted but that she would secure an
immense influence over a heart submitted to the witch-
ing spell of a first love. The doctor instantly laid his
plan to direct and secure this influence, and to make it
serve also as the means of destroying Murphy's power
and reputation. Like a skilful intriguer, he soon in-
formed the aspiring pair that they must come to an
understanding with him, as he alone was responsible to
the Grand Duke for the private life of the young prince.
Sarah and her brother understood him in a moment,
although they had not told the doctor a syllable of their
secret designs. On the return of Rodolph and Murphy,
all three, combined by one common intent, tacitly
leagued against the squire, their most redoubtable enemy.
I What was to happen did happen. Rodolph saw Sarah
daily after his return, and became desperately enamoured.
She soon told him that she shared his love, although she
foresaw that this love would create great trouble. He
could never be happy ; the distance that separated them
was too wide ! She then recommended to Rodolph the
most profound discretion, for fear of arousing the Grand
Duke's suspicions, as he would be inexorable, and deprive
them of their only happiness, that of seeing each other
every day. The young prince promised to be cautious,
and conceal his love. The Scotch maiden was too ambi-
tious, too self-possessed, to compromise and betray herself
in the eyes of the court ; and Rodolph, perceiving the
necessity of dissimulation, imitated Sarah's prudence.
316
. .'
TOM AND SARAH.
The lovers' secret was carefully preserved for some time ;
nor was it until the brother and sister saw the unbridled
passion of their dupe reach its utmost excess, and that
his infatuation, which he could hardly restrain, threatened
to burst forth afresh, and destroy all, that they resolved
on their final coup. The doctor's character authorising
the confidence, besides the morality which invested it,
Seyton opened to him on the necessity of a marriage
between Rodolph and Sarah ; otherwise, he added, with
perfect sincerity, he and his sister would instantly leave
Gerolstein. Sarah participated in the prince's affection,
but, preferring death to dishonour, she could only be the
wife of his highness.
This exalted flight of ambition stupefied the doctor, who
had never imagined that Sarah's imagination soared so
high. A marriage surrounded by numberless difficulties
and dangers appeared impossible to Polidori, and he
frankly told Seyton the reasons why the Grand Duke
would never submit to such a union. Seyton agreed in
the importance of the reasons, but proposed, as a mezzo
termini which should meet all objections, a marriage,
which, although secret, should be legal, and only avowed
after the decease of the Grand Duke. Sarah was of a
noble and ancient house, and such a union was not
without precedent. Seyton gave the prince eight days
to decide ; his sister could not longer endure the cruel
anguish of uncertainty, and, if she must renounce
Rodolph's love, she must act up to her painful resolve
as promptly as might be.
Certain that he could not mistake Sarah's views, the
doctor was sorely perplexed. He had three ways before
him, to inform the Grand Duke of the matrimonial
project, to open Rodolph's eyes as to the manoeuvres of
Tom and Sarah, to lend himself to the marriage. But
to inform the Grand Duke would be to alienate from him
for ever the heir presumptive to the throne. To enlighten
Rodolph on the interested views of Sarah was to expose
317
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
himself to the reception which a lover is sure to give
when she whom he loves is depreciated in his eyes ; and
then, what a blow for the vanity or the heart of the young-
prince, to let him know that it was for his royal rank
alone that the lady was desirous to wed him ! On the
other hand, by lending himself to this match, Polidori
bound Rodolph and Sarah to him by a tie of the strong-
est gratitude, or, at least, by the complicity of a danger-
ous act. No doubt, all might be discovered, and the
doctor exposed to the anger of the Grand Duke, but then
the marriage would have been concluded, the union legal.
The storm would blow over, and the future sovereign of
Gerolstein would become the more bound to Polidori, in
proportion as the doctor had undergone greater dangers
in his service. After much consideration, therefore, he
resolved on serving Sarah, but with a certain qualification,
which we will presently refer to.
Rodolph' s passion had reached a height almost of
frenzy. Violently excited by constraint, and the skil-
ful management of Sarah, who pretended to feel still
more than he did the insurmountable obstacles which
honour and duty placed between them and their liberty,
in a few days more the young prince would have betrayed
himself. Thus, when the doctor proposed that he must
never see his enchantress again, or possess her by a
secret marriage, Rodolph threw himself on Polidori's
neck, called him his saviour, his friend, his father ; he
only wished that the temple and the priest were at
hand, that he might marry her that instant. The doctor
resolved (for reasons of his own) to undertake the man-
agement of all. He found a priest, witnesses ; and
the union (all the formalities of which were carefully
scrutinised and verified by Seyton) was secretly cele-
brated during a temporary absence of the Grand Duke at
a conference of the German Diet. The prophecy of the
Scotch soothsayer was fulfilled, Sarah wedded the heir
to a throne.
318
TOM AND SARAH.
Without quenching the fire of his love, possession
rendered Rodolph more circumspect, and cooled down
that violence which might have compromised the secret
of his passion for Sarah ; but, directed by Seyton and the
doctor, the young couple managed so well, and observed
so much circumspection towards each other, that they
eluded all detection.
An event, impatiently desired by Sarah, soon turned
this calm into a tempest, she was about to become a
mother. It was then that this woman evinced all those
exactions which were so new to, and so much astonished,
Rodolph. She protested, with hypocritical tears stream-
ing from her eyes, that she could no longer support the
constraint in which she lived ; a constraint rendered
the more insupportable by her pregnancy. In this ex-
tremity she boldly proposed to the young prince to tell
all to his father, who was, as well as the Dowager Grand
Duchess, fonder than ever of her. No doubt, she added,
he will be very angry, greatly enraged, at first, but he
loves his son so tenderly, so blindly, and had for her
(Sarah) so strong an affection, that his paternal anger
would gradually subside, and she would at last take in
the court of Gerolstein the rank which was due to her,
she might say in a double sense, because she was about
to give birth to a child, which would be the heir pre-
sumptive to the Grand Duke. These pretensions alarmed
Rodolph : he knew the deep attachment which his father
had for him, but he also well knew the inflexibility of his
principles with regard to all the duties of a prince. To
all these objections Sarah replied, unmoved :
" I am your wife in the presence of God and men.
In a short time, I shall no longer be able to conceal my
situation ; and I ought not to blush at that of which I
am, on the contrary, so proud, and would desire openly
to acknowledge."
The expectation of posterity had redoubled Rodolph's
tenderness for Sarah, and, placed between the desire to
319
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
accede to her wishes and the dread i:^ his father's wrath,
he experienced the bitterest anguish. Seyton sided with
his sister.
" The marriage is indissoluble," .laid he to his royal
brother-in-law ; " the Grand Duke may exile you from
his court, you and your wife, nothing more ; but he
loves you too much to have recourse to such an ex-
tremity. He will endure what he cannot prevent."
These reasons, strong enough in themselves, did not
soothe Rodolph's anxieties. At this juncture, Seyton
was charged by the Grand Duke with an errand to visit
several breeding studs in Austria. This mission, which
he could not refuse, would only detain him a fortnight :
he set out with much regret, and in a very important
moment for his sister. She was chagrined, yet satisfied,
at the departure of her brother ; for she would lose his
advice, but then he would be safe from the Grand Duke's
anger if all were discovered. Sarah promised to keep
Seyton fully informed, day by day, of the progress of
events, so important to both of them ; and, that they
might correspond more surely and secretly, they agreed
upon a cipher, of which Polidori also held the key.
This precaution alone proves that Sarah had other
matters to tell her brother of besides her love for
Rodolph. In truth, this selfish, cold, ambitious woman
had not felt the ice of her heart melt even by the beams
of the passionate love which had been breathed to her.
Her maternity was only with her a means of acting more
effectually on Rodolph, and had no softening effect on her
iron soul. The youth, headlong love, and inexperience of
the prince, who was hardly more than a child, and so per-
fidiously ensnared into an inextricable position, hardly
excited an interest in the mind of this selfish creature ;
and, in her confidential communications with him, she
complained, with disdain and bitterness, of the weakness
of this young man, who trembled before the most pater-
nal of German princes, who lived, however, very long I
320
TOM AND SARAH.
In a word, this correspondence between the brother and
sister clearly developed their unbounded selfishness, their
ambitious calculations, their impatience, which almost
amounted to homicide, and laid bare the springs of that
dark conspiracy crowned by the marriage of Rodolph.
One of Sarah's letters to her brother was abstracted
by Polidori, the channel of their mutual communications ;
for what purpose we shall see hereafter.
A few days after Seyton's departure, Sarah was at the
evening court of the Dowager Grand Duchess. Many of
the ladies present looked at her with an astonished air,
and whispered to their neighbours. The Grand Duchess
Judith, in spite of her ninety years, had a quick ear and
a sharp eye, and this little whispering did not escape her.
She made a sign to one of the ladies in waiting to come
to her, and from her she learned that everybody was
remarking that the figure of Miss Sarah Seyton of Hals-
bury was less slender, less delicate in its proportions
than usual. The old princess adored her young protegee
and would have answered to God himself for Sarah's
virtue. Indignant at the malevolence of these remarks,
she shrugged her shoulders, and said aloud, from the end
of the saloon in which she was sitting :
" My dear Sarah, come here."
Sarah rose. It was requisite to cross the circle to
reach the place where the princess was seated, w^ho was
anxious most kindly to destroy the rumour that
was circulated, and, by the simple fact of thus crossing
the room, confound her calumniators, and prove
triumphantly that the fair proportions of her prot^g^e
had lost not one jot of their symmetry and delicacy.
Alas ! the most perfidious enemy could not have devised
a better plan than that suggested by the worthy princess
in her desire to defend her protegee. Sarah came towards
her, and it required all the deep respect due to the Grand
Duchess to repress the murmur of surprise and indigna-
tion when the young lady crossed the room. The near-
321
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
est-sighted persons saw what Sarah would no longer
conceal, for her pregnancy might have been hidden
longer had she but have chosen ; but the ambitious woman
had sought this display in order to compel Rodolph to
declare his marriage. The Grand Duchess, who, how-
ever, would not be convinced in spite of her eyesight,
said, in a low voice, to Sarah :
" My dear child, how very ill you have dressed your-
self to-day, you, whose shape may be spanned by ten
fingers. I hardly know you again."
We will relate hereafter the results of this discovery,
which led to great and terrible events. At this moment,
we will content ourselves with stating, what the reader
has no doubt already guessed, that Fleur-de-Marie was
the fruit of the secret marriage of Rodolph and Sarah,
and that they both believed their daughter dead.
It has not been forgotten that Rodolph, after having
visited the house in the Rue du Temple, had returned
home, and intended, in the evening, to be present at a
ball given by the ambassadress. It was to this fete
that we shall follow his royal highness, the reigning
Grand Duke of Gerolstein, Gustavus Rodolph, travelling
in France under the name of the Count de Duren.
322
CHAPTER XXVL
THE BALL.
As the eleventh hour of the night sounded from the
different clocks in Paris, the gates of an hotel in the
Rue Plumet were thrown open by a Swiss in rich livery,
and forthwith issued a magnificent dark blue Berlin
carriage, drawn by two superb long-tailed gray horses ;
on the seat, which was covered by a rich hammercloth,
trimmed with a mossy silk fringe, sat a portly-looking
coachman, whose head was ornamented by a three-
cornered hat, while his rotund figure looked still more
imposing in his dress livery-coat of blue cloth, trimmed
up the seams with silver lace, and thickly braided with
the same material ; the whole finished by a splendid
sable collar and cuffs. Behind the carriage stood a tall
powdered lacquey, dressed in a livery of blue turned up
with yellow and silver ; and by his side was a chasseur,
whose fierce-looking moustaches, gaily embroidered dress
and hat, half concealed by a waving plume of blue and
yellow feathers, completed a most imposing coup-ofceil.
The bright light of the lamps revealed the costly satin
lining of the interior of the vehicle we are describing, in
which were seated Rodolph, having on his right hand
the Baron de Graiin, and opposite to him the faithful
Murphy.
Out of deference for the sovereign represented by the
ambassador to whose ball he was then proceeding,
Rodolph wore no other mark of distinction than the
diamond order of .
Round the neck of Sir Walter Murphy, and suspended
323
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
by a broad orange riband, hung the enamelled cross of
the grand commander of the Golden Eagle of Gerolstein ;
and a similar insignia decorated the Baron de Graiin,
amidst an infinite number of the crosses and badges of
honour belonging to all countries, depending by a gold
chaiii placed in the two full buttonholes of the diplo-
matist's coat.
" I am delighted," said Rodolph, " with the very fa-
vourable accounts I have received from Madame Georges
respecting my poor little protegee at the farm of Bouque-
val. David's care and attention have worked wonders.
Apropos of La Goualeuse : what do you think. Sir Walter
Murphy, any of your Cite acquaintances would say at
seeing you so strangely disguised, as at present they
would consider you, most valiant charcoal-man, to be ?
They would be somewhat astonished, I fancy. ''
" Much in the same degree as the surprise your royal
highness would excite among your new acquaintances in
the Rue du Temple, were you to proceed thither, as now
attired, to pay a friendly visit to Madame Pipelet, and
to inquire after the health of Cabrion's victim, the poor
melancholy Alfred ! "
" My lord has drawn so lively a sketch of Alfred,
attired in his long-skirted green coat and bell-crowned
hat," said the baron, " that I can well imagine him
seated in magisterial dignity in his dark and smoky
lodge. Let me hope that your royal highness's visit to
the Rue du Temple has fully answered your expecta-
tions, and that you are in every way satisfied with the
researches of my agent ? "
" Perfectly so," answered Rodolph. " My success was
even beyond my expectations."
Then, after a moment's painful silence, and to drive
away the train of thought conjured up by the recollection
of the probable guilt of Madame d'Harville, he resumed,
in a tone more gay :
" I am almost ashamed to own to so much childish-
324
THE BALL.
ness, but I confess myself amused with the contrast
between my treating Madame Pipelet in the morning to
a glass of cordial, and then proceeding in the evening
to a grand fete, with all the pomp and prestige of one of
those privileged beings who, by the grace of God, ' reign
over this lower world.' Some men of small fortune
would speak of my revenues as those of a millionaire,"
added Rodolph, in a sort of parenthesis, alluding to the
limited extent of his estates.
" And many millionaires, my lord, might not have
the rare, the admirable good sense, of the man of
narrow means."
" Ah, my dear De Graiin, you are really too good,
much too good 1 You really overwhelm me," replied
Rodolph, with an ironical smile, while the baron glanced
at Murphy with the consciousness of a man who has
just discovered he has been saying a foolish thing.
" Really, my dear De Graiin," resumed Rodolph, " I
know not how to acknowledge the weight of your com-
pliment, or how to repay such delicate flattery in its own
way."
" My lord, let me entreat of you not to take the
trouble," exclaimed the baron, who had for the instant
forgotten that Rodolph, who detested every species of
flattery, always revenged himself by the most unsparing
raillery on those who, directly or indirectly, addressed
it to him.
" Nay, baron, I cannot allow myself to remain in
your debt. You have praised my understanding, I
will, in return, admire your countenance ; for by my
lionour, as I sit beside you, you look like a youth of
twenty. Antinous himself could not boast of finer
features, or a more captivating expression."
" My lord ! my lord ! I cry your mercy ! "
" Behold him, Murphy, and say whether Apollo could
display more graceful limbs, more light, and youthful
proportions ! "
325
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
"I beseech you, my lord, to pardon me, from the
recollection of how long it is since I have permitted my-
self to utter the slightest compliment to your royal
highness."
" Observe, Murphy, this band of gold which restrains,
without concealing, the locks of rich black hair flowing
over this graceful neck, and "
" My lord ! my lord ! for pity's sake spare me ! I
repent, most sincerely, of my involuntary fault," said the
unfortunate baron, with an expression of comic despair
on his countenance truly ludicrous.
It must not be forgotten that the original of this glow-
ing picture was at least fifty years of age ; his hair gray,
frizzled and powdered ; a stiff white cravat round his
throat ; a pale, withered countenance ; and golden spec-
tacles upon the horny bridge of his sharp, projecting
nose.
" Pardon, my lord ! pardon, for the baron," exclaimed
the squire, laughing. " I beseech you not to overwhelm
him beneath the weight of your mythological allusions.
I will be answerable to your royal highness that my
unlucky friend here will never again venture to utter a
flattery, since so truth is translated in the new vocabulary
of Gerolstein."
" What ! old Murphy, too ? Are you going to join
in the rebellion against sincerity ? "
" My lord, I am so sorry for the position of my unfortu-
nate vis-d-vis, that I beg I may divide his punishment
with him."
" Charcoal-man in ordinary, your disinterested friend-
ship does you honour. But seriously now, my dear De
Graiin, how have you forgotten that I only allow such
fellows as D'Harneim and his train to flatter, for
the simple reason that they know not how to speak the
truth? That cuckoo-note of false praise belongs to
birds of such feather as themselves, and the species they
claim relationship with ; but for a person of your mind
326
THE BALL.
and good taste to descend to its usage oh, fie !
baron, fic ! "
" It is all very well, my lord," said the baron, sturdily;
" but I must be allowed to say (with all due apology for
my boldness) that there is no small portion of pride in
your royal highness's aversion to receive even a just
compliment."
'' Well said, baron ! Come, I like you better now you
speak plain truths. But tell me how you prove your
assertion ? "
" Why, just so, my lord ; because you repudiate it upon
the same principle that might induce a beautiful woman,
well aware of her charms, to say to one of her most
enthusiastic admirers, ' I know perfectly well how hand-
some I am, and therefore your approval is perfectly
uncalled for and unnecessary. What is the use of reit-
erating what everybody knows ? Is it usual to proclaim
in the open streets that the sun shines, when all may
see and feel certain of his midday brightness ? ' "
" Now, baron, you are shifting your ground, and be-
coming more dangerous as you become more adroit;
and, by way of varying your punishment, I will only say
that the infernal Polidori himself could not have more
ingeniously disguised the poisonous draught of flattery,
when seeking to persuade some poor victim to swallow
it."
" My lord, I am now effectually silenced."
" Then," said Murphy (and this time with an air of
real seriousness), " your royal highness has now no
doubt as to its being really Polidori you encountered in
the Rue du Temple ? "
" I have ceased to have the least doubt on the subject,
since I learned through you that he had been in Paris
for some time past."
" I had forgotten, or, rather, purposely omitted to
mention to your lordship," said Murphy in a sorrow-
ing tone, " a name that never failed to awaken painful
327
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
feelings ; and knowing as I do how justly odious the
remembrance of this man was to your royal highness, I
studiously abstained from all reference to it.''
The features of Rodolph were again overshadowed
with gloom, and, plunged in deep reverie, he continued
to preserve unbroken the silence which prevailed until
the carriage stopped in the courtyard of the embassy.
The windows of the h6tel were blazing with a thousand
lights, which shone brightly through the thick darkness
of the night, while a crowd of lacqueys, in full-dress
liveries, lined the entrance-hall, extending even to the
salons of reception, where the grooms of the chamber
waited to announce the different arrivals.
M. le Comte , the ambassador, with his lady, had
purposely remained in the first reception-room until the
arrival of Rodolph, who now entered, followed by Mur-
phy and M. de Graiin.
Rodolph was then in his thirty-sixth year, in the very
prime and perfection of manly health and strength.
His regular and handsome features, with the air of dig-
nity pervading his whole appearance, would have
rendered him, under any circumstances, a strikingly
attractive man ; but, combined with the eclat of high birth
and exalted rank, he was a person of first-rate impor-
tance in every circle in which he presented himself, and
whose notice was assiduously sought for. Dressed with
the utmost simplicity, Rodolph wore a white waistcoat
and cravat ; a blue coat, buttoned up closely, on the
right breast of which sparkled a diamond star, displayed
to admiration the light yet perfect proportions of his
graceful figure, while his well-fitting pantaloons, of black
kerseymere, defined the finely formed leg and handsome
foot in its embroidered stocking.
From the rareness of the Grand Duke's visits to the
haut monde, his arrival produced a great sensation, and
every eye was fixed upon him from the moment that,
attended by Murphy and Baron de Graiin, he entered the
328
THE BALL.
first salon at the embassy. An attach^, deputed to watch
for his arrival, hastened immediately to appraise the am-
bassadress of the appearance of her illustrious guest.
Her excellency instantly hurried, with her noble husband,
to welcome their visitor, exclaiming :
" Your royal highness is, indeed, kind, thus to honour
our poor entertainment."
" Nay, madame," replied Rodolph, gracefully bowing
on the hand extended to him, " your ladyship is well
aware of the sincere pleasure it affords to pay my com-
pliments to yourself ; and as for M. le Comte, he and I
are two old friends, who are always delighted to meet.
Are we not, my lord ? "
" Your royal highness, in deigning to continue to me
so flattering a place in your recollection, makes it still
more impossible for me ever to forget your many acts of
condescending kindness."
" I assure you, M. le Comte, that in my memory the
past never dies ; or, at least, the pleasant part of it ;
for I make it a strict rule never to preserve any remi-
niscences of my friends but such as are agreeable and
gratifying."
" Your royal highness has found the secret of being
happy in your thoughts, and rendering others so at the
same time," rejoined the ambassador, smiling with
gratified pride and pleasure at a conference so cordially
carried on before a gathering crowd of admiring
auditors.
" Thus, then, madame," replied Rodolph, " will your
flattering reception of to-night live long in my memory ;
and I shall promise myself the happiness of recalling
this evening's fete, with its tasteful arrangements and
crowd of attending beauties. Ah, Madame la Comtesse,
who like you can effect such a union of taste and
elegance as now sparkles around us ? "
" Your royal highness is too indulgent."
" But I have a very important question to ask you :
329
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
Why is it that, lovely as are your fair guests, their
charms are never seen to such perfection as when as-
sembled beneath your hospitable roof ? "
" Your royal highness is pleased to view our fair visit-
ants through the same flattering medium with which you
are graciously pleased to behold our poor endeavours for
your and their amusement," answered the ambassador,
with a deferential bow.
" Your pardon, count," replied Rodolph, " if I differ
with you in opinion. According to my judgment, the
cause proceeds wholly from our amiable hostess, Ma-
dame I'Ambassadrice."
" May I request of your royal highness to solve this
enigma ? " inquired the countess, smiling.
" That is easily given, madame, and may be found in
the perfect urbanity and exquisite grace with which you
receive your lovely guests, and whisper to each a few
charming and encouraging words, which, if the least bit
exceeding strict truth," said Rodolph, smiling with good-
tempered satire, " renders those who are even praised
above their merits more radiant in beauty from your
kind commendations, while those whose charms admit
of no exaggeration are no less radiant with the happiness
of finding themselves so justly appreciated by you;
thus each countenance, thanks to the gentle arts you
practise, is made to exhibit the most smiling delight, for
perfect content will set off even homely features. And
thus I account for why it is that woman, all lovely as
she is, never looks so much so as when seen beneath
your roof. Come, M. PAmbassadeur, own that I have
made out a good case, and that you entirely concur with
me in opinion."
" Your royal highness has afforded me too many pre-
vious reasons to admire and adopt your opinions for me
to hesitate in the present instance."
" And for me, my lord," said the countess, " at the
risk of being included among those fair ladies who get a
830
THE BALL.
little more praise or flattery (which was it your highness
styled it ?) than they deserve, I accept your very flatter-
ing explanation with as much qualified pleasure as if it
were really founded on truth."
" In order more effectually to convince you, madame,
that nothing is more correct than all I have asserted, let
us make a few observations touching the fine effect of
praise in animating and lighting up the countenance."
" Ah, my lord, you are laying a very mischievous
snare for me," said the countess, smiling.
" Well, then, I will abandon that idea ; but upon one
condition, that you honour me by taking my arm. I
have been told wonderful things of a ' Winter Garden,'
a work from Fairyland. May I put up my humble
petition to be allowed to see this new wonder of a ' hun-
dred and one nights ? ' "
" Oh, my lord, with the utmost pleasure. But I see
that your highness had received a most exaggerated
account. Perhaps you will accompany me, and judge
for yourself. Only in this instance I w^ould fain hope
that your habitual indulgence may induce you to feel as
little disappointment as possible at finding how imper-
fectly the reality equals your expectations."
The ambassadress then took the offered arm of Ro-
dolph, and proceeded with him to the other salons, while
the count remained conversing with the Baron de Graiin
and Murphy, whom he had been acquainted with for
some time.
And a more beautiful scene of enchantment never
charmed the eye than that presented by the aspect of the
winter garden, to which Rodolph had conducted his
noble hostess. Let the reader imagine an enclosure of
about forty feet in length, and thirty in width (leading
out of a long and splendid gallery), surmounted by a
glazed and vaulted roof, the building being securely
covered in for about fifty feet. Round the parallelogram
it described, the walls were concealed by an infinite
331
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
number of mirrors, over which was placed a small and
delicate trellis of fine green rushes, which, thanks to the
strong light reflected on the highly polished glass, resem-
bled an arbour, and were almost entirely hidden by a
thick row of orange-trees, as large as those of the Tuile-
ries, mixed with camellias of equal size ; while the
golden fruit and verdant foliage of the one contrasted
beautifully with the rich clusters of waxen flowers, of all
colours, with which the other was loaded. The remainder
of the garden was thus devised :
Five or six enormous clumps of trees, and Indian or
other tropical shrubs, planted in immense cases filled
with peat earth, were surrounded by alleys paved with a
mosaic shell-work, and sufficiently wide for two or three
persons to walk abreast. It is impossible to describe the
wondrous effect produced by this rich display of tropical
vegetation in the midst of a European winter, and almost
in the very centre of a ballroom. Here might be seen
gigantic bananas stretching their tall arms to the glass
roof which covered them, and blending the vivid green of
their palms with the lanceolated leaves of the large mag-
nolias, some of which already displayed their matchless
and odoriferous flowers with their bell-shaped calices, pur-
ple without and silvery white within, from which started
forth the little gold-threaded stamens. At a little dis-
tance were grouped the palm and date-trees of the
Levant ; the red macaw, and fig-trees from India ; all
blooming in full health and vigour, and displaying their
foliage in all its luxuriance, gave to the tout ensemble a
mass of rich, brilliant tropical verdure, which, glittering
among the thousand lights, sparkled with the colours of
the emerald.
Along the trellising, between the orange-trees, and
amid the clumps, were trained every variety of rare
climbing plants ; sometimes hanging their long wreaths
of leaves and flowers in graceful festoons, then defpending
like blooming serpents from the tall boughs ; now trail-
332
THE BALL.
ing at their roots, then ambitiously scaling the very
walls, till they hung their united tresses round the
transparent and vaulted roof, from which again they
floated in mingled masses, waving in the pure, light
breeze loaded with so many odours. The winged pome-
granate, the passion-flower, with its large purple flowers
striated with azure, and crowned with its dark violet tuft,
waved in long spiral wreaths over the heads of the admir-
ing crowd, then, as though fatigued with the sport,
threw their colossal garlands of delicate flowers across
the hard, prickly leaves of the gigantic aloes.
The bignonia of India, with its long, cup-shaped
flower of dark sulphur colour, and slight, slender leaves,
was placed beside the delicate flesh-coloured petals of
the stephanotis, so justly appreciated for its exquisite per-
fume ; the two stems mutually clinging to each other for
support, and mingling their leaves and flowers in one
confused mass, disposed them in elegant festoons of
green fringe spangled with gold and silver spots, around
the immense velvet foliage of the Indian fig. Farther
on, started forth, and then fell again in a sort of varie-
gated and floral cascade, immense quantities of the stalks
of the asclepias, whose leaves, large, umbellated, and in
clusters of from fifteen to twenty star-shaped flowers,
grew so thickly, so evenly, that they might have been
mistaken for bouquets of pink enamel surrounded with
leaves of fine green porcelain. The borders of the cases
containing the orange sand camellias were filled with the
choicest cape heaths, the tulips of Thol, the narcissus of
Constantinople, the hyacinth, irides, and cyclamina of
Persia ; forming a sort of natural carpet, presenting one
harmonious blending of the loveliest tints.
Chinese lanterns of transparent silk, some pale blue,
others pink, partly concealed amid the foliage, threw a
soft and gentle light over this enchanting scene ; nor could
a more ingenious idea have been resorted to than in the
happy amalgamation of these two colours, by which a
333
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
charming and almost unearthly light was produced com-
bining the clear cerulean blue of a summer's night with
the rose-coloured coruscations emitted from sparkling
rays of an aurora borealis.
The entrance to this immense hothouse was from a
long gallery glittering with gold, with mirrors, crystal
vases filled with the choicest perfumes, and brilliantly
lighted, and also raised a few steps above the fairy
palace we have been endeavouring to describe. The daz-
zling brightness of the approach served as a sort of pe-
numbra, in which were indistinctly traced out the gigantic
exotics discernible through a species of arch, partly
concealed by two crimson velvet curtains looped back
with golden cords so as to give a dim and misty view of
the enchanted land that lay beyond. An imaginative
mind might easily have persuaded himself he stood near
a huge window opening on some beautiful Asiatic land-
scape during the tranquillity of a summer's twilight.
The sounds of the orchestra, weakened by distance,
and broken by the joyous hum proceeding from the
gallery, died languidly away among the motionless foli-
age of the huge trees. Insensibly each fresh visitant to
this enchanting gpot lowered his voice until his words
fell in whispers ; for the light genuine air, embalmed
with a thousand rich odours, appeared to cast a sort of
somnolency over the senses ; every breath seemed to
speak of the clustering plants whose balmy sweetness
filled the atmosphere. Certainly two lovers, seated in
some corner of this Eden, could conceive no greater
happiness to be enjoyed on earth, than thus dreamily to
rest beneath the trees and flowers of this terrestrial
paradise.
At the end of this winter garden were placed immense
divans beneath canopies of leaves and flowers ; the sub-
dued light of the hothouse forming a powerful contrast
with the gallery, the distance seemed filled with a
species of gold-coloured, shining fog, in the midst of
334
THE BALL.
which glittered and flickered, like a living embroidery,
the dazzling and varied robes of the ladies, combined
with the prismatic scintillations of the congregated mass
of diamonds and precious stones. Rodolph's first sensa-
tion upon arriving at this enchanting triumph of art
over nature was that of most unfeigned surprise.
" This is, indeed, a wonderfully beautiful carrying out
of a poetical idea," said he, almost involuntarily ; then,
turning to the ambassadress, he exclaimed, " Madame,
till now, I had not deemed such wonders practicable.
We have not in the scene before us a mere union of
unbounded expense with the most exquisite taste, but
you give us poetry in action. Instead of writing as a
master poet, or painting as a first-rate artist, you creato
that which they would scarcely venture to dream of."
" Your royal highness is too indulgent."
" Nay, but candidly, all must agree that the mind
which could so faithfully depict this ravishing scene,
with its charm of colours and contrasts, beyond us, the
loud notes of joy and mirthful revelry, here the soft
silence and sweet, gentle murmurs of distant voices, that
lull the spirit into a fancied flight beyond this fitful
existence, surely, surely, without suspicion of flattery,
it may be said of the planner and contriver of all this,
such a one was born a poet and a painter combined."
" The praises of your royal highness are so much the
more dangerous from the skill and cleverness with which
they are uttered, and which makes us listen to them
with delight, even in defiance of our sternest resolutions.
But allow me to call your royal highnesses attention to the
very lovely person who is approaching us. I must have
you admit that the Marquise d'Harville must shine pre-
eminently beautiful any and every where. Is she not
graceful ? And does not the gentle elegance of her whole
appearance acquire a fresh charm, from the contrast
with the severe yet classic beauty by whom she is
accompanied ? "
335
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
The individuals thus alluded to were the Countess
Sarah Macgregor and the Marquise d'Harville, who were
at this moment descending the steps which led from the
gallery to the winter garden. Neither was the panegyric
bestowed by the ambassadress on Madame d'Harville at
all exaggerated. No words can accurately describe the
loveliness of her person, and the Marquise d'Harville
was then in the first bloom of youthful charms ; but her
beauty, delicate and fragile as it was, appeared less to
belong to the strict regularity of her features than
to the irresistible expression of sweetness and universal
kindness, which imparted a charm to her countenance
impossible to resist or to describe ; and this peculiar
charm served invariably to distinguish Madame d'Har-
ville from all other fashionable beauties ; for goodness of
heart and kindliness of disposition are but rarely seen
as the prevailing passions revealed in a face as fair,
as young, high-born, and ardently worshipped by all, as
was the Marquise d'Harville, who shone forth in all her
lustre as the brightest star in the galaxy of fashion.
Too wise, virtuous, and right-minded to listen to the
host of flatterers by whom she was surrounded, Madame
d'Harville smiled as gratefully on all as though she
could have given them credit for speaking the truth, had
not her own modest opinion of her just claims to such
homage have forbidden her accepting of praise she never
could have deserved. Wholly indifferent to flattery, yet
sensibly alive to kindness, she perfectly distinguished
between sympathy and insincerity. Her acute penetra-
tion, correct judgment, and lively wit, unmixed by the
slightest ill-nature, made her wage an early, though
good-tempered war with those vain and egotistical
beings who crowd and oppress society with the view
of monopolising general attention, and, blinded by
their own self-love, expect one universal deference and
submission.
" Those kind of persons," said Madame d'Harville one
336
THE BALL.
day, laughingly, " appear to me as if their whole lives
were passed in dancing ' Le Cavalier SeuV before an
invisible mirror. "
An unassuming and unpretending person, however
reserved and consequently unpopular he might be with
others, was sure to find a steady friend and partial
observer in Madame d'Harville.
This trifling digression is absolutely essential to the
right understanding of facts of which we shall speak
hereafter.
The complexion of Madame d'Harville was of the
purest white, tinged with the most delicate carnation ;
her long tresses of bright chestnut hair floated over her
beautifully formed shoulders, white and polished as
marble. It would be an impossible task to describe
her large dark gray eyes, fringed with their thick
lashes, and beaming with angelic sweetness ; her coral
lips, with their gentle smile, gave to her eyes the inde-
finable charm that her affable and winning mode of
expressing herself derived from their mild and angelic
expression of approving goodness. We will not farther
delay the reader by describing the perfection of her
figure, nor dwell upon the distinguished air which
marked her whole appearance. She wore a white crape
dress, trimmed with the natural flowers of the camellia,
intermixed with its own rich green leaves. Here and
there a diamond sparkled among the waxy petals, as if
a dewdrop fresh from its native skies had fallen there.
A garland of the same flowers, equally ornamented with
precious stones, was placed with infinite grace upon her
fair and open brow.
The peculiar style of the Countess Sarah Macgregor's
beauty served to set off the fair feminine loveliness of
her companion. Though turned thirty-five years of age,
Sarah looked much younger. Nothing appears to pre-
serve the body more effectually from all the attacks of
sickness or decay than a cold-hearted, egotistical disre-
337
THE MYSTERIES OF PARTS.
gard of every one but ourselves ; it encrusts the body
with a cold, icy covering, which alike resists the inroads
of bodily or mental wear and tear. To this cause may
be ascribed the wonderful preservation of Countess
Sarah's appearance.
The lady whose name we last mentioned wore a dress
of pale amber watered silk, beneath a crape tunic of the
same colour. A simple wreath of the dark leaves of the
Pyrus Japonieus encircled her head, and harmonised
admirably with the bandeaux of raven hair it confined.
This classically severe mode of head-dress gave to the
profile of this imperious woman the character and resem-
blance of an antique statue. Many persons, mistaking
their real cast of countenance, imagine some peculiar
vocation delineated in their traits. Thus one man, who
fancies he possesses a warlike air, assumes the warrior ;
another imagines
" His eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,"
marks him out as a poet ; instantly he turns down his
shirt-collar, adopts poetical language, and writes himself
poet. So the self-^'magined conspirator wastes days and
hours in pondering over mighty deeds he feels called upon
to do. The politician, upon the same terms, bores the
world and his friends with his perpetual outpourings
upon political economy ; and the man whose saintly turn
of countenance persuades its owner into the belief of a
corresponding character within, forthwith abjures the
pomps and vanities of the world, and aims at reforming
his brethren by his pulpit eloquence. Now, ambition
being Sarah's ruling passion, and her noble and aristo-
cratical features well assisting the delusion, she smiled
as the word " diadem " crossed her thoughts, and lent a
willing ear to the predictions of her Highland nurse,
and firmly believed herself predestined to a sovereign
destiny. Spite of the trifling embonpoint that gave to
her figure (which, though fatter than Madame d'Har-
338
THE BALL.
ville's, was not less slender and nymph-like) a voluptu-
ous gracefulness, Sarah boasted of all the freshness of
early youth, and few could long sustain the fire of her
black and piercing eyes ; her nose was aquiline ; her
finely formed mouth and rich ruby lips were expressive
of the highest determination, haughtiness, and pride.
The marquise and Sarah had recognised Rodolph in
the winter garden at the moment they were descending
into it from the gallery ; but the prince feigned not to
observe their presence.
" The prince is so absorbed with the ambassadress,''
said Madame d'Harville to Sarah, " that he pays not the
slightest attention to us."
" You are quite mistaken, my dear Cl^mence," re-
joined the countess ; " the prince saw us as quickly and
as plainly as we saw him, but I frightened him away ;
you see he still bears malice with me."
" I am more than ever at a loss to understand the
singular obstinacy with which he persists in shunning
you, you, formerly an old friend. ' Countess Sarah
and myself are sworn enemies,' replied he to me once in
a joking manner ; ' I have made a vow never to speak
to her ; and you may judge how sacred must be the vow
that hinders me from conversing with so charming a
lady.' And, strange and unaccountable as was this re-
ply, I had no alternative but to submit to it."
" And yet I can assure you that the cause of this deadly
feud, half in jest, and half in earnest as it is, originates
in the most simple circumstance. Were it not that a
third party is implicated in it, I should have explained
the whole to you long ago. But what is the matter, my
dear child ? You seem as though your thoughts were
far from the present scene."
" Nothing, nothing, I assure you," replied the marquise,
faintly ; " but the gallery is so very hot, it gave me a
violent headache. Let us sit down here for a minute or
two. I hope and believe it will soon be better."
339
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
"You are right; see, here is a nice quiet corner,
where you will be in perfect safety from the researches
of those who a^e lamenting your absence," added Sarah,
pronouncing the last words with marked emphasis.
The two ladies then seated themselves on a divan,
almost concealed beneath the clustering shrubs and over-
hanging plants.
" I said those who would be lamenting your absence,
my dear Cl^mence, come, own that I deserve praise
for so discreetly forming my speech."
The marquise blushed slightly, cast down her eyes,
but spoke not.
" How unreasonable you are ! " exclaimed Sarah, in a
tone of friendly reproach. " Can you not trust me, my
dear child ? yes, child ; for am I not old enough to be
your mother ? "
" Not trust you ? " uttered the marquise, sadly ; " alas !
have I not on the contrary confessed that to you which I
should hardly have dared to own to myself ? "
" Well, then, come, rouse yourself ; now, let us have
a little talk about him : and so you have really sworn to
drive him to despair ?"
" For the love ol heaven," exclaimed Madame d'Har-
ville, " think what you are saying ! "
" I tell you I know him better than you do, my poor
child ; he is a man of cool and decided energy, who sets
but little value on his life ; he has had misfortunes enough
to make him quite weary of it ; and it really seems as if
you daily found greater pleasure in tormenting him, and
playing with his feelings."
" Is it possible you can really think so ? "
" Indeed, in spite of myself, I cannot refrain from en-
tertaining that opinion. Oh, if you but knew how over-
susceptible some minds are rendered by a continuance
of sorrows and afflictions, just now I saw two large
tears fall from his eyes, as he gazed on you."
" Are you quite sure of what you say ? "
340
I
THE BALL.
*' Indeed, I am quite certain ; and that, too, in a ball-
room, at the risk of becoming an object of general de-
rision, if this uncontrollable misery were perceived ! Ah !
let me tell you, a person must truly love to bear all this,
and even to be careless about concealing his sufferings
from the world."
" For the love of heaven, do not speak thus ! " replied
Madame d'Harville, in a voice trembling with emotion.
" Alas ! you have touched me nearly ; I know too well
what it is to struggle with a hidden grief, yet wear an
outward expression of calmness and resignation. Alas !
alas ! 'tis the deep pity and commiseration I feel for him
has been my ruin," added she, almost unconsciously.
" Nonsense ! What an over-nice person you are, to
talk of a little innocent flirtation being ruinous, and that,
too, with a man so scrupulously guarded as to abstain
from ever appearing in your husband's presence, for fear
of compromising you. You must admit that M. Charles
Robert is a man of surprising honour, delicacy, and real
feeling. I feel the more inclined to espouse his cause
from the recollection that you have never met him
elsewhere but at my house, and because I can answer
for his principles, and that his devoted attachment to
you can only be equalled by the deep respect he bears
you."
" I have never doubted the many noble qualities you
have so repeatedly assured me he possesses, but you know
well that it is his long succession of bitter afflictions which
have so warmly interested me in his favour."
" And well does he merit this interest, and most fully
do his excellent qualities absolve you of all blame in
thus bestowing it. Surely so fine and noble a counte-
nance bespeaks a mind equally superior to all mankind.
How completely are you reminded, while gazing on his
tall and finely proportioned figure, of the preux chevaliers
of bygone days, ' sans peur et sans reproche.^ I once saw
him dressed in his uniform as commandant of the national
341
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
guard, and, handsome as he is, I really think he looked
surpassingly well, and I could but say to myself, that, if
nobility were the award of inward merit and external
beauty, M. Charles Robert, instead of being so called,
would take precedence of nearly all our dukes and peers.
Would he not be a fitting representative of any of the
most distinguished families in France ? "
" You know, my dear countess, how very little im-
portance I attach to mere birth, and you yourself have
frequently reproached me with being strongly inclined
to republicanism," said Madame d'Harville, smiling
gently.
" For my own part, I always thought, with you, that
M. Charles Robert required not the aid of rank or titles
to render him worthy of universal admiration. Then,
what extreme talent he possesses ! What a fine voice he
has ! And what delightful morning concerts we three have
been able to achieve, owing to his all-powerful assistance !
Ah, my dear Clemence, do you remember the first time
you ever sang with him : what passionate expression did
he not throw into the words of that beautiful duet, so
descriptive of his love, and his fear of offending her who
was the object of it, by revealing it ? "
" Let me entreat of you," said Madame d'Harville,
after a long silence, " to speak of something else ; indeed
I dare not listen further : what you but just now inti-
mated of his depressed and unhappy appearance has
caused me much pain."
" Nay, my dear friend, I meant not to grieve you, but
merely to point out the probability that a man, rendered
doubly sensitive by the succession of past misfortunes,
might feel his courage insufficient to encounter the fresh
trial of your rejection of his suit, and thus be induced to
end his hopeless love and his life together."
" Oh, no more! no more!" almost shrieked Madame
d'Harville, interrupting Sarah ; " this fearful idea has
glanced across my mind already." Then, after a second
342
THE BALL.
silence of some minutes, the marquise resumed, " Let us,
as I said before, talk of somebody else, of your mortal
enemy, for instance," added she, with assumed gaiety of
manner ; " come, we will take the prince for a fresh
theme of conversation ; I had not seen him, previously
to this evening, for a very long time. Do you know that
I think he looks handsomer than ever ? Though all but
king, he has lost none of the winning sweetness and affa-
bility of his manner, and, spite of my republicanism,
I must confess I have seldom, if ever, known so irre-
sistible a person."
Sarah threw a side glance of deep and scrutinising
hatred upon her unconscious rival, but, quickly recov-
ering herself, she said, gaily :
" Now, my dear Cl^mence, you must confess to being
a most capricious little lady ; you have regular alter-
nating paroxysms of admiration and violent dislike for
the prince ; why, a few months ago, I mean about his
first arrival here, you were so captivated by him, that,
between ourselves, I was half afraid you had lost your
heart past all hope of recall."
" Thanks to you," replied Madame d'Harville, smiling,
" my admiration was very short-lived ; for so well did
you act up to your character of the prince's sworn foe,
and such fearful tales did you tell me of his profligacy
and misconduct, that you succeeded in inspiring me with
an aversion as powerful as had been the infatuation
which led you to fear for the safety of my heart ; which,
by the way, I cannot think would ever have been placed
in any danger from the attempts of your enemy to dis-
turb its repose, since, shortly before you gave me those
frightful particulars of the prince's character, he had
quite ceased to honour me with his visits, although on
the most intimate and friendly terms with my husband."
" Talking of your husband, pray is he here to-night ? "
inquired Sarah.
" No," replied Madame d'Harville, in a tone of embar-
343
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
rassment ; " he preferred remaining at home."
" He seems to me to mix less and less in the world."
" He never liked what is called fashionable gaiety."
The marquise's agitation visibly increased ; and Sarah,
whose quick eye easily perceived it, continued :
" The last time I saw him he looked even paler than
usual."
" He has been very much out of health lately."
" My dearest Cldmence, will you permit me to speak
to you without reserve ? "
" Oh, yes, pray do ! "
" How comes it that the least allusion to your hus-
band always throws you into such a state of extraordi-
nary alarm and uneasiness ? "
" What an idea ! Is it possible you can mean it
seriously?" asked poor Madame d'Harville, trying to
smile.
" Indeed, I am quite in earnest," rejoined her com-
panion ; " whenever you are speaking of him, your coun-
tenance assumes, even in spite of yourself, but how
shall I make myself understood ? " and Sarah, with the
tone and fixed gaze of one who wished to read the most
secret thoughts of the person she addressed, slowly and
emphatically added, " a look of mingled aversion and
fear ! "
The fixed pallid features of Madame d'Harville at
first defied even Sarah's practised eye, but her keen
gaze soon detected a slight convulsive working of the
mouth, with a tremulous movement of the under lip of
her victim ; but feeling it unsafe to pursue the subject
farther at this moment so as to awaken the marquise's
mistrust of her friendly intentions, by way, therefore, of
concealing her real suspicions, she continued :
" Yes, just that sort of dislike any woman would
entertain for a peevish, jealous, ill-tempered "
At this explanation of the countess's meaning, as
regarded Madame d'Harville's imagined dislike for her
344
THE BALL.
husband, a heavy load seemed taken from her; the
working of her Hp ceased, and she replied :
" Let me assure you M. d'Harville is neither peevish
nor jealous." Then, as if searching for some means of
breaking a conversation so painful to her feelings, she
suddenly exclaimed, " Ah ! here comes that tiresome
friend of my husband's, the Duke de Lucenay. I hope
he has not seen us. Where can he have sprung from ?
I thought he vras a thousand miles off ! "
" It was reported that he had gone somewhere in the
East for a year or two, and behold, at the end of five
months, here he is back again ! His unexpected arrival
must have sadly annoyed the Duchess de Lucenay,
though poor De Lucenay is a very inoffensive creature,"
said Sarah, with an ill-natured smile. " Nor will Ma-
dame de Lucenay be the only one to feel vexation at his
thus changing his mind ; her friend, M. de St. Remy,
will duly and affectionately sympathise in all her regrets
on the subject."
" Come, come, my dear Sarah, I cannot allow you to
scandalise ; say that this return of M. de Lucenay is a
nuisance to everybody ; the duke is sufficiently disagree-
able for you to generalise the regret his unexpected
presence occasions."
" I do not slander, I merely repeat. It is also said
that M. de St. Remy, the model of our young elegantes,
whose splendid doings have filled all Paris, is all but
ruined ! 'Tis true, he has by no means reduced either
his establishment or his expenditure ; however, there
are several ways of accounting for that; in the first
place, Madame de Lucenay is immensely rich."
" What a horrible idea ! "
" Still I only repeat what others say. There, the
duke sees us ; he is coming towards us ; we must resign
ourselves to our fate, miserable, is it not? I know
nothing so hard to bear as that man's company ; he
makes himself so very disagreeable, and then laughs so
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
disgustingly loud at the silly things he says. Indeed,
he is so boisterous that the bare idea of him makes one
think of pretending to faint, or any other pretext, to
avoid him. Talking of fainting, pray let me beg of you,
if you have the least regard for your fan or essence-
bottle, to beware how you allow him to handle either,
for he has the unfortunate habit of breaking whatever
he touches, and all with the most facetious self-satisfied
air imaginable."
END OF VOLUME I.
346
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Ball .11
11. The Rendezvous 36
III. An Idyl 61
IV. The Ambuscade 74
V. The Rectory -house 88
VI. The Rencounter ....... 99
VII. An Evening at the Farm .... 105
VIII. The Dream 150
IX. The Letter 159
X. The Hollow Way 195
XL Cli^mence d'Harville 201
XIL Misery 256
XIII. Judgment and Execution 286
XIV. Rigolette 310
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS,
CHAPTER 1.
THE BALL.
Belonging to one of the first families in France, still
young, and with a face that would have been agreeable
had it not been for the almost ridiculous and dispropor-
tionate length of his nose, M. de Lucenay joined to a
restless love of constant motion the habit of talking and
laughing fearfully loud upon subjects quite at variance
with good taste or polished manners, and throwing him-
self into attitudes so abrupt and awkward that it was
only by recalling who he was, that his being found in
the midst of the most distinguished societies in Paris
could be accounted for, or a reason assigned for tolerat-
ing his gestures and language ; for both of which he had
now, by dint of long practice and adherence, acquired a
sort of free license or impunity. He was shunned like
the plague, although not deficient in a certain descrip-
tion of wit, which told here and there amid the inde-
scribable confusion of remarkable phraseology which he
allowed himself the use of ; in fact, he was one of those
unintentional instruments of vengeance one would always
like to employ in the wholesale chastisement of per-
sons who have rendered themselves either ridiculous
or abhorrent.
The Duchess de Lucenay, one of the most agreeable,
11
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
and, at the same time, most fashionable women in Paris
(spite of her having numbered thirty summers), had
more than once furnished matter of conversation among
the scandal-dealers of Paris ; but her errors, whatever
they were supposed to be, were pardoned, in considera-
tion of the heavy drawback of such a partner as M. de
Lucenay.
Another feature in the character of this latter-named
individual was a singular affectation of the most absurd
and unknown expressions, relative to imaginary com-
plaints and ridiculous infirmities he amused himself in
supposing you suffered from, and concerning which he
would make earnest inquiries, in a loud voice, and in the
immediate presence of a hundred persons. But possessed
of first-rate courage, and always ready to take the con-
sequences of his disagreeable jokes, M. de Lucenay had
been concerned in various affairs of honour arising out
of them, with varied success ; coming off sometimes
victor, sometimes vanquished, without being in any way
cured of his unpleasant and annoying tricks.
All this premised, we will ask the reader to imagine
the loud, harsh voice of the personage we have been
describing, shouting from the distance at which he first
recognised Madame d'Harville and Sarah :
" Holla ! holla! who is that out there ? Come, who is
it ? Let's see. What ! the prettiest woman at the ball
sitting out here, away from everybody ! I can't have
this; it is high time I returned from the other end of
the world to put a stop to such doings as this. I tell
you what, marquise, if you persist in thus concealing
yourself from general view, and cheating people from
looking at you, I will set up a cry of fire ! fire ! that
shall bring every one out of the ballroom, around you."
And then, by way of terminating his discourse, M. de
Lucenay threw himself almost on his back beside the
two ladies, crossed his left leg over his right thigh, and
held his foot in his hand.
12
THE BALL.
"You have soon returned from Constantinople, my
lord," observed Madame d'Harville, fancying it was
necessary to say something, and, at the same time,
drawing away from her unpleasant neighbour with ill-
concealed impatience.
" Ah, that is just what my wife said ! ' Already back,
my lord ? ' exclaimed she, when she saw me alight from
my travelling-carriage ; ' Why, bless me, I did not expect
you so soon ! ' And, do you know, instead of flying to
my arms, as if the surprise had delighted her, she turned
quite sulky, and refused to appear with me at this, my
first ball since my return ! And, upon my soul, I de-
clare her staying away has caused a far greater sensa-
tion than my presence, droll, isn't it ? Ton my life, I
declare 1 can't make it out. When she is with me,
nobody pays the least attention to me ; but when I
entered the room alone to-night, such a crowd came hum-
ming and buzzing around me, all calling out at once,
' Where is Madame de Lucenay ? Is not she coming this
evening ? Oh, dear, what a disappointment ! How vexa-
tious ! How disagreeable ! ' etc., etc. And then, mar-
quise, when I come where you are, and expect, after
returning all the way from Constantinople, you will be
overjoyed to see me, you look upon me as if I were a
dog running amidst an interesting game of ninepins ;
and yet, for all I see, I am just as agreeable as other
people."
" And it would have been so easy for you to have
continued agreeable in the East," added Madame
d'Harville, slightly smiling.
" Stop abroad, you mean, I suppose ; yes, I dare say.
I tell you I could not, and I would not ; and it is not
quite what I like, to hear you say so ! " exclaimed M. de
Lucenay, uncrossing his legs, and beating the crown of
his hat after the fashion of a tambourine.
" Well, for heaven's sake, my lord, be still, and do
not call out so very loudly," said Madame d'Harville,
13
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
angrily, " or really you will compel me to change my
place."
" Change your place ! Ah, to be sure ! You want to
take my arm, and walk about the gallery a little ; come
along, then, Fm ready."
" Walk with you ! Certainly not ! And pray let me
beg of you not to meddle with that bouquet and have
the goodness not to touch the fan either ; you will only
break it, as you always do."
" Oh, bless you ! talking of breaking fans, I am un-
lucky. Did my wife ever show you a magnificent
Chinese fan, given to her by Madame de Vauddmont ?
Well, I broke that ! " And, having delivered himself of
these comforting words, M. de Lucenay again threw
himself back on the divan he had been lounging on, but,
with his accustomed gaucherie, contrived to pitch him-
self over the back of it, on to the ground, grasping in his
hand a quantity of the floating wreaths of climbing
plants which depended from the boughs of the trees
under which the party was sitting, and which*' he had
been, for some time, amusing himself with essaying to
catch, as, moved by the light breeze admitted into the
place, they undulated gracefully over his head. The
suddenness of his fall brought down, not only those he
held, but the parent stems belonging to them ; and poor
De Lucenay was so covered by the mass of foliage thus
unexpectedly obtained, that, ere he could thoroughly dis-
engage himself from their circling tendrils, he presented
the appearance of some monarch of May-day crowned
with his leafy diadem. So whimsical an appearance as
he presented drew down roars of deafening, stunning
laughter ; much to the annoyance of Madame d'Harville,
who would quickly have got out of the vicinity of so
awkward and unpleasant a person had she not perceived
M. Charles Robert (the commandant of Madame Pipelet's
accounts) advancing from the other end of the gallery ;
and, unwilling to appear as though going to meet
14
THE BALL.
him, she once more resumed her seat beside M. de
Lucenay.
" I say, Lady Macgregor," vociferated the incorrigible
De Lucenay, " didn't I look preciously like a wild man
of the woods, or the god Pan, or a sylvan, or a naiad,
or some of those savage creatures, with that green wreath
round my head ? Oh, but talking of savages," added he,
abruptly approaching Sarah, " Lady Macgregor, I must
tell you a most outrageously indecent story. Just im-
agine that at Otaheite "
" My lord duke " interrupted Sarah, in a tone of
freezing rebuke.
"Just as you like, you are not obliged to hear my
story if you don't like it ; you are the loser, that's all.
Ah ! I see Madame de Fonbonne out there ; I shall keep
it for her; she is a dear, kind creature, and will be
delighted to hear it ; so I'll save it for her."
Madame de Fonbonne was a fat little woman, of about
fifty years of age, very pretending, and very ridiculous.
Her fat double chin rested on her equally fat throat;
and she was continually talking, with upturned eyes, of
her tender, her sensitive soul ; the languor of her soul ;
the craving of her soul ; the aspirations of her soul. To
these disadvantages, she added the additional one of
being particularly ill-dressed, upon the present occasion,
in a horrible-looking copper-coloured turban, with a
sprinkling of green flowers over it.
"Yes," again asserted De Lucenay, in his loudest
voice, " that charming anecdote shall be told to Madame
de Fonbonne."
"May I be permitted, my lord duke, to inquire the
subject of your conversation?" said the lady thus apos-
trophised, who, hearing her name mentioned, immediately
commenced her usual mincing, bridling attempts to draw
up her chubby self, but, failing in the effort, fell back
upon the easier manoeuvre of " rolling up the whites of
her eyes," as it is commonly called.
15
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" It refers, madame, to a most horribly indecent, re-
volting, and strange story."
" Heaven bless me ! and who dares oh, dear me,
who would venture "
" I would, madame. I can answer for the truth of the
anecdote, and that it would make a stick or a stone
blush to hear it; but, as I am aware how dearly you
love such stories, I will relate it to you. You must
know, then, that in Otaheite "
" My lord," exclaimed the indignant lady, turning up
her eyes with indignant horror, '' it really is surprising
you can allow yourself to "
" Now for those unkind looks you shall not hear my
pretty story either, though I had been reserving it for
you. And, now I look at you, I can but wonder that
you, so celebrated for the taste and good style of your
dress, should have put that wretched thing on your head
for a turban, but which looks more like an old copper
baking-dish spotted all over with verdigris." So saying,
the duke, as if charmed with his own wit, burst into a
loud and long peal of laughter.
" If, my lord," exclaimed the enraged lady, " you
merely returned from the East to resume your offensive
jokes, which are tolerated because you are supposed to
be only half in your senses, all who know you are bound
to hope you intend to return as quickly as you came ; "
saying which she arose, and majestically waddled away.
"I tell you what. Lady Macgregor, if I don't take
devilish good care, I shall let fly at that stupid old prude
and pull her old stew-pan off her head," said M. de
Lucenay, thrusting his hands deep down into his pockets
as if to prevent their committing the retaliating mischief
he contemplated. " But no," said he, after a pause, " I
won't hurt the ' sensitive soul,' poor innocent thing !
Ha ! ha ! ha ! Besides, think of her being an orphan
at her tender age ! " And renewed peals of laughter
announced that the imagination of the duke had again
16
THE BALL.
found a fresh fund of amusement in some reminiscence
of Madame de Fonbonne ; which, however, soon gave
place to an expression of surprise, as the figure of the
commandant, sauntering towards them, caught his eye.
"Holla!" cried he, "there's M. Charles Robert.
I met him last summer at the German baths ; he is
a deuced fine fellow, sings like a swan. Now, mar-
quise, I'll show you some fun, just see how I'll bother
him. Would you like me to introduce him to you ? "
" Be quiet, if you can," said Sarah, turning her back
most unceremoniously upon M. de Lucenay, " and let us
alone, I beg."
As M. Charles Robert, while affecting to be solely
occupied in admiring the rare plants on either side of
him, continued to advance, M. de Lucenay had cleverly
contrived to get possession of Sarah's flacon d* esprit^ and
was deeply and silently engaged in the interesting
employment of demolishing the stopper of the trinket.
Still M. Charles Robert kept on his gradual approach
to the party he was, in reality, making the object of his
visit. His figure was tall and finely proportioned ; his
features boasted the most faultless regularity ; his dress
was in the first style of modern elegance ; yet his
countenance, his whole person, were destitute of grace,
or that distinguS air which is more to be coveted than
mere beauty, whether of face or figure ; his movements
were stiff and constrained, and his hands and feet large
and coarse. As he approached Madame d'Harville his
insipid and insignificant countenance assumed, all at
once, an expression of the deepest melancholy, too
sudden to be genuine ; nevertheless he acted the part as
closely to nature as might be. M. Robert had the air
of a man so thoroughly wretched, so oppressed by a
multitude of sorrows, that as he came up to Madame
d'Harville she could not help recalling to mind the
fearful mention made by Sarah touching the violence
to which grief such as his might drive him.
17
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" How are you ? How are you, my dear sir ? "
exclaimed the Duke de Lucenay, interrupting the
further approach of the commandant. " I have not
had the pleasure of seeing you since we met at the
spas of . But what the devil ails you, are you
ill?"
Hereupon M. Charles Robert assumed a languid and
sentimental air, and, casting a melancholy look towards
Madame d'Harville, replied, in a tone of deep depression :
" Indeed, my lord, I am very far from being well."
" God bless me ! Why, what is the matter with you ?
Ah ! I suppose that confounded plaguy cough still sticks
to you," said M. de Lucenay, with an appearance of the
most serious interest in the inquiry.
At this ridiculous question, M. Charles Robert stood
for a moment as though struck dumb with astonishment,
but, quickly recovering himself, said, while his face
crimsoned, and his voice trembled with rage, in a short,
firm voice, to M. de Lucenay :
" Since you express so much uneasiness respecting my
health, my lord, I trust you will not fail calling to-
morrow to know how I am."
" Upon my life and soul, my dear sir, I but most
certainly I will send," said the duke, with a haughty
bow to M. Charles Robert, who, coolly returning it,
walked away.
" The best of the joke is," said M. de Lucenay,
throwing himself again by the side of Sarah, " that
our tall friend there had no more of a spitting complaint
than the great Turk himself, unless, indeed, I stumbled
upon the truth without knowing it. Well, he might
have that complaint for anything I know or care.
What do you think, Lady Macgregor, did that great,
tall fellow look, to you, as though he were suffering
from la pituite ? ^'' ^
Sarah's only reply was an indignant rising from her
1 A sort of viscous, phlegm^ complaint.
18
THE BALL.
seat, and hasty removal from the vicinage of the annoy-
ing Duke de Lucenay.
All this had passed with the rapidity of thought.
Sarah had experienced considerable difficulty in restrain-
ing her inclination to indulge in a hearty fit of laughter
at the absurd question put by the Duke de Lucenay to
the commandant ; but Madame d'Harville had painfully
sympathised with the feelings of a man so ridiculously
interrogated in the presence of the woman he loved.
Then, horror-struck as the probable consequences of
the duke's jest rose to her mind, led away by her dread
of the duel which might arise out of it, and still further
instigated by a feeling of deep pity for one who seemed
to her misled imagination as marked out for every
venomed shaft of envy, malice, and revenge, Clemence
rose abruptly from her seat, took the arm of Sarah,
overtook M. Charles Robert, who was boiling over with
rage, and whispered to him, as she passed :
" To-morrow, at one o'clock, I will be there."
Then, regaining the gallery with the countess, she
immediately quitted the ball.
Rodolph, in appearing at this f^te, besides fulfilling
a duty imposed on him by his exalted rank and place
in society, was further influenced by the earnest desire
to ascertain how far his suspicions, as regarded Madame
d'Harville, were well founded, and if she were, indeed,
the heroine of Madame Pipelet's account. After quitting
the winter garden with the Countess de , he had,
in vain, traversed the various salons in the hopes of
meeting Madame d'Harville alone. He was returning
to the hothouse when, being momentarily delayed at
the top of the stairs, he was witness to the rapid scene
between Madame d'Harville and M. Charles Robert after
the joke played off by the Duke de Lucenay. The
significant glances exchanged between Clemence and
the commandant struck Rudolph powerfully, and im-
pressed him with the firm conviction that this tall
19
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
and prepossessing individual was the mysterious lodger
of the Rue du Temple. Wishing for still further con-
firmation of the idea, he returned to the gallery.
A waltz was about to commence, and in the course
of a few minutes he saw M. Charles Robert standing
in the doorway, evidently revelling in the satisfaction
of his own ideas ; enjoying, in the first place, the
recollection of his own retort to M. de Lucenay (for
M. Charles Robert, spite of his egregious folly and
vanity, was by no means destitute of bravery), and,
secondly, revelling in the triumph of thus obtaining
a voluntary assignation with Madame d'Harville for
the morrow ; and something assured him that this time
she would be punctual. Rodolph sought for Murphy.
" Do you see that fair young man," said he, " standing
in the midst of that group out there ? "
" You mean the tall individual who seems so much
amused with his own thoughts, do you not ? Yes, yes,
I see him."
" Endeavour to get sufficiently near to him to be
enabled to whisper, so that he alone can catch the
words, while you carefully avoid allowing him to see
the person who utters them, this sentence, ' You are
late, my angel ! ' "
The squire gazed at Rodolph with a perplexed air.
" My lord, do you seriously wish me to do this ?"
" Seriously, my dear Murphy, I do ; and should he
hastily turn around when you have spoken, assume that
incomparable air of perfect nonchalance for which you
are so justly celebrated, so as to prevent his being able
to fix upon you as the person who has spoken."
"Depend upon my perfect obedience, my lord, although
I am far from having the slightest idea of your intention
in assigning to me such a task."
Before the conclusion of the waltz, the worthy
Murphy had contrived to place himself immediately
behind M. Charles Robert, while Rodolph, posted in a
20
THE BALL.
situation most advantageous for watching the effect of
this experiment, carefully observed Murphy's move-
ments. In a minute, M. Charles Robert turned sud-
denly around, as though struck with astonishment and
wonder. The immovable squire stirred not a feature ;
and certainly Murphy's tall, portly figure, bald head,
and grave, composed countenance, appeared the least
likely of any in the room to be those of a man taking
part in such a trick ; and, indeed, it was evident, from
the continued gaze of the commandant in every other
part of the space they stood in, that M. Charles Robert
was far from suspecting his respectable, middle-aged
neighbour of giving utterance to a phrase so disagree-
ably recalling the quid pro quo of which Madame Pipelet
had been alike the cause and the heroine. The waltz
concluded. Murphy rejoined Rodolph.
" Well, my lord," said he, " that smart young gentle-
man jumped as though he had trodden on a hornet's
nest. The words I uttered appeared to have the effect of
magic on him."
" They were so far magical, my dear Murphy, as they
assisted me to discover a circumstance I was most
anxious to find out."
Conviction thus painfully obtained, Rodolph could
only deplore the dangerous position in which Madame
d'Harville had placed herself, and which seemed to him
fraught with fresh evils, from a vague presentiment of
Sarah's being either a sharer or a confidant in the
transaction, and with this discovery came the fresh
pain of believing that he had now found out the source
of M. d'Harville's secret sorrow ; the man he so highly
esteemed, and for whom he felt a brother's regard, was
pining in silence over the misconduct of a wife he so
tenderly loved, yet who, in spite of her many charming
qualities, could sacrifice her own and her husband's
happiness for the sake of an object so every way
unworthy. Master of so important a secret, yet in-
21
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
capable of betraying it, unable to devise any plan to
open the eyes of Madame d'Harville, who seemed rather
to yield to than resist her unlicensed passion for her
lover, Rodolph found himself obliged to remain a pas-
sive witness to the utter ruin of a woman he had so
passionately adored with as much silence as devotion ;
nay, whom, spite of his best efforts, he still loved. He
was roused from these reflections by M. de Graiin.
" If your royal highness," said the baron, bowing,
" will deign to grant me a brief interview in one of
the lower rooms, which is now quite devoid of company,
I shall have the honour to lay before you the particulars
you desired me to collect."
Rodolph signed to M. de Graiin to conduct him to the
place named, when the baron proceeded with his recital,
as follows :
" The only duchess to whose name the initials ' N.'
and ' L.' can possibly belong is Madame de Lucenay,
whose maiden name was Normant. Her grace is not
here this evening. I have just seen M. de Lucenay, her
husband, who, it seems, left Paris five months ago, with
the expressed intention of travelling in the East during
the next year or two, but has unexpectedly returned
within the last day or two."
It may be recollected that, during Rodolph's visit to
the Rue du Temple, he picked up, on the landing-place
adjoining the door of the charlatan dentist's apartments,
a cambric handkerchief, richly embroidered and trimmed
with costly lace, and bearing in the corner a ducal coro-
net with the initials " N. L." It will also be borne in
mind that this elegant indication of high rank was wetted
with the bitter tears of its noble owner. In pursuance of
his instructions, but in total ignorance of the circum-
stances suggesting them, M. de Graiin had inquired the
name of every duchess then in Paris, and gleaned the in-
formation now repeated to Rodolph, and which the latter
perfectly comprehended. He had no reason for interest-
, 22
THE BALL.
ing himself in the fate of Madame de Lucenay ; but he
could not refiect without a shudder that, if it were really
she who visited the pretended doctor (but who, he felt
assured, was no other than the infamous Polidori), this
wretch, having possessed himself of her real name and
address through the agency of Tortillard, might make
a fearful use of a secret which placed the duchess so
completely in his power.
"Chance is a strange thing, my lord, is it not?"
resumed M. de Graiin.
" It is ; but how does it apply to the present case ? "
" Why, at the very instant that M. de Grangeneuve
was giving me these facts concerning M. and Madame de
Lucenay, and was adding, rather ill-naturedly, that the
unlooked-for return of the duke must have proved par-
ticularly disagreeable, not only to the duchess but to the
Viscount de Saint-Remy, one of the most elegant and
fashionable men in Paris, his excellency the ambassador
came up and inquired whether your royal highness would
permit him to present the viscount to you, as, having just
been appointed on the legation to Gerolstein, he would
be happy to avail himself of the present opportunity of
paying his court to your highness."
An expression of impatience escaped Rodolph, who
exclaimed :
" Nothing could have been less agreeable to me. How-
ever, it is impossible to refuse. Let the count know,
therefore, that I am ready to receive M. de Saint-
Remy.
Rodolph knew too well how to support his princely
dignity to allow his feelings to interfere with the cour-
tesy and affability required on the present occasion ;
added to which, the world gave M. de Saint-Remy as
a favoured lover to the Duchess de Lucenay, and this
circumstance greatly excited the curiosity of Rodolph.
The Viscount de Saint-Remy, conducted by the Count
de , now approached. He was an exceedingly hand-
23
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
some young man, of about twenty-five years of age,
tall and slender, with the most distinguS air and prepos-
sessing physiognomy ; his olive complexion had that rich,
soft glow of amber cast over its transparent surface, so
remarkable in the paintings of Murillo ; his glossy black
hair, parted over his left temple, was worn smooth over
his forehead, and fell in light and easy curls down the
sides of his face, almost concealing the pale, well-shaped
ear. The deep, dark eyelash contrasted well with the
clear eye it shaded, the crystal of which was tinged with
that blue cast which bestows so much and such charming
expression to the Indian eye. By a singular caprice of
nature, the thick, silky moustache which graced his lip
was the only ornament of a similar description visible
on his countenance, the chin and cheeks being smooth
as those of a young maiden. Perhaps it might be
vanity which dictated the narrow black satin cravat
placed so low as to reveal the perfect contour of a
throat which, for whiteness and symmetrical round-
ness, might have furnished a model for the artist's
studio. The long ends of his cravat were confined by
a single pearl, inestimable for its size, the beauty of its
shape, and the splendour of its colour, so vivid, that an
opal could scarcely have rivalled its continued prismatic
changes. The perfect taste, and exquisite style of M.
de Saint-Remy harmonised well with the magnificent
simplicity of this jewel.
Once seen, the face and figure of M. de Saint-Remy was
never forgotten, so entirely did it differ from the usual
style of elegants. He spared no expense in procuring the
most faultless turnout, and his carriages and horses were
everywhere cited as models of taste and correct judg-
ment. He played high, but skilfully ; while the annual
amount of his betting-book was never less than from two
to three thousand louis. The costly elegance of his
mansion, in the Rue de Chaillot, was everywhere spoken
of and admired. There he gave the most exquisite
24
THE BALL.
dinner-parties. The highest play followed, and the
hospitable host would lose large and heavy sums
with the most perfect indifference, though it was known
that his fortune had been dissipated long ago. All
the viscount's property had been derived from his
mother ; while his father lived in utter seclusion in the
wilds of Anjou, upon an income of the most slender
description.
By way of accounting for the unbounded expenditure
of M. de Saint-Remy, many among the envious or ill-
natured referred, as Sarah had done, to the large fortune
of the Duchess de Lucenay ; but they forgot that, setting
aside the infamy of the idea, M. de Lucenay would nat-
urally direct the disposal of his wife's property, and that
M. de Saint-Remy' s annual expenses were at least two
hundred thousand francs. Suspicions were entertained
of his being deeply indebted to imprudent money-lenders ;
for Saint-Remy had no further inheritance to look for-
ward to. Others, again, spoke of his great successes on
the turf, and hinted, in an undertone, dark stories of
training-grounds, and jockeys bribed by him to make
the horses against which he had betted largely lose ;
but by far the greater number of the crowd by which
Saint-Remy was surrounded was content to eat his
dinners, and occasionally to win his rouleaux, without
troubling themselves with conjectures as to how the one
was provided, and where the other came from.
By birth and education he was fully entitled to the
rank he occupied in the fashionable world ; he was lively,
witty, brave, a most amusing companion, obliging and
complaisant to the wishes of others ; h6 gave first-rate
bachelor dinners, and afterwards took every bet that was
offered him. What more was required to secure his
popularity ? He was an universal favourite with the
fair sex, and could boast the most unvaried success
in all his love affairs ; he was young, handsome,
gallant, and unsparingly munificent upon all occa-
25
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
sions where opportunities occurred of marking his
devotion towards the high-bred females with whom
he associated In the grande monde ; in a word, thanks
to the general infatuation he excited, the air of mystery
thrown over the source of the Pactolus from which he
derived his golden supplies rather embellished him with
a certain mysterious charm, which seemed but to add to
his attractions. Sometimes it would be said, with a
careless smile, " What a fellow that Saint-Remy is : he
must have discovered the philosopher's stone to be able
to go the pace he does.'* And when it was known that
he had caused himself to be attached to the legation of
France to the court of Gerolstein, there were not want-
ing voices to assert that it was a " devilish good way of
making an honourable retreat." Such was M. de Saint-
Remy.
" Allow me," said the Count de , presenting M.
de Saint-Remy, " to introduce to your royal highness
the Viscount de Saint-Remy, attached to the embassy
of Gerolstein."
The viscount bowed profoundly, saying :
" May I trust your royal highness will deign to pardon
my impatience in requesting the honour of this introduc-
tion during the present evening ? I am, perhaps, unduly
hasty in my wishes to secure a gratification I have so
long aspired to."
" It will give me much pleasure, my lord, to wel-
come you to Gerolstein. Do you propose going thither
immediately ? "
" Your royal highness being in Paris diminishes very
materially my desire to do so."
" I fear the peaceful contrast of our German courts
will scarcely assort with a life of Parisian fashion, such
as you have always been accustomed to."
" Permit me to assure your royal highness that the
gracious kindness you have now shown me, and which it
shall be my study to merit a continuance of in Gerolstein,
26
THE BALL.
would of itself far outweigh any attractions Paris may
have had for me."
" It will not be my fault, my lord, should you see
cause to alter your sentiments when at Gerolstein."
A slight inclination of Rodolph's head announced that
the presentation was concluded, upon which the viscount
bowed and retired. The prince, a practised physiogno-
mist, was subject to involuntary likes and dislikes upon
the first interview with an individual, and these impulses
were in his case almost invariably borne out by after-
circumstances. His first sensation after the exchange of
the very few words we have related between himself and
Saint-Remy was an unaccountable feeling of repugnance
and aversion for the gay and fascinating young man ; to
his eye, the handsome features wore a sinister look, and
danger seemed to lurk even in his honeyed words and
smooth, polished manner.
We shall hereafter meet M. de Saint-Remy under cir-
cumstances differing widely and fearfully from the splen-
dour of the position he occupied at his first interview
with Rodolph. It will then be seen how far these
presentiments were ill or well founded.
The presentation over, Rodolph, in deep meditation
upon the singular rencontres effected by the hand of
chance, bent his steps towards the winter garden. It
was now the hour of supper, and the rooms were nearly
deserted. The most retired spot in the hothouse was at
the end of a clump of trees placed against the corner of
a wall, and an enormous banana, covered with climbing
plants, effectually concealed a small side door, masked
by the trellis, and conducting to the banquetting-hall
by a long corridor. This door, which was scarcely a
yard distant from the tree above mentioned, had been
left temporarily ajar. Sheltered by this verdant screen,
Rodolph seated himself, and was soon lost in a profound
reverie, when the sound of a well-known voice, pronounc-
ing his name, made Rodolph start. It was Sarah, who,
27
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
seated with her brother Tom on the other side of the
clump of trees which effectually hid Rodolph from their
view, was con-versing with him in the English language.
The prince listened attentively, and the following dialogue
ensued :
" The marquise has just gone to show herself for a
few minutes at Baron de, Nerval's ball," said Sarah;
" she has luckily quitted this place without once having
an opportunity of exchanging a word with Rodolph, who
has been looking everywhere for her. I still dread the
influence he possesses over her, even unknown to herself,
an influence it has cost me so much labour and diffi-
culty to combat, and partly to destroy. However, to-mor-
row will rid me of any further fears of a rival who, if not
effectually destroyed, might so powerfully derange and
overthrow my plans. Listen to me, brother, for it is of
serious matters I would speak to you. To-morrow
witnesses the eternal ruin of my hated rival."
" You are mistaken, Sarah," answered Tom's well-
remembered voice ; " Rodolph never loved the marquise ;
of that I am certain ; your jealous fears mislead you."
" It is time," returned Sarah, " that I enlightened you
on this subject. Many things occurred during your last
journey, and as it is necessary to take decisive steps even
earlier than I had expected, nay, this very night,
so soon as we quit this place, it becomes indispensably
necessary we should take serious counsel together.
Happily we are now quite alone, for the gay butter-
flies of the night have found fresh attraction around the
supper-tables. Now, then, brother, give your close and
undivided attention to what I am about to say."
" Proceed, I am all impatience."
" Well, before Cl^mence d'Harville met Rodolph, I
feel assured the passion of love was wholly unknown to
her, for what reason I have never been able to discover.
She entertains the most invincible repugnance and aver-
sion towards her husband, who perfectly adores her.
28
THE BALL.
There is some deep mystery in this part of the business
I have never succeeded in fathoming. A thousand new
and delightful emotions sprang up in the breast of Cl^-
mence after she became acquainted with Rodolph ; but I
stifled her growing love by the most frightful disclosures,
or rather ingeniously invented calumnies, concerning the
prince. Still, the void in her heart required an object
to fill it, and chance having thrown M. Charles Robert
in her way during a morning call she was making at my
house, she appeared struck with his appearance, much
after the manner in which we are attracted by a fine
picture. Unfortunately, however, this man is as silly
as he is handsome, though he certainly has a very pre-
possessing tout ensemble, I praised him enthusiastically
to Madame d'Harville, exalted the nobleness of his senti-
ments, the elevation of his mind, and, as I knew her
weak side, I worked upon her sympathy and pity, by
representing him as loaded with every trouble and
affliction unrelenting fate could heap upon a devoted
but most innocent head. I directed M. Robert to assume
a melancholy and sentimental air ; to utter only deep
sighs, and to preserve a gloomy and unbroken silence
in the presence of Madame d'Harville. He carefully
pursued the path marked out by me, and, thanks to his
vocal skill, his fine person and the constant expression
of silent suffering, so far engaged the interest of Madame
d'Harville, that, ere long, she transferred to my hand-
some friend the warm and sympathising regard Rodolph
had first awakened. Do you comprehend me thus far ? '*
" Perfectly ; proceed."
" Madame d'Harville and Robert met only upon terms
of intimacy at my house ; to draw them more effectually
together I projected devoting three mornings in the
week to music, and my mournful ally sighed softly as
the breath of evening while turning over the leaves of the
music, ventured to utter a few impassioned words, and
even to slip two or three billets among the pieces he
29
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.*
copied out for the marquise to practise at home. I own
I was more fearful of his epistolary efforts than even his
powers of speech ; but a woman always looks indulgently
upon the first declaration of love she receives ; so far,
therefore, the written nonsense of my silly pupil did no
harm, for, in obedience to my advice, his hilleU doux
were very laconic. The great point was to obtain a
rendezvous, and this was no easy matter, for Cldmence's
principles were stronger than her love ; or, rather, her
passion was not sufficiently deep to induce her to sacri-
fice those principles. Unknown, even to herself, the
image of Rodolph still filled her heart, and seemed in
a manner to preserve her from yielding to her weak fancy
for M. Charles Robert, a fancy, as I well knew, far
more imaginary than real ; but, led on by my continual
and exaggerated praises of this brainless Apollo, whom
I persisted in describing as suffering under the daily
increase of every imaginary evil I could invent, Cl^-
mence, vanquished by the deep despair of her dejected
adorer, consented one day, more from pity than love,
to grant him the rendezvous so long desired."
" Did she, then, make you her confidant ? "
" She confessed to me her regard for M. Charles
Robert, nothing more ; neither did I seek to learn
more ; it would have annoyed and vexed her. But, as
for him, boiling over with love, or, rather, intoxicated
with pride, he came voluntarily to impart his good for-
tune, without, however, entrusting me either with the
time or place of the intended meeting."
" How, then, did you know it ?"
" Why, Karl, by my order, hovered about the door of
M. Robert during the following day from an early hour ;
nothing, however, transpired till the next day, when our
love-stricken youth proceeded in a fiacre to an obscure
part of the town, and finally alighted before a mean-
looking house in the Rue du Temple ; there he remained
for an hour and a half, when he came out and walked
30
THE BALL.
away. Karl waited a long while to see whether any per-
son followed M. Charles Robert out of the house ; but
no one came. The marquise had evidently failed in her
appointment. This was confirmed to me on the morrow,
when the lover came to pour out all his rage and dis-
appointment. I advised him to assume even an increase
of wretchedness and despair. The plan succeeded ; the
pity of Cl^mence was again excited ; a fresh assignation
was wrung from her, but which she failed to keep equally
with the former ; the third and last rendezvous, however,
produced more decided effects, Madame d'Harville posi-
tively going as far as the door of the house 1 have
specified as the appointed place ; then, repenting so
rash a step, returned home without having even quitted
the humble fiacre in which she rode. You may judge
by all these capricious changes of purpose how this
woman struggles to be free. And wherefore ? Why,
because (and hence arises my bitter, deadly hatred
to Cl^mence d'Harville) because the recollection of
Rodolph still lingers in her heart, and, with pertina-
cious love she shrinks from aught that she fancies
breathes of preference for another ; thus shielding her-
self from harm or danger beneath his worshipped image.
Now this very night the marquise has made a fresh
assignation with M. Charles Robert for to-morrow, and
this time I doubt not her punctuality ; the Duke de Luce-
nay has so grossly ridiculed this young man that, carried
away by pity for the humiliation of her admirer, the
marquise has granted that to compassion he would not
else have obtained. But this time, I feel persuaded she
will keep her word, and be punctual to the appointed
time and hour."
" And how do you propose to act ? "
" M. Charles Robert is so perfectly unable to compre-
hend the delicacy of feeling which this evening dictated
the marquise's resolution of meeting him, that he is safe
to rush with vulgar eagerness to the rendezvous, and this
31
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
will effectually ruin his plans, for pity alone has in-
stigated Cl^mence to take this compromising step.
No love, no- infatuation has hurried her into a
measure so fatal to her future resolution. I know
every turn of her mind ; and I am confident she will
keep her appointment solely from a courageous idea of
generous devotion, but with a firm resolve not for one
instant to forget her duties as a wife and mother. Now
the coarse, vulgar mind of M. Charles Robert is sure to
take the fullest advantage of the marquise's concession in
his favour. Cl^mence will detest him from that instant ;
and the illusion once destroyed which has bound herself
and Charles Robert in bonds of imaginary sympathy,
she will fall again beneath the influence of her love
for Rodolph, which I am certain still nestles in her
heart."
"Well?"
" Well ! I would have her for ever lost to Rodolph,
whose high sense of honour and deep friendship for
M. d'Harville I feel perfectly sure would not have
proved equal to preventing his returning the love of
Clemence ; but I will so manage things that he shall
henceforward look upon her with loathing and disgust,
as the guilty partner in a crime committed without his
participation. No, no ! I know my man. He might
pardon the offence, but never the being excluded from
his share in it."
" Then do you propose apprising the husband of all
that is going on, so that the prince should learn the dis-
graceful circumstances from the publicity the affair would
obtain ? "
" I do. And the thing is so much the easier to accom-
plish as, from what fell from Clemence to-night, I can
learn that the marquis has vague and undefined sus-
picions, without knowing on whom to fix them. It is
now midnight ; we shall almost directly leave the ball, I
will set you down at the first caf^ we meet with, whence
32
k
THE BALL.
you shall write M. d'Harville a minute account of his
wife's love affair, with the projected assignation of to-
morrow, with the time and place where it is arranged
to take place. Oh ! but I forgot, I didn't state that the
place of meeting is No. 17 Rue du Temple. And the
time, to-morrow at one o'clock. The marquis is already
jealous of Cl^mence ; well, he will by this information
surprise her under most suspicious circumstances ; the
rest follows as a matter of course."
" But this is a most abominable mode of action," said
Seyton, coldly.
" What ! my trusty and well-behaved brother and
colleague growing scrupulous ? " said Sarah, sarcastic-
ally. " This will never do ; suppose my modes of
action are odious, so be it. I trample on all and
every thing that interferes with my designs, agreed.
X do I shall, till I have secured my purpose. But let
me ask you, Who thought of scruples when my destruc-
tion was aimed at ? Who thought of me or my feelings,
let me ask you ? How have I been treated ? "
" Say no more, sister, say no more, here is my
hand, and you may safely reckon upon my firm partici-
pation in all that concerns you, even to writing the letter
to M. d'Harville. But still I say, and repeat, such conduct
is horrible ! "
" Never mind sermonising, but say, do you consent
fully and entirely to what I wish you, or do you not ?
Ay, or nay ?"
" Since it must be so, M. d'Harville shall this night
be fully instructed as to all his wife's proceedings, but
what is that ? I fancied I heard some one on the other
side of this thicket, there was a rustling of leaves and
branches," said Seyton, interrupting himself, and speaking
to Sarah in a low and suppressed voice.
" For heaven's sake," cried Sarah, uneasily, " don't
stop to talk about it, but quick ! and examine the other
side of this place ! "
33
THE MYSTERIES .OF PARIS.
Seyton rose, made the tour of the clump of trees,
but saw no one.
Rodolph had just disappeared by the side door, of
which we have before spoken.
" I must have made a mistake," said Seyton, returning ;
" there is no appearance of any persons but ourselves
being in this place."
" I thought there could not possibly be."
" Now, then, Sarah, hear what I have got to say on
the subject of Madame d'Harville, who, I feel quite
satisfied, you make an object of unnecessary appre-
hension, as far as it would be possible for her to
interfere with your schemes. The prince, moreover,
has certain principles nothing would induce him to
infringe. I am infinitely more alarmed, and with
greater justice, too, as to what can have been his in-
tentions in conducting that young girl to his farm at
Bouqueval, five or six weeks ago. He is constant in his
superintendence of her health and comfort; is having
her well educated, and, moreover, has been several times
to see her. Now we are altogether ignorant who she is
or where she came from ; she seems, however, to belong
oiily to the humbler ranks of society ; still, the exquisite
style of her beauty, the fact of the prince having worn
the disguise he did when escorting her to the farm, the
increasing interest he seems to take in her welfare, all
go to prove that his regard for her is of no common
description. I have, therefore, in this affair anticipated
your wishes ; but to remove this greater, and, as I be-
lieve, more serious obstacle to our plans, the utmost
circumspection was requisite to obtain information
respecting the lives and habits of these mysterious
occupants of the farm, and particularly concerning
the girl herself. I have been fortunate enough to
learn nearly sufficient to point out what is to be
done the moment for action has arrived. A most
singular chance threw that horrid old woman in my
34
THE BALL.
way, to whom, as you remember, I once gave my ad-
dress, which she it seems has carefully preserved. Her
connection with such persons as the robber who attacked
us during our late visit to the Cit^ will powerfully assist
us. All is provided for and preconsidered, there can
be no proof against us, and, besides, if, as seems evi-
dent, this young creature belongs to the humblest class of
society it is not very probable she will hesitate between
our offers and the splendid prospect she may, perchance,
picture to herself, for the prince, I have ascertained, has
preserved a strict incognito towards her. But to-morrow
shall decide the question otherwise, we shall see, we
shall see."
" And these two obstacles overcome, then, Tom, for
our grand project."
" There are many, and serious obstacles in the way ;
still, they may be overcome."
" And would it not be a lucky chance if we should
bring it to pass at the very moment when Rodolph
would be writhing under the double misery occasioned
by the disclosure of Madame d'Harville's conduct, and
the disappearance of the creature for whom he chooses
to evince so deep an interest ? Would not that be a.n
auspicious moment to persuade him that the daughter,
whose loss he daily more and more deplores, still lives ?
And then "
" Silence, sister," interrupted Seyton, " I hear the
steps of the guests from the supper-table, returning to
resume the ball. Since you deem it 'expedient to apprise
the Marquis d'Harville of the morrow's rendezvous, let
us depart ; it is past midnight."
" The lateness of the hour in which the anonymous
information will reach M. d'Harville, will but tend still
more to impress him with an idea of its importance."
And with these words Tom and Sarah quitted the
splendid ball of the ambassadress of the court of .
35
CHAPTER II.
THE RENDEZVOUS.
Determined at all risks to warn Madame d'Harville of
the danger she was incurring, Rodolph had quitted the
winter garden without waiting to hear the remainder of
the conversation between Sarah and her brother, thus
remaining ignorant of their designs against Fleur-de-
Marie, and of the extreme peril which threatened the
poor girl. But, spite of his earnest desire to apprise
the marquise of the plot laid against her peace and
honour, he was unable to carry his design into execution,
for Madame d'Harville, unable to bear up longer after
the trying events of the evening, had abandoned her
original intention of visiting the entertainment given by
Madame de Nerval and gone direct home.
This contretemps ruined his hopes. Nearly the whole
of the company present at the ambassadress's ball had
been invited to that of Madame de Nerval's, and Rodolph
drove rapidly thither, taking with him M. de Graiin, to
whom he gave instructions to look for Madame d'Har-
ville among the guests, and to acquaint her that the
prince, having something of the utmost consequence to
communicate to her without the least delay, would walk
onwards to the Hotel d'Harville, and await her return
home, when he would say a few words at the carriage-
door while her servants were attending to the opening of
the entrance-gates.
After much time spent in fruitless endeavours to find
Madame d'Harville, De Graiin was conipelled to return
36
THE RENDEZVOUS.
with the account of his ill success. This failure made
Rodolph despair of being able, now, to save the marquise
from impending ruin ; his first thought had been to
warn her of the treachery intended, and so prevent the
statement of Sarah, which he had no means of keeping
from the hands of M. d'Harville, from obtaining the
slightest credence. Alas ! it was now too late. The
infamous epistle dictated by the Countess Macgregor had
reached the Marquis d'Harville shortly after midnight
on the night in question.
It was morning ; and M. d'Harville continued slowly
to pace his sleeping-apartment, the bed of which gave no
indication of having been used during the night, though
the silken counterpane hung in fragments, evidently
proving that some powerful and devastating storm had
possessed the mind of its owner.
The chamber in question was furnished with elegant
simplicity, its only ornaments consisting of a stand of
modern arms and a range of shelves furnished with a
well-chosen collection of books. Yet a sudden frenzy,
or the hand of ungovernable rage, had reduced the quiet
elegance which ordinarily reigned to a scene of frantic
disorder. Chairs, tables, broken and overset ; the carpet
strewed with fragments of the crystal lamp kept burning
through the night ; the wax-lights and gilded chandelier
which had contained them, lying around, gave manifest
evidence of a fearful scene.
M. d'Harville was about thirty years of age, with
a fine, manly countenance, whose usual expression was
mild and prepossessing, but now contracted, haggard,
and livid. He had not changed his dress since the pre-
ceding evening ; his throat was bare, his waistcoat thrown
open, and on the torn and rumpled cambric of his shirt-
front were drops of blood. His rich, dark hair, which
generally fell in curls around his face, now hung in tan-
gled wildness over his pale countenance. Wholly buried
37
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
in the misery of his own thoughts, with folded arms,
drooping head, and fixed, bloodshot eyes, M. d'Harville
continued to pace his chamber ; then, stopping opposite
his fireplace, in which, spite of the almost unendurable
severity of the frost of the past night, the fire had been
allowed to expire, he took from the marble mantelpiece
the following brief note, which he continued to read over
and over with the most eager attention by the wan, pale
light of the cold glimmer of an early winter morning :
" To-morrow, at one o'clock, your wife has appointed to meet
her favoured lover. Go to the Rue du Temple, No. 17, and you
will obtain every requisite confirmation of this intelligence.
"From one who pities you."
Whilst reading these words, perused, with such deep
anguish and sickness of heart, so many times through
the long midnight hours, the blue, cold lips of M. d'Har-
ville appeared convulsively to spell each syllable of this
fatal hillet.
At this moment the chamber door opened and a ser-
vant entered ; the man who now made his appearance
was old, even gray-headed, but the expression of his
countenance was frank and honest. The noise of the
man entering disturbed not the marquis from his bitter
contemplations ; he merely turned his head without al-
tering his position, but still grasped the letter in his
clenched hands.
" What do you want ? " inquired he, sternly, of the
servant.
The man, instead of answering, continued to gaze with
an air of painful surprise at the disordered state of the
room ; then, regarding his master more attentively,
exclaimed :
" Blood on your clothes ! My lord, my lord ! How
is this ? You have hurt yourself, and all alone, too ;
why, my lord, did you not summon me, as of old,
when these attacks came on ? "
38
THE RENDEZVOUS.
" Begone ! "
" I entreat your lordship's pardon, but your fire is out,
the cold is intense, indeed, I must remind your lord-
ship that after your late your "
" Will you be silent ? Leave me I say ! "
" Pray do not be angry, my lord," replied the trem-
bling valet ; " but, if your lordship pleases to recollect,
you appointed M. Doublet to be here to-day at half past
ten, and he is now waiting with the notary."
" Quite proper," said the marquis, with a bitter smile ;
" when a man is rich he ought, he should look carefully
to his affairs. Fortune is a fine thing, a very fine
thing ; or would be if it could but purchase happiness."
Then, resuming a cold and collected manner, he added :
" Show M. Doublet into my study."
" I have done so, my lord marquis."
"Then give me my clothes, quick, I am in haste;
I shall be going out shortly. I "
" But if your lordship would only "
" Do as I desire you, Joseph," said M. d'Harville, in a
more gentle tone ; then added, " Is your lady stirring
yet?"
" I have not yet heard her ladyship's bell, my lord
marquis."
" Let me know when she rings."
" I will, my lord."
" Heaven and earth, man, how slow you are ! " ex-
claimed M. d'Harville, whose raging thoughts almost
chafed him into madness ; " summon Philip to assist
you ; you will keep me all day."
" My lord, please to allow me to set matters a little
straight first," replied Joseph, sorrowfully ; " I would
much rather no one but myself witnessed the state of
your chamber, or they would wonder, and talk about it,
because they could not understand what had taken place
during the night, my lord."
"And if they were to find out, it would be a most
39
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
shocking affair, would it not ? " asked M. d'Harville,
in a tone of gloomy irony.
" Thank God my lord, not a soul in the house has
the least suspicion of it ! "
" No one suspects it," repeated M. d'Harville, despond-
ingly ; '' no one, that's well, for her at least ; well, let
us hope to keep the secret."
And, while Joseph was occupying himself in repairing
the havoc in his master's apartment, D'Harville walked
up to the stage of arms we before mentioned, examined
them with an expression of deep interest, then, turning
towards Joseph, with a sinister smile, said :
" I hope you have not omitted to clean the guns which
are placed at the top of the stand, I mean those in my
hunting-case."
" I had not your lordship's orders to do so," replied
the astonished servant.
" You had, sir, and have neglected them ! "
" I humbly assure you, my lord "
" They must be in a fine state ! "
^' Your lordship will please to bear in mind that it is
scarcely a month since they were regularly repaired and
put in order for use by the gunsmith."
" Never mind ! As soon as I am dressed reach down
my shooting-case ; I will examine the guns myself. I
may very possibly go out shooting either to-morrow or
next day.
" I will reach them down directly, my lord."
The chamber being by this time replaced in its ordi-
nary state, a second valet de chambre was summoned to
assist Joseph.
His toilet concluded, M. d'Harville repaired to his
study, where the steward (M. Doublet) and his lawyer's
clerk were awaiting him.
" We have brought the agreement that my lord marquis
may hear it read over," said the bowing clerk ; '' my lord
will then only have to sign it, and the affair is concluded."
40
THE RENDEZVOUS.
" Have you perused it, M. Doublet ? '*
" I have, my lord, attentively."
" In that case I will affix my signature at once."
The necessary forms completed, the clerk withdrew,
when M. Doublet, rubbing his hands, and looking trium-
phantly, exclaimed :
" Now, then, by this last addition to your lordship's
estates, your manorial property cannot be less than a
hundred and twenty-six thousand francs per annum, in
round numbers. And permit me to say, my lord mar-
quis, that a rent-roll of a hundred and twenty-six thou-
sand francs per annum is of no common occurrence
nowadays."
" I am a happy man, am I not, M. Doublet ? A hun-
dred and twenty-six thousand livres per annum ! Surely
the man owning such an income must be blessed in-
deed, sorrow or care cannot reach him through so
golden a shield ! "
" And that is wholly independent of my lord's funded
property, amounting at least to two millions more ; or
reckoning "
" Exactly ; I know what you would say ; without
reckoning my other blessings and comforts."
" Why, heaven be praised, your lordship is as rich in
all earthly blessings as in revenue. Not a precious gift
but it has been largely bestowed upon you ; ay, and such
as even money will not buy : youth, uninterrupted health,
the power of enjoying every happiness, amongst which,
or, rather, at the head of which," said M. Doublet, grace-
fully smiling, and gallantly bowing, " place that of being
the husband of so sweet a lady as Madame la Marquise,
and the parent of a lovely little girl, who might be mis-
taken for a cherubim."
M. d'Harville cast a look of gloomy mistrust on the
poor steward ; who, revelling in his own ecstasy at see-
ing the princely rent-roll committed to his charge, ex-
ceeding all others in magnificent amount, was far from
41
THJW MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
perceiving the scowling brow of his master, thus con-
gratulated on being the happiest man alive, when, to his
own view, a verier wretch, or more complete bankrupt
in happiness existed not. Striking M. Doublet familiarly
on the shoulder, and breaking into a wild, ironical laugh,
M. d'Harville rejoined :
" Then you think that with an income of two hundred
and sixty thousand livres, a wife like mine, and a
daughter resembling a cherubim, a man has nothing
more to wish for ? "
"Nay, my lord," replied the steward, with honest
zeal, " you have still to wish for the blessing of length-
ened days, that you may be spared to see mademoiselle
married as happily as yourself. Ah, my lord, I may
not hope to see it, but I should be thankful to witness
you and my honoured lady surrounded by your grand-
children, ay, and great-grandchildren too, why not ? "
" Excellent, M. Doublet ! A regular Baucis and Phil-
emon idea. You have always a capital illustration to
your ideas.''
" You are too good to me, my lord. Has your lord-
ship any further orders for me ? "
" None. Stay, though ; what cash have you in
hand?"
" Twenty-nine thousand three hundred and odd
francs for current expenses, my lord marquis ; but
there is a heavy sum at the bank belonging to this
quarter's income."
" Well, bring me twenty thousand francs in gold,
and, should I have gone out, give them to Joseph
for me."
" Does your lordship wish for them this morning ? "
I do."
" Within an hour the gold shall be here. You have
nothing else to say to me, my lord ? "
" No, M. Doublet."
"A hundred and twenty-six thousand francs per
42
THE RENDEZVOUS.
annum, wholly unincumbered/' repeated the steward,
as he was about to quit the room ; " this is a glorious
day for me to sec ; I almost feared at one time that we
should not secure this desirable property. Your lord-
ship's most humble servant, I take my leave."
" Good morning, M. Doublet."
As the door closed upon the steward, M. d'Harville,
overcome with the mental agony he had repressed thus
far, threw himself into an armchair, leaned his elbows
on the desk before which he sat, and covering his face
with his hands, for the first time since receiving the
fatal billet^ gave vent to a flood of hot, burning
tears.
" Cruel mockery of fate ! " cried he, at length, " to
have made me rich, but to have given me only shame
and dishonour to place within the gilded frame : the
perjury of Cl^mence, the disgrace which will descend
upon my innocent child. Can I suffer this ? Or shall
I for the sake of her unoffending offspring spare the
guilty mother from the opprobrium of an exposure ? "
Then rising suddenly from his seat, with sparkling eyes
and clenched teeth he cried, in a deep, determined
voice, " No, no ! JJlood, blood ! The fearful pro-
tection from laughter and derision. Ah, full well I
can now comprehend her coldness, her antipathy,
wretched, wretched woman ! " Then, stopping all at
once, as though melted by some tender recollection,
he resumed, in a hoarse tone, " Aversion ! Alas !
too well I know its cause. I inspire her with loathing,
with disgust ! " Then, after a lengthened silence, he
cried, in a voice broken by sighs, " Yet, was it my
fault or my misfortune ? Should she have wronged me
thus for a calamity beyond my power to avert ? Surely
I am a more fitting object for her pity than scorn and
hatred." Again rekindling into his excited feelings, he
reiterated, " Nothing but blood the blood of both
can wash out this guilty stain! Doubtless he, the
43
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
favoured lover, has been informed why she flies her
husband's arms."
This latter thought redoubled the fury of the marquis.
He elevated his tightly compressed hands towards
heaven, as though invoking its vengeance ; then, pass-
ing his burning fingers over his eyes as he recollected
the necessity that existed for concealing his emotion
from the servants of his establishment, he returned to
his sleeping-apartment with an appearance of perfect
tranquillity. There he found Joseph.
" Well, in what state are the guns ? "
"In perfect order. Please to examine them, my
lord."
" I came for the purpose of so doing. Has your lady
yet rung ? "
" I do not know, my lord."
" Then inquire."
Directly the servant had quitted the room, M. d'Har-
ville hastily took from the gun-case a small powder-
flask, some balls and caps ; then, locking the case, put
the key in his pocket. Then going to the stand of
arms, he took from it a pair of moderate-sized Manton's
pistols, loaded them, and placed them without difficulty
in the pockets of his morning wrapper. Joseph returned
with the intimation that Madame d'Harville was in her
dressing-room.
" Has your lady ordered her carriage ? "
" My lord, I heard Mile. Juliette say to the head-
coachman, when he came to inquire her ladyship's orders
for the day, that, ' as it was cold, dry walking, if her
ladyship went out at all, she would prefer going on foot.' "
" Very well. Stay, I forgot. I shall not go out
hunting before to-morrow, or probably, next day.
Desire Williams to look the small travelling-britcska
carefully over. Do you understand ? "
" Perfectly, my lord ; it shall be attended to. Will
not your lordship require a stick ? "
. 44
THE RENDEZVOUS.
" No. Pray tell me, is there not a hackney coach-
stand near here ? "
" Quite close, my lord, in the Rue de Lille."
After a moment's hesitation, the marquis continued :
" Go and inquire of Mile. Juliette whether Madame
d'Harville can see me for a few minutes." Joseph
obeyed.
" Yes," murmured the marquis, " I will see the cause
of all my misery, my disgrace. 1 will contemplate
the guilty mask beneath which the impure heart conceals
its adulterous designs. I will listen to the false lips that
speak the words of innocence, while deep dishonour lurks
in the candid smile, a smile that seemed to me as that
of an angel. Yet 'tis an appalling spectacle to watch
the words, the looks, of one who, breathing only the sen-
timents of a chaste wife and mother, is about to sully
your name with one of those deep, deadly stains which
can only be washed out in blood. Fool that I am to
give her the chance of again bewildering my senses !
She will look at me with her accustomed sweetness and
candour ; greet me (all guilty as she is) with the same
pure smile she bestows upon her child, as, kneeling at her
lap, it lisps its early prayer. That look, those eyes, mir-
rors of the soul, the more modest and pure the glance "
(D'Harville shuddered with contempt) " the greater
must be the innate corruption and falsehood ! Alas !
she has proved herself a consummate dissembler ; and
I I have been the veriest dupe ! Only let me con-
sider with what sentiments must that woman look upon
me, if just previous to her meeting with her favoured
lover I pay her my accustomed visit, and express my
usual devotion and love for her, the young, the virtu-
ous wife, the tender, sensible, and devoted mother, as
until this wretched moment T would have died to prove
her. Can I, dare I, trust myself in her presence, with
the knowledge of her being but too impatient for the ar-
rival of that blessed hour which conveys her to her guilty
45
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
rendezvous and infamous paramour ? Oh, Cl^mence,
Cldmence, you in whom all my hopes and fondest af-
fections were placed, is this a just return ? No ! no !
no ! " again repeated M. d'Harville, with rapidly return-
ing excitement. " False, treacherous woman ! I will
not see you ! I will not trust my ears to your feigned
words ! Nor you, my child. At the sight of your in-
nocent countenance I should unman myself, and com-
promise my just revenge."
Quitting his apartment, M. d'Harville, instead of re-
pairing to those of the marquise, contented himself with
leaving a message for her through Mile. Juliette, to the
effect that he wished a short conversation with Madame
d'Harville, but that being obliged to go out. just then, he
should be glad, if it assorted with Madame la Marquise's
perfect convenience, to breakfast with her at twelve
o'clock.
" And so," said the unhappy M. d'Harville, " fancying
that after twelve o'clock I shall be safe at home, she
will consider herself more at liberty to follow out her
own plans."
He then repaired to the coach-stand contiguous to his
mansion, and summoned a vehicle from the ranks.
"Now, coachee," said he, affecting to disguise his
rank, " what's o'clock ? "
" All right, master," said the man, drawing up to the
side of the footway, " where am I to drive to ? Let's
have a right understanding, and a look at the clock.
Why, it's as close on half-after eleven as may be."
*' Now, then, drive to the corner of the Rue St.
Dominique, and wait at the end of the garden wall
which runs along there ; do you understand ? "
" Yes, yes, I know."
M. d'Harville then drew down the blinds of the fiacre ;
the coachman drove on, and soon arrived opposite the
Hotel d'Harville, from which point of observation it
was impossible for any person to enter or quit the house
46
THE RENDEZVOUS.
without the marquis having a full view of them. One
o'clock was the hour fixed in the note ; and with his
eyes rivetted on the entrance-gates of the mansion, the
marquis waited in painful suspense, absorbed in a whirl
of fearful thoughts and maddening conjectures. Time
stole on imperceptibly ; twelve o'clock reverberated from
the dome of St. Thomas Aquinas, when the door opened
slowly at the Hotel d'Harville, and Madame d'Harville
herself came timidly forth.
" Already ? " exclaimed the unhappy husband ; " how
punctual she is ! She fears to keep him waiting," cried
the marquis, with a mixture of irony and savage rage.
The cold was excessive ; the pavement hard and dry.
Cl^mence was dressed in a black velvet bonnet, covered
with a veil of the same colour, and a thickly wadded
pelisse of dark ruby satin, a large shawl of dark blue
cashmere fell to the very hem of her pelisse, which she
lightly and gracefully held up while crossing the street.
Thanks to this movement, the taper foot and graceful
ankle of Madame d'Harville, cased in an exquisitely
fitting boot of black satin, were exposed to view.
It was strange, that amid the painful and bewildering
ideas that crowded the brain of D'Harville, he should
have found one thought to waste upon the beauty of his
wife's foot ; but so it was ; and at the moment that was
about to separate them for ever, to his eager gaze that
fairy foot and well-turned ankle had never looked so
charming ; and then, as by a rapid train of thought he
recalled the matchless loveliness of his wife, and, as
he had ever believed till now, her purity, her mental
graces, he groaned aloud as he remembered that another
was preferred to him, and that the light figure that
glided on before his fixed gaze, was but the hollow
spectre of fallen goodness, a lost, degraded creature, has-
tening to steep her husband and infant in irremediable
disgrace, for the indulging of a base and guilty passion.
Even in that wretched moment he felt how dearly, how
47
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
exclusively he had loved her ; and for the first time dur-
ing the blow which had fallen on him, he knew that he
mourned the lovely woman almost equally with the
virtuous mother and chaste wife. A cry of rage and
mingled fury escaped him, as he pictured the rapture of
her meeting with the lover of her choice ; and a sharp,
darting pain quivered through his heart as he remem-
bered that Clemence, with all her youth and beauty, her
countless charms, both of body and mind, was lost to
him for ever.
Hitherto his passionate grief had been unmixed by
any alloy of self. He had bewailed the sanctity of the
marriage-vow trampled under foot, the abandonment of
all sworn and sacred duties ; but his sufferings of rage,
jealousy, and regret almost overpowered him, and with
much difficulty was he able to command his voice suffi-
ciently to say to the coachman, while partially drawing
up the blind :
"Do you see that lady in the blue shawl and black
bonnet walking along by the wall ? "
" Yes, yes ! I see her safe enough."
"Well, then, go slowly along, and keep up with her.
Should she go to the coach-stand I had you from,
pull up ; and when she has got into a fiacre^ follow it
wherever it goes."
" All right, I understand ! Now this is what I call
a good joke ! "
M. d'Harville had conjectured rightly. Madame
d'Harville repaired directly to the coach-stand, and
beckoning a fiacre off the stand, instantly got in, and
drove off, closely followed by the vehicle containing
her husband.
They had proceeded but a very short distance, when
the coachman took the road to the church of St. Thomas
Aquinas, and, to the surprise of M. d'Harville, pulled
up directly in front.
" What is this for ? What are you about ? "
48
THE RENDEZVOUS.
" Why, master, the lady you told me to follow has
just alighted here, and a smart, tidy leg and foot of her
own she has got. Her dress somehow caught ; so, you
see, I couldn't help having a peep, nohow. This is
downright good fun though, this is ! "
A thousand varied thoughts agitated M. d'Harville.
One minute he fancied that his wife, fearing pursuit, had
taken this step to escape detection ; then hope whispered
that the letter which had given him so much uneasiness,
might after all be only an infamous calumny ; for if
guilty, what could be gained by this false assumption
of piety ? Would it not be a species of sacrilegious
mockery ? At this suggestion a bright ray of hope shot
across the troubled mind of M. d'Harville, arising from
the striking contrast 'between Cl^mence's present occu-
pation and the crime alleged as her motive for quitting
her home. Alas ! this consolatory illusion was speedily
destroyed. Leaning in at the open window the coach-
man observed :
" I say, master, that nice little woman you are after
has got back into her coach."
" Then follow quickly."
" I'm off ! Now this is what I call downright good
fun. Capital ; hang me if it ain't ! "
The vehicle reached the Quais, the H6tel de Ville, the
Rue St. Avoye, and, at last, Rue du Temple.
" I say," said the coachman, turning round to speak to
M. d'Harville from his seat, " master, just look. My
mate, there, has stopped at No. 17 ; we are about at 13.
Shall I stop here or go on to 17 ?"
" Stop here."
" I say, look'ee, you'll lose your pretty lady. She
has gone into the alley leading to No. 17.
" Open the door."
" I'm coming, sir."
And quickly following the steps of his wife, M.
d'Harville entered the obscure passage up which she
49
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
had disappeared. Madame d'Harville, however, had so
far the start as to have entered the house previously.
Attracted by the most devouring curiosity, Madame
Pipelet, with her melancholy Alfred and her friend the
oyster-woman, were huddled close together on the sill at
the lodge door. The staircase was so dark that a person
just emerging from the daylight into the gloom of the
passage could not discern a single step of it; and
Madame d'Harville, agitated and almost sinking with
apprehension, found herself constrained to apply to
Madame Pipelet for further advice how to proceed,
saying, in a low, tremulous voice :
" Which way must I turn, madame, to find the staircase
of the house ? "
" Stop, if you please. Pray, whom do you want ? ''
" I wish to go to the apartments of M. Charles,
madame."
" Monsieur who ? " repeated the old woman, feigning
not to have heard her, but in reality to afford sufficient
leisure to her husband and her friend thoroughly
to scrutinise the unhappy woman's countenance, even
through the folds of her thick veil.
" M. Charles, madame," repeated Cl^mence, in a low,
trembling tone, and bending down her head, so as to
escape the rude and insolent examination to which her
features were subjected.
" Ah ! M. Charles ; very well ; you should have spoken
so that one could hear you. Well, my pretty dear, if
you want M. Charles, and a good-looking fellow he is
as ever won a woman's heart, go straight on, and the
door will stare you in the face. Eh ! eh ! eh ! " laughed
out the old woman, shaking her fat sides with spiteful
glee, " it seems he has not waited for nothing this time.
Success to love and love-makings, and a merry end to
it ! "
The marquise, ready to sink with confusion, began
slowly to grope her way up the dingy staircase.
50
THE RENDEZVOUS.
" I say," bawled out the old shell-fish woman, " our
commandant knows what he is about, don't he ? Leave
him alone to choose a pretty girl. His marm is a
regular swell, ain't she ? "
Had it not been requisite for her to run the gauntlet
of the trio who occupied the entrance-door, Madame
d'Harville, ready to sink with shame and terror, would
gladly have retraced her steps. She made another effort,
and at last reached the landing-place, where, to her
unutterable consternation and surprise, she saw Rodolph
waiting, impatiently, her arrival. Instantly flying to
meet her, he hastily placed a purse in her hand, saying,
in a hurried manner :
" Your husband knows all, and is now following your
very steps."
At this instant, the sharp tones of Madame Pipelet
were heard crying out, " Where are you going to, sir ?"
" 'Tis he ! " exclaimed Rodolph, and then, almost
forcing Madame d'Harville up the second staircase, he
added, in a rapid manner, " make all haste to the very
top of the house; on the fifth floor you will find a
wretched family, named Morel. Remember your sole
business in coming hither was to relieve their distress."
" I tell you, sir," screamed Madame Pipelet, " that
unless you tell me your name, you shall trample over
me, as they walked over our brave men at Waterloo,
before I let you pass.
Having, from the entrance to the alley, observed
Madame d'Harville stop to speak to the porteress, the
marquis had likewise prepared himself to pass through
some sort of questioning.
" I belong to the lady who just now entered," said the
marquis.
" Bless me ! " exclaimed Madame Pipelet, looking the
picture of wonderment, " why, that, of course, is a satis-
factory answer. You can pass on, if you please."
Hearing an unusual stir, M. Charles Robert had set
51
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
the door of his apartments ajar, and Rodolph, unwilling
to be recognised by M. d'Harville, whose quick, search-
ing eye might have detected him, spite of the murkiness
of the staircase, hearing him rapidly ascending the stairs,
just as he reached the landing-place, dashed into the
chamber of the astonished commandant, locking the door
after him. M. Charles Robert, magnificently attired in
his rohe de chambre of scarlet damask with orange-
coloured stripes, and Greek cap of embroidered velvet,
was struck with astonishment at the unexpected appear-
ance of Rodolph, whom he had not seen the preceding
evening at the embassy, and who was upon the present
occasion very plainly dressed.
" What is the meaning of this intrusion ? " asked he
at length, assuming a tone of killing haughtiness.
" Be silent ! " replied Rodolph ; and there was that in
his voice and manner that Charles Robert obeyed, even
in spite of his own determination to strike terror into
the bold invader of his private moments.
A violent and continued noise, as of some heavy
substance falling from one stair to the other, resounded
through the dull silence of the gloomy staircase.
" Unhappy man ! He has murdered her ! " exclaimed
Rodolph.
" Murdered ! " ejaculated M. Charles Robert, turning
very pale ; " for the love of Heaven, what is all this
about?"
But, without heeding his inquiry, Rodolph partially
opened the door, and discovered little Tortillard half
rolling, half limping, down the stairs, holding in his
hand the red silk purse Rodolph had just given to
Madame d'Harville. Tortillard, with another scram-
bling shuffle, disappeared at the bottom of the last
flight of stairs. The light step of Madame d'Harville,
and the heavier tread of her husband, as he continued
his pursuit of her from one story to another, could be
distinctly heard. Somewhat relieved of his worst fears,
52
THE RENDEZVOUS.
yet unable to make out by what chance the purse so
recently committed to Madame d'Harville's hands should
have been transferred to those of Tortillard, Rodolph
said, authoritatively, to M. Robert :
" Do not think of quitting your apartments for the
next hour, I request ! "
" Upon my life and soul, that is a pretty thing to say
to a gentleman in his own house," replied M. Robert in
an impatient and wrathful tone. " I ask you, again,
what is the meaning of all this? Who the devil are
you, sir ? And how dare you dictate to me, a
gentleman ? "
" M. d'Harville is informed of everything, has fol-
lowed his wife to your very door, and is now pursuing
her to the upper part of the house."
" God bless me ! Here's a situation ! " exclaimed
Charles Robert, with an appearance of utter con-
sternation. " But what is to be done ? What is the
use of her going up-stairs ? And how will she manage
to get down again unobserved ? "
"Remain where you are, neither speak nor move
until the porteress comes to you," rejoined Rodolph,
who hastened to give his final instructions to Madame
Pipelet, leaving the commandant a prey to the most
alarming apprehensions.
" Well ! well ! " cried Madame Pipelet, her face
radiant with chuckling exultation ; " there's rare sport
going on ! The lady who came to visit my fine gentle-
man on the first floor has been followed by another
gentleman, who seems rather in a passion, the
husband of that silly young creature, I make no
doubt. Directly the truth flashed across me, I tells
him to go straight up ; for, thinks I, he'll be sure to
murder our commandant. That'll make a deal of talk
in the neighbourhood ; and folks will come crowding to
see the house, just as they did at No. 36 after the man
was killed there. Lord ! I wonder the fighting has not
53
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS,
begun yet. I have been listening to hear them set to ;
but I can't catch the least sound."
" My dear Madame Pipelet, will you do me a great
favour ? " said Rodolph, putting five louis into her hand.
" When this lady comes down-stairs, ask her how she
found the poor Morels. Tell her she has performed an
act of real charity in coming to see them, according to
her promise, the last time she called to inquire respect-
ing them."
Madame Pipelet looked first at the money and then at
Rodolph, with an air of petrified astonishment.
*' What am I to do with this money?" inquired she,
at length ; " do you give it to me ? Ah, I see I This
handsome lady, then, does not come altogether for the
commandant ? "
" The gentleman who followed her was her husband,
as you justly supposed ; but, being warned in time, the
poor lady went straight on to the Morels, as though her
only business here was to afford them succour. Now do
you understand ! "
" I should think I did, clear as noonday. ' A nod
is as good as a wink,' as the old woman said. I know !
You want me to help you cheat the husband ? Lord
bless you! I'm up to all those things, quick as
lightning, silent as the grave ! Go along with you !
I'm a regular good hand at keeping husbands in the
dark ; you might fancy I'd been used to it all my life.
But tell me "
The huge hat of M. Pipelet was here observed sending
its dark shadow across the floor of the lodge.
" Anastasie," said Alfred, gravely, " you are like M.
C^sar Bradamanti ; you have no respect for anything
or anybody. And let me tell you that there are sub-
jects that should never be made the subject of a jest,
even amongst the most familiar acquaintances."
" Nonsense, my old darling. Don't stand there roll-
ing up your eyes, and looking about as wise as a pig in a
54
THE RENDEZVOUS.
pound. You know well enough I was only joking ; you
know well enough that no living soul beneath the canopy
of heaven can ever say I gave him a liberty. But
that'll do ; so let's talk of this good gentleman's busi-
ness. Suppose I do go out of my usual way to save
this young lady, I'm sure I do it solely to oblige our
new lodger, who, for his generosity, may well deserve to
be called the king of lodgers." Then, turning towards
Rodolph, she added, " You shall see how cleverly I will
go to work. Just hide yourself there in that corner
behind the curtain. Quick, quick! I hear them
coming."
Rodolph had scarcely time to conceal himself ere
M. and Madame d'Harville descended the stairs. The
features of the marquis shone with happiness, mingled
with a confused and astonished expression, while the
countenance of his wife, as she hung on his arm, looked
calm but pale.
" Well, my good lady," cried Madame Pipelet, going
out of her lodge to address her, as she descended the
last stair, " how did you find the poor creatures, I
mean the Morels ? Ah, I doubt not, such a sight made
your heart ache ? God knows your charity was well
bestowed ! I told you the other day, when you called
to inquire about them, what a state of starvation and
misery they were in. Be assured, kind lady, these poor
things are fit objects of your bounty ; you will never
have to regret coming to this out-of-the-way place to
examine into their case. They really are deserving all
your kindness, don't you think so, Alfred ? "
Alfred, the strictness of whose ideas touching a due
regard for all conjugal duties made him revolt at the
thoughts of helping to deceive a husband, replied only
by a sort of grumbling sound, as vague as discordant.
" Please to excuse my husband, madame," resumed
Madame Pipelet ; " he has got the cramp in his stom-
ach, and cannot speak loud enough to be understood, or
55
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
he would tell you as well as myself that the poor people
you have so fortunately relieved will pray of the Al-
mighty, night aiid day, to bless and reward you, my
worthy lady."
M. d'Harville gazed on his wife with feelings approach-
ing to adoration, as he exclaimed, " Angel of goodness,
how has base slander dared to disturb your heavenly
work ! "
" An angel ! " repeated Madame Pipelet ; " that she is,
and one of the very best heaven could send. There is
not a better."
" Let us return home, I entreat ! " said Madame
d'Harville, who was suffering acutely under the restraint
she had put upon herself since entering the house, and,
now that the necessity for exertion was over, found her
strength rapidly forsaking her.
" Instantly," replied the marquis.
At the instant of their emerging into the open air from
the obscurity of the alley, M. d'Harville, observing the
pale looks of his wife, said, tenderly :
" Ah, Cl^mence, I have deep cause to solicit your pity
and forgiveness."
" Alas ! my lord," said the marquise, sighing deeply,
" which of us has not need of pardon ? "
Rodolph quitted his hiding-place, deeply ruminating
upon so terrible a scene, thus intermingled with absurd-
ity and coarseness, and pondering over the curious ter-
mination to a drama, the commencement of which had
called forth such different passions.
" Well, now," exclaimed Madame Pipelet, " you must
say I played my part well. Didn't I send that donkey
of a husband home with longer ears than he came out
with ? Lord bless you ! he'll put his wife under a glass
case, and worship her from this day forward. Poor,
dear gentleman ! I really could not help feeling sorry
for him. Oh ! but about your furniture, M. Rodolph ; it
has not come yet."
56
THE RENDEZVOUS.
" I am now going to see about it. By the by, you
had better go and inform the commandant that he may
venture out."
" True ; I'll go and let the caged bird out. But what
stuff and nonsense for him to hire apartments of no
more use to him than they are to the King of Prussia !
He is a fine fellow, he is, with his paltry twelve francs
a month. This is the fourth time he has been made a
fool of."
Rodolph quitted the house, and Madame Pipelet, turn-
ing to her husband, said, with a chuckling laugh, " Now,
Alfred, the commandant's turn has come ; now for it !
I mean to have a jolly good laugh at my gentleman,
up and dressed for nothing."
Arrived at the apartments of M. Charles Robert, the
porteress rang the bell ; the door w^as opened by the
commandant himself.
" Commandant," said Anastasie, giving him a military
salute, by placing the back of her little fat hand against
the front of her wig, " I have come to set you free. Your
friends have gone away arm in arm, happy as doves,
under your very nose. Well, you are out of a nice mess,
thanks to M. Rodolph. You ought to stand something
very handsome to him for all he has done upon the pres-
ent occasion."
" Then this slim individual with the moustachios is
called M. Rodolph, is he ? "
" Exactly so ; neither more nor less."
" And who and what is the fellow ? "
" Fellow, indeed ! " cried Madame Pipelet, in a wrath-
ful voice ; " he is as good as other men, better than
some I could mention. Why, he is a travelling clerk,
but the very king of lodgers ; for, though he has only
one room, he does not haggle and beat folks down,
not he. Why, he gave me six francs for doing for him,
six francs, mind, I say, without a word. Think of
that ! without ever offering me a sou less. Oh,
57
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
he is a lodger ! I wish other people were at all like
him ! "
" There, there, that's enough ; take the key."
" Shall I light the fire to-morrow, commandant ? "
*' No ! "
" Next day ? "
" No, no ! Don't bother me."
" I say, commandant, if you recollect, I warned you
that you would have your trouble for your pains."
M. Charles Robert threw a glance at his grinning
tormentor that spoke of annihilation at least, and, dash-
ing furiously by her, quitted the house, wondering much
how a mere clerk should have become acquainted with
his assignation with the Marquise d'Harville.
As the commandant left the alley, Tortillard came
hobbling along.
" Well, what do you want ? " said Madame Pipelet.
" Has the Borgnesse been to call upon me ? " asked
the young scamp, without attending to the porteress's
question.
" The Chouette ? No, you ugly monster ! What
should she come for?"
" Why, to take me with her into the country, to be
sure," said Tortillard, swinging on the lodge gate.
" And what does your master say to it ? "
"Oh, father managed all that. He sent this
morning to M. Bradamanti, to ask him to give me leave
to go in the country, the country, the country,"
sang or rather screamed the amiable scion of M. Bras
Rouge, beating time most melodiously on the window-
panes.
" Will you leave off, you young rascal, or are
you going to break my window ? Oh, here comes a
coach ! "
" Oh ! oh ! oh ! " shrieked the urchin ; " it is my dear
Chouette ! Oh, how nice the ride in a coach ! "
And, looking through the window, they saw reflected
58
THE RENDEZVOUS.
upon the red blind of the opposite glass the hideous pro-
file of the Borgnesse. She beckoned to Tortillard, who
ran out to her. The coachman descended from his box,
and opened the door ; Tortillard sprang into the vehicle,
which instantly drove off.
Another person beside the Chouette was in the car-
riage. In the farther corner, and wrapped in an old
cloak with a furred collar, his features shrouded by a
black silk cap pulled down over his brows, sat the
Schoolmaster. His inflamed lids formed a horrible
contrast with the white globeless space beneath ; and
this fearful spectacle was rendered still more hideous
by the action of the severe cold upon his seamed and
frightful countenance.
" Now, small boy, squat yourself down on the pins of
my man ; you'll serve to keep him warm," said the Bor-
gnesse to Tortillard, who crouched like a dog close to the
feet of the Schoolmaster and the Chouette.
" Now, then, my coves," said the driver, " on we go to
the ' ken ' at Bouqueval, don't we. La Chouette ? You
shall see whether I can ' tool a drag ' or not."
" And keep your pads on the move, my fine fellow ;
for we must get hold of the girl to-night."
" All right, my blind un ; we'll go the pace."
" Shall I give you a hint ? " said the Schoolmaster.
"What about?"
" Why, cut it fine as you pass by the ' nabs ' at the
barrier ; the meeting might lead to disagreeable recol-
lections. It is not every old acquaintance it is worth
while to renew our friendship with. You have been
wanted at the barriers for some time."
" I'll keep my weather-eye open," replied the driver,
getting on his box.
It needs scarcely be told, after this specimen of slang,
that the coachman was a robber, one of the Schoolmaster's
worthy associates. The vehicle then quitted the Rue du
Temple.
59
THE MYSTERIES OF PAttlS.
Two hours afterwards, towards the closing of a win-
ter's day, the vehicle containing the Chouette, the bchool-
master, and Tor^illard, stopped before a wooden cross,
markins; out the sunken and lonelyjoad which conducted
to the farm at Bouqueval, where the Goualeuse remained
under the kind protection of Madame Georges.
60
CHAPTER in.
AN IDYL.
The hour of five had just struck from the church clock
of the little village of Bouqueval ; the cold was intense,
the sky clear, the sun, sinking slowly behind the vast
leafless woods which crowned the heights of Ecouen,
cast a purple hue over the horizon, and sent its faint,
sloping rays across the extensive plains, white and hard
with winter's frost.
In the country each season has its own distinctive
features, its own peculiar charm ; at times the dazzling
snow changes the whole scene into immense landscapes
of purest alabaster, exhibiting their spotless beauties to
the reddish gray of the sky. Then may be seen in the
glimmer of twilight, either ascending or descending the
hill, a benighted farmer returning to his habitation ; his
horse, cloak, and hat, are covered with the falling snow.
Bitter is the cold, biting the north wind, dark and
gloomy the approaching night ; but what cares he ?
There, amid those leafless trees, he sees the bright taper
burning in the window of his cheerful home ; while from
the tall chimney a column of dark smoke rolls upwards
through the flaky shower that descends, and speaks to
the toil-worn farmer of a blazing hearth and humble
meal prepared by kind affection to welcome him after
the fatigues of his journey. Then the rustic gossip by
the fireside, on which the fagot burns and crackles, and
a peaceful, comfortable night's rest, amid the whistling
of the winds, and the barking of the various dogs at the
61
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
different farms scattered around, with the answering cry
from the distant watch-dog.
Daylight opens upon a scene of fairy-land. Surely
the tiny elves have been celebrating some grand fete,
and have left some of their adornments behind them, for
on each branch hang long spiracles of crystal, glittering
in the rays of a winter's sun with all the prismatic bril-
liancy of the diamond. The damp, rich soil of the
arable land is laid down in furrows, where hides the
timid hare in her form, or the speckled partridge runs
merrily. Here and there is heard the melancholy tin-
kling of the sheep-bell hanging from the neck of some
important leader of the numerous flocks scattered over
the verdant heights and turfy valleys of the neighbour-
hood ; while, carefully wrapped in his dark gray cloak,
the shepherd, seated under shelter of those knotted
trunks and interlaced branches, chants his cheerful lay,
while his fingers are busily employed weaving a basket
of rushes.
Occasionally a more animated scene presents itself;
distant echo gives out the faint sound of the hunting-
horn, and the cry of hounds ; suddenly a frightened deer
bursts from the neighbouring forest, stands for a few
seconds in terrified alarm upon the frozen plain, then
darts onward, and is quickly lost amid the thickets on
the opposite side. The trampling of horses, the barking
of dogs, are rapidly brought nearer by the breeze ; and now,
in their turn, a pack of dogs with brown and tawny-
spotted skins issue from the brushwood from which the
frightened deer but just now came ; they run eagerly
over the sterile ground, the fallow fields, with noses
closely pointed to the ground they pursue with loud cries
the traces left by the flying deer. At their heels come
the hunters in their scarlet coats, bending over the necks
of their swift steeds ; they encourage their dogs by their
voices mingled with the notes of the horn. Swift as
lightning the brilliant cortege passes on ; the noise
62
AN IDYL.
decreases ; by degrees all is still ; dogs, horses, and
huntsmen are lost in the tangled mazes of the forest,
where the frightened stag had sought and found a hid-
ing-place. Then peace and calm resumed their reign ;
and the profound stillness of these vast plains was in-
terrupted only by the monotonous song of the shepherd.
These sights, these rustic views abounded in the
environs of the village of Bouqueval, which, spite of its
proximity to Paris, was situated in a sort of desert, to
which there was no approach except by cross-roads.
Concealed during the summer among the trees, like
a nest amid the sheltering foliage, the farm which had
become the home of the poor Goualeuse was now utterly
bereft of its leafy screen, and entirely exposed to view.
The course of the little river, now quite frozen over,
resembled a long silver riband stretched along the
ever verdant meadows, through which a number of fine
cows were leisurely wending their way to their stable.
Brought home by the approach of night, flocks of pigeons
were successively arriving, and perching on the peaked
roof of the dove-house ; while the immense walnut-tree,
that during the summer afforded an umbrageous screen
both to the farmhouse and its numerous out-buildings,
stripped of its rich foliage, exhibited only bare branches,
through which could plainly be discerned the tiled roof
of the one, and the thatched tops of the others, over-
grown with patches of moss of mingled green and dingy
brown.
A heavy cart, drawn by three strong, sturdy horses,
with long, thick manes and shining coats, with blue col-
lars ornamented with bells and tassels of red worsted,
was bringing in a load of wheat from a neighbouring
rick. This ponderous machine entered the courtyard
by the large gate, while immense flocks of sheep were
pressing eagerly round the side entrances ; both men
and beasts appeared impatient to escape from the sever-
ity of the cold, and to enjoy the comfort of repose. The
63
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
horses neighed joyously at the sight of their stable, the
sheep bleated their satisfaction at returning to their
warm folds, whilu the hungry labourers cast a longing
look towards the kitchen windows, from which streamed
forth pleasant promise of a warm and savoury meal.
The whole of the exterior arrangements of the farm
were indicative of the most scrupulous order, neatness,
and exactitude. Instead of being covered with dirt and
dust, scattered about, and exposed to the inclemency of
the season, the carts, rollers, harrows, etc., with every
agricultural implement (and some were of the last and
best invention), were placed, well cleaned and painted,
under a vast shed, where the carters were accustomed to
arrange their cart-harness with the most symmetrical
attention to order and method. Large, clean, and well
laid out, the court-yard had none of those huge dung-
heaps, those stagnant pools of filthy water, which deface
the finest establishments of La Beauce or La Brie.
The poultry-yard, surrounded by a green trellising,
received and shut in all the feathered tribe, who after
wandering in the fields all day, returned home by a small
door left open till all were collected, when it was care-
fully closed and secured. Without dwelling too minutely
upon every detail, we shall merely observe, that in all
respects this farm passed most justly in the environs for
a model farm, as much for the excellency of the method
by which it was conducted, and the abundant crops it
produced, as for the respectability and correct mode of
life which distinguished the various labourers employed
there, who were soon ranked among the most creditable
and efficient workmen of the place.
The cause of all this prosperity shall be spoken of
hereafter. Meanwhile we will conduct the reader to the
trellised gate of the poultry-yard, which, for the rustic
elegance of its perches and poultry-houses, was noways
inferior to the farm itself ; while through the centre
flowed a small stream of clear, limpid water, the bed of
64
AN IDYL.
which was laid down with smooth pebbles, carefully
cleansed from any obstructing substance.
A sudden stir arose among the winged inhabitants of
this charming spot ; the fowls flew fluttering and cackling
from their perches, the turkeys gabbled, the guinea-fowls
screamed, and the pigeons, forsaking their elevated
position on the summit of the dove-house, descended to
the sandy surface of the yard, and stood cooing and
caressing each other with every manifestation of joy.
The arrival of Fleur-de-Marie had occasioned all these
ecstatic delights.
A more charming model than the Goualeuse could
not have been desired by Greuze or Watteau, had her
cheeks possessed a little more rondeur or been visited by
a brighter tinge ; but, spite of their delicate paleness,
the expression of her features, the tout ensemble of her
figure, and the gracefulness of her attitude would have
rendered her worthy of exercising the crayons of even
the celebrated artists we have alluded to.
The small round cap of Fleur-de-Marie displayed her
fair forehead and light, braided hair, in common with
all the young girls in the environs of Paris ; above this
cap, but still exposing the crown and ears, she wore a
large red cotton handkerchief, folded smoothly, and
pinned behind her head ; while the long ends waving
gracefully over her shoulders formed a costume which,
for graceful effect, might be envied by the tasteful coiffeurs
of Italy or Switzerland. A handkerchief of snow-white
linen, crossed over her bosom, was half concealed by the
high and spreading front of her coarse cloth apron. A
jacket of blue woollen cloth with tight sleeves displayed
her slender figure, and descended half way down her
thick skirt of dark-striped fustian ; white cotton stock-
ings and tied shoes, partly covered by sabots, furnished
with a leather strap for the instep, completed this cos-
tume of rustic simplicity, to which the natural grace of
Fleur-de-Marie lent an inexpressible charm.
65
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Holding in one hand the two corners of her apron,
with the other she distributed handfuls of grain among
the winged crowd by which she was surrounded. One
beautiful pigeon of a silvery whiteness, with beak and
feet of a rich purple colour, more presuming or more
indulged than the rest, after having flown several times
around Fleur-de-Marie, at length alighted on her shoul-
der ; the young girl, as though well used to these
familiarities, continued, wholly undisturbed, to throw
out continued supplies of grain ; but, half turning her
head till its perfect outline alone was visible, she gently
raised her head, and smilingly offered her small rosy
lips to meet those of her fond, caressing friend. The
last rays of the setting sun shed a pale golden light over
this innocent picture.
While the Goualeuse was thus occupied with her rural
cares, Madame Georges and the Abb^ Laporte, cure of
Bouqueval, sitting by the fireside in the neat little par-
lour of the farm, were conversing on the one constant
theme, Fleur-de-Marie. The old cur^, with a pensive,
thoughtful air, his head bent downwards, and his elbows
leaning on his knees, mechanically stretched his two
trembling hands before the fire. Madame Georges, laying
aside the needlework on which she had been occupied, kept
an anxious eye on the abb^, as though eagerly waiting for
some observation from him. After a moment's silence :
" Yes," said he, " you are right, Madame Georges ; it
will be better for M. Rodolph to question Marie, for she
is so filled with deep gratitude and devotion to him, that
she will probably reveal to him what she persists in
concealing from us."
"Then, since you agree with me, M. le Cur^, I will
write, this very evening, to the address he left with me,
the All^e des Veuves."
" Poor child," sighed the kind old man, " she ought
to have been so happy here 1 What secret grief can thus
be preying on her mind ? "
66
AN IDYL.
" Her unliappiness is too deeply fixed to be removed
even by her earnest and passionate application to study."
*' And yet she has made a most rapid and extraor-
dinary progress since she has been under our care,
has she not ? "
'' She has, indeed ; already she can read and write
with the utmost fluency, and is already sufficiently
advanced in arithmetic to assist me in keeping my
farm accounts ; and then the dear child is so active
and industrious, and really affords me so much assist-
ance as both surprises me and moves me to tears. You
know that, spite of my repeated remonstrances, she per-
sisted in working so hard, that I became quite alarmed
lest such toil should seriously affect her health."
" I am thankful to hear from you," resumed the
worthy curd, " that your negro doctor has fully quieted
your apprehensions respecting the cough your young
friend suffered from ; he says it is merely temporary,
and gives no reason for uneasiness."
" Oh, that kind, excellent M. David ! He really ap-
peared to feel the same interest in the poor girl that
we did who know her sad story. She is universally
beloved and respected by all on the farm ; though that
is not surprising, as, thanks to the generous and elevated
views of M. Rodolph, all the persons employed on it are
selected for their good sense and excellent conduct, from
all parts of the kingdom ; but were it not so, were they
of the common herd of vulgar-minded labourers, they
could not help feeling the influence of Marie's angelic
sweetness, and timid, graceful manner, as though she
were always deprecating anger, or beseeching pardon
for some involuntary fault. Unfortunate being ! as
though she alone were to blame."
After remaining for several minutes buried in reflec-
tion, the abbd resumed :
" Did you not tell me that this deep dejection of
Marie's might be dated from the time when Madame
67
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Dubreuil, who rents under the Duke de Lucenay, paid
her a visit during the feast of the Holy Ghost ? "
" Yes, M. le Cur^, I did. And yet Madame Dubreuil
and her daughter Clara (a perfect model of candour and
goodness) were as much taken with our dear child as
every one else who approaches her; and both of them
lavished on her every mark of the most affectionate
regard. You know that we pass the Sunday alternately
at each other's house; but it invariably happens that,
when we return from our Sunday excursion to Arnou-
ville, where Madame Dubreuil and her daughter reside,
the melancholy of my dear Marie seems augmented, and
her spirits more depressed than ever. I cannot compre-
hend why this should be, when Madame Dubreuil treats
her like a second daughter, and the sweet Clara loves
her with the tender affection of a sister."
" In truth, Madame Georges, it is a fearful mystery ;
what can occasion all this hidden sorrow, when here she
need not have a single care ? The difference between
her present and past life must be as great as that which
exists between heaven and the abode of the damned.
Surely, hers is not an ungrateful disposition ? "
" She ungrateful ! Oh, no, M. le Cur^ ! her sensitive
and affectionate nature magnifies the slightest service
rendered her, and she appears as though her gratitude
could never be sufficiently evinced. There is, too, in
her every thought an instinctive delicacy and fineness of
feeling wholly incompatible with ingratitude, which could
never be harboured in so noble a nature as that of my
charge. Dear Marie, how anxious does she seem to earn
the bread she eats, and how eagerly she strives to com-
pensate the hospitality shown her, by every exertion she
can make, or service she can render ! And, then, except
on Sunday, when I make it a point she should dress
herself with more regard to appearance to accompany
me to church, she will only wear the coarse, humble gar-
ments worn by our young peasant girls ; and yet there
68
AN IDYL.
is in her such an air of native superiority, so natural a
grace, that one would not desire to see her otherwise
attired, would they, M. le Cur^ ? "
" Ah, mother's pride ! Beware ! " said the old priest,
smiling.
At these words, tears filled the eyes of Madame
Georges ; she thought of her long-lost child, and of
his possible destiny.
" Come, come, dear friend, cheer up ! Look upon our
dear Marie as sent by a gracious Providence to occupy
your maternal affections until the blessed moment when
he shall restore you your son ; and, besides, you have a
sacred duty to perform towards this child of your adop-
tion. Are you not her baptismal godmother ? And, believe
me, when that office is worthily discharged, it almost
equals that of a mother. As for M. Rodolph, he has
discharged his obligation of godfather by anticipation,
for, in snatching her from the abyss of crime into which
her misfortunes and her helplessness had cast her, he
may be said to have caused her immortal existence
to begin."
"Doubtless the poor thing has never received the
sacrament of our holy church. Do you think, M. le Curd,
she is now sufficiently acquainted with its sanctified
purposes to be admitted to a participation of it ? "
" I will take an opportunity of learning her senti-
ments on the subject as we walk back to the rectory. I
shall then apprise her that the holy ceremony will take
place probably in about a fortnight from hence."
" How gratefully she will receive such an informa-
tion ; her religious feelings are the strongest I have ever
met with."
" Alas, poor thing ! she has deep and heavy expiation
to make for the errors of her past life."
" Nay, M. PAbbd, consider. Abandoned so young,
without resource, without friends, almost without a knowl-
edge of good or evil, plunged involuntarily into the very
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
vortex of crime, what was there to prevent her from
falling the bitter sacrifice she has been ? "
" The clear, moral sense of right and wrong implanted
by the Creator in every breast should have withheld
her ; and, besides, we have no evidence of her having
even sought to escape from the horrible fate into which
she had fallen. Is there no friendly hand to be found
in Paris to listen to the cries of suffering virtue ? Is
charity so rare, so hard to obtain in that large city ? "
" Let us hope not, M. 1' Abb^ ; but how to discover it
is the difficulty. Ere arriving at the knowledge of one
kind, commiserating Christian, think of the refusals,
the rebukes, the denials to be endured. And, then, in
such a case as our poor Marie's, it was no passing
temporary aid that could avail her, but the steady,
continued patronage and support, the being placed in
the way to earn an honest livelihood. Many tender and
pitying mothers would have succoured her had they
known her sad case, I doubt not, but it was first requi-
site to secure the happiness of knowing where to meet
with them. Trust me, I, too, have known want and
misery. But for one of those providential chances
which, alas! too late, threw poor Marie in the way of
M. Rodolph, but for one of those casualties, the
wretched and destitute, most commonly repulsed with
rude denial on their first applications, believe pity irre-
trievably lost, and, pressed by hunger, fierce, clamorous
hunger, often seek in vice that relief they despair to
obtain from commiseration."
At this moment the Goualeuse entered the parlour.
" Where have you been, my dear child ? " inquired
Madame Georges, anxiously.
" Visiting the fruit-house, madame, after having shut
up the hen-houses and gates of the poultry-yard. All
the fruit has kept excellently, all but those I ran away
with and ate."
" Now, Marie, why take all this fatigue upon yourself ?
70
AN IDYL.
You should have left all this tiring work to Claudine ; 1
fear you have quite tired yourself."
" No, no ! dear Madame Georges ; I wouldn't let
Claudine help me for the world. I take so much delight
in my fruit-house, the smell of the beautiful ripe fruit
is so delicious."
" M. le Cur^," said Madame Georges, " you must go
some day and see Marie's fruit-house. You can scarcely
imagine the taste with which she has arranged it; each
different variety of fruit is separated by rows of grapes,
and the grapes are again divided off by strips of moss."
"Oh, yes, M. le Cur^ ; pray do come and see it," said
the Goualeuse, innocently ; " I am sure you would be
pleased with it. You would be surprised what a pretty
contrast the moss makes to the bright rosy apples or the
rich golden pears. There are some such lovely waxen
apples, quite a pure red and white , and really, as they
lie surrounded by the soft green moss, I cannot help
thinking of the heads of little cherubim just peeping
out from the glorious clouds of heaven," added the
delighted Goualeuse, speaking with all the enthusiasm
of an artist of the work of her creation.
The cur^ looked at Madame Georges, then smilingly
replied to Fleur-de-Marie :
" I have already admired the dairy over which you
preside, my child, and can venture to declare it perfect
in its way ; the most particular dairy-woman might envy
you the perfection to which you have brought it. Ere
long, I promise myself the pleasure of visiting your
fruit-house, and passing a similar compliment on your
skill in arrangement. You shall then introduce me to
those charming rosy apples and delicious golden pears,
as well as to the little cherubim pippins so prettily peep-
ing from their mossy beds. But see ! the sun has
already set ; you will scarcely have sufficient time to
conduct me back to the rectory-house and return before
dark. Come, my child, fetch your cloak, and let us be
71
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
gone ; or, now I think of it, do you remain at home
this cold bitter night, and let one of the farm servants
go home with me."
" Oh, M. le Cure," replied the kind Madame Georges,
" Marie will be quite wretched if she is not allowed to
accompany you ; she so much enjoys the happiness of
escorting you home every evening."
" Indeed, Monsieur le Cur^," added the Goualeuse,
timidly raising her large blue eyes to the priest's coun-
tenance, '- 1 shall fear you are displeased with me if you
do not permit me to accompany you as usual."
" Well, then, my dear child, wrap yourself up very
warm, and let us go."
Fleur-de-Marie hastily threw over her shoulders a sort
of cloak of coarse white cloth, edged with black velvet,
and with a large hood, to be drawn at pleasure over the
head. Thus equipped, she eagerly offered her arm to her
venerable friend.
" Happily," said he, in taking it, " the distance is but
trifling, and the road both good and safe to pass at all
hours."
" As it is somewhat later to-night than usual," said
Madame Georges, " will you have one of the farm-people
to return with you, Marie ? "
" Do you take me for a coward ? " said Marie, play-
fully. " I am very much obliged to you for your good
opinion, madame. No, pray do not let any one be called
away on my account. It is not a quarter of an hour's
walk from here to the rectory. I shall be back long
before dark."
" Well, as you like. I merely thought it would be
company for you ; for as to fearing, thank heaven, there
is no cause. Loose vagabond people, likely to interrupt
your progress, are wholly unknown here."
" And, were I not equally sure of the absence of all
danger^ I would not accept this dear child's arm," added
the cur^, " useful as, I confess, I find it."
72
AN IDYL.
And, leaning on Fleur-de-Marie, who regulated her
light step to suit the slow and laboured pace of the old
man, the two friends quitted the farm.
A few minutes' walk brought the Goualeuse and the
priest close to the hollow road in which the School-
master, the Chouette, and Tortillard, were lying in
ambush.
73
CHAPTER IT.
THE AMBUSCADE.
The church and parsonage of Bouqueval were placed
on the side of a hill covered with chestnut-trees, and
commanded an entire view of the village. Fleur-de-
Marie and the abbd reached a winding path which led to
the clergyman's home, crossing the sunken road by which
the hill was intersected diagonally. The Chouette, the
Schoolmaster, and Tortillard, concealed in one of the
hollows of the road, saw the priest and Fleur-de-Marie
descend into the ravine, and leave it again by a steep de-
clivity. The features of the young girl being hidden
under the hood of her cloak, the Chouette did not recog-
nise her old victim.
" Silence, my old boy," said the old harridan to the
Schoolmaster ; " the young * mot ' and the ' black slug ' are
just crossing the path. I know her by the description
which the tall man in black gave us ; a country appear-
ance, neither tall nor short ; a petticoat shot with brown,
and a woollen mantle with a black border. She walks
every day with a ' devil-dodger ' to his ' crib,' and returns
alone. When she come back, which she will do pres-
ently by the end of the road, we must spring upon her
and carry her off to the coach."
" If she cries for help," replied the Schoolmaster,
'- they will hear her at the farm, if, as you say, the out-
buildings are visible from here ; for you you can see,"
he added, in a sullen tone.
" Oh, yes, we can see the buildings from here quite
74
THE AMBUSCADE.
plainly," said Tortillard. " It is only a minute ago that
I climbed to the top of the bank, and, lying down on my
belly, I could here a carter who was talking to his horses
in the yard there."
" I'll tell you, then, what we must do," said the School-
master, after a moment's silence. " Let Tortillard have
the watch at the entrance to the path. When he sees
the young girl returning, let him go and meet her, say-
ing that he is the son of a poor old woman who has hurt
herself by falling down the hollow road, and beg the
girl to come to her assistance."
'' I'm up to you, fourline ; the poor old woman is your
darling Chouette. You're ' wide-awake ! ' My man, you
are always the king of the ' downy ones ' (tetards). What
must I do afterwards ? "
" Conceal yourself in the hollow way on the side where
Barbillon is waiting with the coach. I will be at hand.
When Tortillard has brought the wench to you in the
middle of the ravine, leave off whimpering and spring
upon her, put one ' mauley ' round her ' squeeze,' and the
other into her ' patter-box,' and ' grab ' her ' red rag ' to
prevent her from squeaking."
" I know, I know, fourlirie ; as we did with the woman
at the canal of St. Martin, when we gave her cold water
for supper (drowned her), after having ' prigged ' her ' ne-
gress ' (the parcel wrapped in black oil-skin) which she
had under her arm, the same ' dodge,' isn't it ? "
" Yes, precisely. But mind, grab the girl tight whilst
Tortillard comes and fetches me. We three will then
bundle her up in my cloak, carry her to Barbillon' s
coach, from thence to the plain of St. Denis, where the
man in black will await us."
"That's the way to do business, mj fourline; you are
without an equal ! If I could, I would let off a firework
on your head, and illuminate you with the colours of
Saint Chariot, the patron of * scragsmen.' Do you see,
you urchin ? If you would be an ' out-and-outer,' make
75
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
my husband your model," said the Chouette, boastingly to
Tortillard. Then, addressing the Schoolmaster, " By
the way, do you know that Barbillon is in an awful ' funk '
(fright) ? He thinks that he shall be had up before the
beaks ' on a swinging matter."
a Why ? "
'' The other day, returning from Mother Martial's, the
widow of the man who was scragged, and who keeps the
boozing-ken in the He du Ravageur, Barbillon, the Gros-
Boiteux, and the Skeleton had a row with the husband of
the milkwoman who comes every morning from the
country in a little cart drawn by a donkey, to sell her
milk in the Cite, at the corner of the Rue de la Vieille-
Draperie, close to the ogress's of the ' White Rabbit,'
and they ' walked into him with their slashers ' (killed him
with their knives)."
The son of Bras Rouge, who did not understand slang,
listened to the Chouette with a sort of disappointed
curiosity.
" You would like to know, little man, what we are
saying, wouldn't you ? "
'*Yes. You were talking of Mother Martial, who is
at the He du Ravageur, near Asni^res. I know her very
well, and her daughter Calebasse and Francois and Aman-
dine, who are about as old as I am, and who are made to
bear everybody's snubs and thumps in the house. But
when you talked of ' walking into (huter) any one,'
that's slang, I know."
" It is ; and, if you're a very good chap, I'll teach you
to ' patter flash.' You're just the age when it may be
very useful to you. Would you like to learn, my pre-
cious lambkin ? "
" I rather think I should, too, and no mistake ; and
I would rather live with you than with my old cheat of
a mountebank, pounding his drugs. If I knew where he
hides his ' rat-poison for men,' I'd put some ia his soup,
and then that would settle the quarrel between us."
76
THE AMBUSCADE.
The Chouette laughed heartily, and said to Tortillard,
drawing him towards her :
" Come, chick, and kiss his mammy. What a droll
boy it is a darling ! But, my manikin, how didst
know that he had ' rat-poison for men ' ? "
" Why, 'cause I heard him say so one day when I was
hid in the cupboard in the room where he keeps his bot-
tles, his brass machines, and where he mixes his stuffs
together."
" What did you hear him say ? " asked the Chouette.
" I heard him say to a gentleman that he gave a pow-
der to, in a paper, ' When you are tired of life, take this
in three doses, and you will sleep Avithout sickness or
sorrow.' "
" Who was the gentleman ? " asked the Schoolmaster.
" Oh, a very handsome gentleman with black mous-
tachios, and a face as pretty as a girl's. He came
another time ; and then, w^hen he left, I followed him,
by M. Bradamanti's order, to find out where he perched.
The fine gentleman went into the Rue de Chaillot, and
entered a very grand house. My master said to me,
' No matter where this gentleman goes, follow and wait
for him at the door. If he comes out again, still keep
your eye on him, until he does not come out of the place
where he enters, and that will prove that he lives there.
Then Tortillard, my boy, twist (tortille) yourself about
to find out his name, or I will twist your ears in a way
that will astonish you.' "
"Well?"
" Well, I did twist myself about, and found out his
name."
" How did you manage it ? " inquired the Schoolmaster.
" Why, so. I'm not a fool ; so I went to the porter
at the house in the Rue de Chaillot, where this gentle-
man had gone in and not come out again. The porter
had his hair finely powdered, with a fine brown coat with
a yellow collar trimmed with silver. So I says to him,
77
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
* Good gentleman, I have come to ask for a hundred
sous which the gentleman of the house has promised me
for having f ouxid his dog and brought it back to him
a little black dog called Trumpet; and the gentleman
with dark features, with black moustachios, a white
riding-coat, and light blue pantaloons, told me he lived
at No. 11 Rue de Chaillot, and that his name was
Dupont.' ' The gentleman you're talking of is my mas-
ter, and his name is the Viscount de St. Remy, and we
have no dog here but yourself, you young scamp ; so " cut
your stick," or I'll make you remember coming here, and
trying to do me out of a hundred sous,' says the porter
to me ; and he gave me a kick as he said it. But I
didn't mind that," added Tortillard most philosophically,
" for I found out the name of the handsome young gen-
tleman with black moustachios, who came to my mas-
ter's to buy the * rat-poison for men ' who are tired of
living. He is called the Viscount de St. Remy, my
my St. Remy," added the son of Bras Rouge,
humming the last words, as was his usual habit.
"Clever little darling I could eat him up alive!"
said the Chouette, embracing Tortillard. "Never was
such a knowing fellow. He deserves that I should be
his mother, the dear rascal does."
And the hag embraced Tortillard with an absurd
affectation. The son of Bras Rouge, touched by this
proof of affection, and desirous of showing his gratitude,
eagerly answered :
" Only you tell me what to do, and you shall see how
I'll do it."
" Will you, though ? Well, then, you sha'n't repent
doing so."
" Oh, I should like always to stay with you ! "
" If you behave well, we may see about that. You
sha'n't leave us if you are a good boy."
" Yes," said the Schoolmaster, " you shall lead me
about like a poor blind man, and say you are my son.
78
THE AMBUSCADE.
We will get into houses in this way, and then ten
thousand slaughters ! " added the assassin with enthu-
siasm ; " the Chouettc will assist us in making lucky
hits. I will then teach that devil of a Rodolph, who
blinded me, that I am not yet quite done for. He took
away my eyesight, but he could not, did not remove my
bent for mischief. I would be the head, Tortillard the
eyes, and you the hand, eh, Chouette ? You w^ill help
me in this, won't you ? "
"Am I not with you to gallows and rope, fourline?
Didn't I, when I left the hospital, and learnt that you
had sent the ' yokel ' from St. Mandd to ask for me at the
ogress's didn't I run to you at the village directly,
telling those chawbacons of labourers that I was your
rib?''
These words of the " one-eyed's " reminded the
Schoolmaster of an unpleasant affair, and, altering
his tone and language with the Chouette, he said, in
a surly tone :
" Yes, I was getting tired of being all by myself with
these honest people. After a month I could not stand it
any longer ; I was frightened. So then I thought of
trying to find you out , and a nice thing I did for my-
self," he added, in a tone of increasing anger ; " for the
day after you arrived I was robbed of the rest of the
money which that devil in the All^e des Veuves had
given me. Yes, some one stole my belt full of gold
whilst I was asleep. It was only you who could have
done it ; and so now I am at your mercy. Whenever I
think of it, I can hardly restrain myself from killing you
on the spot you cursed old robber, you ! " and he
stepped towards the old woman.
" Look out for yourself, if you try to do any harm to
the Chouette ! " cried Tortillard.
" I will smash you both you and she base vipers
as you are ! " cried the ruffian, enraged ; and, hearing
the boy mumbling near him, he aimed at him so violent
79
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
a blow with his fist, as must have killed him if it had
struck him. Tortillard, as much to revenge himself as
the Chouette, picked up a stone, took aim, and struck
the Schoolmaster on the forehead. The blow was not
dangerous, but very painful. The brigand grew furious
with passion, raging like a wounded bull, and, rushing
forward swiftly and at random, stumbled.
" What, break your own back ? " shouted the Chouette,
laughing till she cried.
Despite the bloody ties which bound her to this mon-
ster, she saw how entirely, and with a sort of savage
delight, this man, formerly so dreaded, and so proud of
his giant strength, was reduced to impotence. The old
wretch, by these feelings, justified that cold-blooded idea
of La Rochefoucauld's, that " there is something in the
misfortunes of our best friends which does not displease
us." The disgusting brat, with his tawny cheeks and
weasel face, enjoyed and participated in the mirth of
the one-eyed hag. The Schoolmaster tripped again,
and the urchin exclaimed :
" Open your peepers, old fellow ; look about you.
You are going the wrong way. What capers you are
cutting! Can't )/ou see your way? Why don't you
wipe your eye-glasses ? "
Unable to seize on the boy, the athletic murderer
stopped, struck his foot violently on the ground, put his
enormous and hairy fists to his eyes, and then uttered a
sound which resembled the hoarse scream of a muzzled
tiger.
" Got a bad cough, I'm afraid, old chap ! " said Bras
Rouge's brat. " You're hoarse, I'm afraid ? I have
some capital liquorice which a gen-d'arme gave me.
P'raps you'd like to try it?" and, taking up a hand-
ful of sand, he threw it in the face of the ruffian.
Struck full in his countenance by this shower of
gravel, the Schoolmaster suffered still more severely by
this last attack than by the blow from the stone. Be-
80
THE AMBUSCADE.
come pale, in spite of his livid and cicatrised features,
he extended his two arms suddenly in the form of a
cross, in a moment of inexpressible agony and despair^
and, raising his frightful face to heaven, he cried, in a
voice of deep suffering:
" Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mon IHeuf'
This involuntary appeal to divine mercy by a man
stained by every crime, a bandit in whose presence but
very recently the most resolute of his fellows trembled,
appeared like an interposition of Providence.
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " said the Chouette, in a mocking
tone ; " look at the thief making the crucifix ! You
mistake your road, my man. It is the ' old one ' you
should call to your help."
" A knife ! Oh, for a knife to kill myself ! A knife !
since all the world abandons me!" shrieked the wretch,
gnawing his fists for very agony and rage.
" A knife ! there's one in your pocket, cut- throat,
and with an edge, too. The little old man in the Rue
du Roule, you know, one moonlight night, and the cattle-
dealer in the Poissy road, could tell the ' moles ' all about
it. But if you want it, it's here."
The Schoolmaster, when thus instructed, changed the
conversation, and replied, in a surly and threatening
tone :
" The Chourineur was true ; he did not rob, but had
pity on me."
" Why did you say that I had ' prigged your blunt ' ? "
inquired the Chouette, hardly able to restrain her
laughter.
" It was only you who came into my room," said the
miscreant. " I was robbed on the night of your arrival,
and who else could I suspect ? Those country people
could not have done such a thing."
" Why should not country people steal as well as
other folks ? Is it because they drink milk and gather
grass for their rabbits ? "
81
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" I don't know. I only know I'm robbed."
" And is that the fault of your own Chouette ? What !
suspect me ? Do you think if I had got your belt that I
should stay any longer with you. What a fool you are !
Why, if I had chosen to ' pouch your blunt,' I could, of
course ; but, as true as I'm Chouette, you would have
seen me again when the ' pewter ' was spent, for I like
you as well now with your eyes white, as I did you
rogue, you ! Come, be decent, and leave off grinding
your ' snags' in that way, or you'll break 'em."
"It's just as if he was a-cracking nuts," said Tortillard.
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! what a droll baby it is ! But
quiet, now, quiet, my man of men ; let him laugh,
it is but an infant. You must own you have been
unfair ; for when the tall man in mourning, who
looks like a mute at a funeral, said to me, ' A
thousand francs are yours if you carry off this young
girl from the farm at Bouqueval, and bring her to the
spot in the Plain of St. Denis that I shall tell you,'
say, cut-throat, didn't I directly tell you of the affair
and agree to share with you, instead of choosing some
' pal ' with his eyesight clear ? Why, it's like making you
a handsome present for doing nothing ; for unless to
bundle up the girl and carry her, with Tortillard's
assistance, you would be of no more use to me than
the fifth wheel to an omnibus. But never mind ; for,
although I could have robbed you if I would, I like,
on the contrary, to do you service. I should wish you
to owe everything to your darling Chouette that's my
way, that is. We must give two hundred ' bob ' to Bar-
billon for driving the coach, and coming once before
with the servant of the tall man in mourning, to look
about the place and determine where we should hide
ourselves whilst we waited for the young miss ; and
then we shall have eight hundred ' bob ' between us.
What do you say to that old boy ? What ! still angry
with your old woman ? "
82
THE AMBUSCADE.
"How do I know that you will give me a *mag'
when once the thing's done ? Why ! I " said the
ruffian, in a tone of gloomy distrust.
" Why, if I like, 1 need not give you a dump, that's
true enough ; for you are on my gridiron, my lad, as
I once had the Goualeuse ; and so I will broil you to
my own taste, till the ' old one ' gets the cooking of my
darling ha ! ha ! ha ! What, still sulky with your
Chouette ? " added the horrible woman, patting the
shoulder of the ruffian, who stood mute and motion-
less.
" You are right," said he, with a sigh of concentrated
rage ; " it is my fate mine mine ! At the mercy
of a woman and child whom but lately I could have
killed with a blow. Oh, if I were not afraid of dying ! "
said he, falling back against the bank.
" What ! a coward ! you you a coward ! " said
the Chouette, contemptuously. " Why, you'll be talk-
ing next of your conscience ! What a precious farce !
Well, if you haven't more pluck than that, I'll ' cut ' and
leave you."
" And that I cannot have my revenge of the man who
in thus making a martyr of me has reduced me to
the wretched situation in which I am ! " screamed the
Schoolmaster, in a renewal of fury. " 1 am afraid
of death yes, I own it, I am afraid. But if I were
told, ' This man Rodolph is between your arms your
two arms and now you shall both be flung into a pit,'
I would say, ' Throw us, then, at once.' Yes, for then I
should be safe not to relax my clutch, till we both
reached the bottom together. I would fix my teeth
in his face his throat his heart. I would tear
him to pieces with my teeth yes, my teeth ; for 1
should be jealous of a knife ! "
" Bravo, fourline ! now you are my own dear love
again. Calm yourself. We will find him again, that
wretch of a Rodolph, and the Chourineur too. Come,
83
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
pluck up, old man ; we will yet work our will on them
both. I say it, on both ! "
" Well, then you will not forsake me ? " cried the
brigand to the Chouette in a subdued tone, mingled,
however, with distrust. " If you do leave me, what
will become of me?"
"That's true. I ssij^fourline, what a joke if Tortil-
lard and I were to ' mizzle ' with the ' drag,' and leave you
where you are in the middle of the fields ; and the
night air begins to nip very sharp. I say, it would be
a joke, old cutpurse, wouldn't it ? "
At this threat the Schoolmaster shuddered, and,
coming towards the Chouette, said tremulously, '* No,
no, you wouldn't do that, Chouette ; nor you, Tortillard.
It would be too bad, wouldn't it ? "
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! ' Too bad,' says he, the gentle dear !
And the little old man in the Rue du Roule ; and the
cattle-dealer and the woman in Saint Martin's Canal ;
and the gentleman in the All^e des Veuves ; they found
you nice and amiable, I don't think didn't they with
your ' larding-pin ? ' Why, then, in your turn, shouldn't
you be left to such tender mercy as you have showed ? "
" I'm in your power, don't abuse it," said the School-
master. " ^ome, come, I confess I was wrong to suspect
you. I was wrong to try and thump Tortillard ; and,
you see, I beg pardon ; and of you too, Tortillard. Yes,
I ask pardon of both."
" I will have you ask pardon on your knees for having
tried to beat the Chouette," said Tortillard.
" You rum little beggar, how funny you are ! " said
the Chouette, laughing loudly; "but I should like to
see what a ' guy ' you will make of yourself. So on
your knees, as if you were ' pattering ' love to your old
darling. Come, do it directly, or we will leave you ;
and I tell you that in half an hour it will be quite dark,
though you don't look as if you thought so, old
' No-Eyes.' "
84
THE AMBUSCADE.
" Night or day, what's that to him ? " said Tortillard,
saucily. " The gentleman always has his shutters
closed."
" Then here, on my knees, I humbly ask your pardon,
Chouette ; and yours also, Tortillard ! Will not that
content you ? " said the robber, kneeling in the middle
of the highway. " And now will you leave me ? "
This strange group, enclosed by the embankment of
the ravine, and lighted by the red glimmer of the twi-
light, was hideous to behold. In the middle of the road
the Schoolmaster, on his knees, extended his large and
coarse hands towards the one-eyed hag; his thick and
matted hair, which his fright had dishevelled, left ex-
posed his motionless, rigid, glassy, dead eyeballs the
very glance of a corpse. Stooping deprecatingly his
broad-spread shoulders, this Hercules kneels ai33ectly,
and trembles at the feet of an old woman and a child !
The old hag herself, wrapped in a red-checked shawl,
her head covered with an old cap of black lace, which
allowed some locks of her grizzled hair to escape, looked
down with an air of haughty contempt and domineer-
ing pride on the Schoolmaster. The bony, scorched,
shrivelled, and livid countenance of the parrot-nosed old
harridan expressed a savage and insulting joy ; her small
but fierce eye glistened like a burning coal; a sinister
expression curled her lips, shaded with long straight
hairs, and revealed three or four large, yellow, and
decayed fangs.
Tortillard, clothed in a blouse with a leathern belt,
standing on one leg, leaned on the Chouette's arm to
keep himself upright. The bad expression and cunning
look of this deformed imp, with a complexion as sallow
as his hair, betokened at this moment his disposition
half fiend, half monkey. The shadow cast from the
declivity of the ravine increased the horrid tout ensemble
of the scene, which the increasing darkness half hid.
" Promise me, oh, promise me at least, not to
85
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
forsake me ! " repeated the Schoolmaster, frightened by
the silence of the Chouette and Tortillard, who were
enjoying his d'smay. '' Are you not here ? " added the
murderer, leaning forward to listen, and advancing his
arms mechanically.
"Yes, my man, we are here; don't be frightened.
Forsake you ! leave my love ! the man of my heart !
No, I'd sooner be ' scragged ' ! Once for all, I will tell
you why I will not forsake you. Listen, and profit. I
have always liked to have some one in my grip beast
or Christian. Before I had Pegriotte (oh! that the
^ old one ' would return her to my clutch ! for I have
still my idea of scaling off her beauty with my bottle of
vitriol) before Pegriotte's turn, I had a brat who
froze to death under my care. For that little job, I got
six years in the ' Stone Jug. ' Then I used to have little
birds, which I used to tame, and then pluck 'em alive.
Ha! ha! but that was troublesome work, for they did
not last long. When I left the ' Jug, ' the Goualeuse came
to hand ; but the little brat ran away before I had had
half my fun out of her carcass. Well, then I had a dog,
who had his little troubles as well as she had ; and I cut
off one of his hind feet and one of his four feet ; and you
never saw such a rum beggar as I made of him ; I
almost burst my sides with laughing at him ! "
" I must serve a dog I know of, who bit me one
day, in the same way," said the promising Master
Tortillard.
" When I fell in again with you, my darling," con-
tinued the Chouette, " I was trying what I could do that
was miserable with a cat. Well, now, at this moment,
you, old boy, shall be my cat, my dog, my bird, my
Pegriotte ; you shall be anything to worry (hete de souf-
f ranee). Do you understand, my love ? Instead of
having a bird or a child to make miserable, I shall have,
as it were, a wolf or a tiger. I think that's rather a
bright idea ; isn't it ? "
86
THE AMBUSCADE.
" Hag ! devil ! " cried the Schoolmaster, rising in a
desperate rage.
" What, my pet angry with his darling old deary ?
Well, if it must be so, it must. Have your own way ;
you have a right to it. Good night, blind sheep ! "
"The field-gate is wide open, so walk alone. Mister
No-eyes; and, if you toddle straight, you'll reach the
right road somehow," said Tortillard, laughing heartily.
" Oh, that I could die ! die ! die ! " said the School-
master, writhing and twisting his arms about in agony.
At this moment, Tortillard, stooping to the ground,
exclaimed, in a low voice :
" I hear footsteps in the path ; let us hide ; it is not
the young miss, for they come the same way as she did."
On the instant, a stout peasant girl in the prime of
youth^ followed by a large shepherd's dog, carrying on
her head an open basket, appeared, and followed the
same path which the priest and the Goualeuse had taken.
We will rejoin the two latter, leaving the three accom-
plices concealed in the hollow of the path.
87
CHAPTER Y.
THE RECTORY - HOUSE.
The last rays of the sun were gradually disappearing
behind the vast pile of the Chateau d'Ecouen and the
woods which surrounded it. On all sides, until the
sight lost them in the distance, were vast tracts of land
lying in brown furrows hardened by the frost an
extensive desert, of which the hamlet of Bouqueval
appeared to be the oasis. The sky, which was serenely
glorious, was tinted by the sunset, and glowed with long
lines of empurpled light, the certain token of wind and
cold. These tints, which were at first of a deep red,
became violet ; then a bluish black, as the twilight grew
more and more dark on the atmosphere. The crescent
of the moon was as delicately and clearly defined as a
silver ring, and began to shine beautifully in the midst
of the blue and dimmed sky, where many stars already
had appeared. The silence was profound; the hour
most solemn. The curate stopped for a moment on the
summit of the acclivity to enjoy the calm of this delicious
evening. After some minutes' reflection, he extended his
trembling hand towards the depths of the horizon, half
veiled by the shadows of the evening, and said to Fleur-
de-Marie, who was walking pensively beside him :
"Look, my child, at the vastness and extent to which
we have no visible limit; we hear not the slightest
sound. Say, does not this silence give us an idea of
infinity and of eternity ? I say this to you, Marie,
because you are peculiarly sensitive of the beauties of
88
THE RECTORY -PIOUSE.
creation. I have often been struck at the admiration,
alike poetical and religious, with which they inspire you,
you, a poor prisoner so long deprived of them. Are
you not, as I am, struck with the solemn tranquillity of
the hour?"
The Goualeuse made no reply. The cur^, regarding
her with astonishment, found she was weeping.
" What ails you, my child ? "
" My father, I am unhappy ! "
'' Unhappy ! you ? still unhappy ! "
" I know it is ingratitude to complain of my lot after
all that has been and is done for me ; and yet "
" And yet ? "
" Father, I pray of you forgive my sorrows ; their
expression may offend my benefactors."
" Listen, Marie. We have often asked you the cause
of these sorrows with which you are depressed, and
which excite in your second mother the most serious
uneasiness. You have avoided all reply, and we have
respected your secret whilst we have been afflicted at
not being able to solace your sorrows."
" Alas ; good father, I dare not tell you what is pass-
ing in my mind. I have been moved, as you have been,
at the sight of this calm and saddening evening. My
heart is sorely afflicted, and I have wept."
" But what ails you, Marie ? You know how we love
you ! Come, tell me all. You should ; for I must tell
you that the time is very close at hand when Madame
Georges and M. Rodolph will present you at the baptis-
mal font, and take upon themselves the engagement
before God to protect you all the days of your life."
" M. Rodolph he who has saved me ? " cried Fleur-
de-Marie, clasping her hands; "he will deign to give
me this new proof of affection ! Oh, indeed, my father,
I can no longer conceal from you anything, lest I
should, indeed, deserve to be called and thought an
ingrate."
89
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" An ingrate ! How ? "
" That you may understand me, I must begin and tell
you of my first day at the farm."
" Then let us talk as we walk on."
" You will be indulgent to me, my father ? What I
shall say may perhaps be wrong."
" The Lord has shown his mercy unto you. Be of
good heart."
" When," said Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's reflec-
tion, " I knew that, on arriving here, I should not again
leave the farm and Madame Georges, I believed it was
all a dream. At first I felt giddy with my happiness, and
thought every moment of M. Rodolph. Yery often
when I was alone, and in spite of myself, I raised my
eyes to heaven, as if to seek him there and thank him.
Afterwards and I was wrong, father I thought more
of him than God, attributing to him what God alone
could do. I was happy as happy as a creature who
had suddenly and entirely escaped from a great danger.
You and Madame Georges were so kind to me, that I
thought I deserved pity rather than blame."
The cur^ looked at the Goualeuse with an air of
surprise. She continued :
" Gradually I became used to my sweet course of life.
I no longer felt fear when I awoke, of finding myself at
the ogress's. I seemed to sleep in full security, and all
my delight was to assist Madame Georges in her work,
and to apply myself to the lesson you gave me, my
father, as well as to profit by your advice and exhorta-
tion. Except some moments of shame, when I reflected
on the past, I thought myself equal to all the world, be-
cause all the world was so kind to me. When, one
day"
Here sobs cut short poor Fleur-de-Marie's narration.
" Come, come, my poor child,- calm yourself. Cour-
age, courage ! "
The Goualeuse wiped her eyes, and resumed :
90.
THE RECTORY -HOUSE.
" You recollect, father, during the fetes of the Tous-
saints, that Madame Dubreuil, who superintends the
Duke de Lucenay's farm at Arnouville, came, with her
daughter, to pass some time with us ? "
"1 do ; and I was delighted to see you form an
aquaintance with Glara Dubreuil, who is a very excel-
lent girl."
"She is an angel an angel, father. When I knew
that she was coming to stay for some days at the farm,
my delight was so great that I could think of nothing
else but the moment when she should arrive. At length
she came. I was in my room, which she was to share
with me ; and, whilst I was putting it into nice order I
was sent for. I went into the saloon, my heart beating
excessively, when Madame Georges, presenting me to
the pretty young lady, whose looks were so kind and
good, said, ' Marie, here is a friend for you.' ' I hope,'
added Madame Dubreuil, 'that you and my daughter
will soon be like two sisters;' and hardly had her
mother uttered these words, than Mademoiselle Clara
came and embraced me. Then, father," continued Fleur-
de-Marie, weeping, " I do not know what came over me ;
but, when I felt the fresh and fair face of Clara pressed
against my cheek of shame, that cheek became scorching
with guilt remorse. I remembered who and what I
was; I I to receive the caresses of a good and
virtuous girl ! "
"Why, my child?"
"Ah, my father," cried Fleur-de-Marie, interrupting
the cur^ with painful emotion, " when M. Rodolph took
me away from the Cit^, I began vaguely to be conscious
of the depth of my degradation. But do you think that
education, advice, the examples I receive from Madame
Georges and yourself, have not, whilst they have enlight-
ened my mind, made me, alas ! to comprehend but too
clearly that I have been more culpable than unfortunate ?
Before Clara's arrival, when these thoughts grew upon
91
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIg
me, I drove them away by seeking to please Madame
Georges and you, father. If I blushed for the past it
was only in my own presence. But the sight of this
young lady of my own age, so charming, so virtuous, has
conjured up the recollection of the distance that exists
between us ; and, for the first time, I have felt that
there are wrongs which nothing can efface. From that
time the thought has haunted me perpetually, and, in
spite of myself, I recur to it. From that day I have not
had one moment's repose." The Goualeuse again wiped
her eyes, that swam in tears.
After having looked at her for some moments with a
gaze of the tenderest pity, the cur^ replied :
" Reflect, my child, that if Madame Georges desired
to see you the friend of Mademoiselle Dubreuil, it was
that she felt you were worthy of such a confidence
from your good conduct. Your reproaches, addressed
to yourself, seem almost to impugn your second mother."
" I feel that, father, and was wrong, no doubt ; but I
could not subdue my shame and fear. When Clara was
once settled at the farm, I was as sad as I had before
thought I should be happy, when I reflected on the
pleasure of having a companion of my own age. She, on
the contrary, was all joy and lightness. She had a bed
in my apartment ; and the first evening before she went
to bed she kissed me, saying that she loved me already,
and felt every kind sentiment towards me. She made
me to call her Clara, and she would call me Marie. Then
she said her prayers, telling me that she would join my
name with hers in her prayers, if I would also unite her
name with mine. I did not dare to refuse ; and, after
talking for some time, she went to sleep. I had not got
into my bed, and, approaching her bedside, I contemplated
her angel face with tears in my eyes ; and then, reflect-
ing that she was sleeping in the same chamber with me
with one who had been at the ogress's, mixed up with
robbers and murderers, I trembled as if I had committed
92
THE RECTORY -HOUSE.
some crime, and a thousand nameless fears beset me. I
thought that God would one day punish me. I went to
sleep and had horrid dreams. I saw again those fright-
ful objects I had nearly forgotten the Chourineur, the
Schoolmaster, the Chouette that horrible, one-eyed
woman who had tortured my earliest infancy. Oh, what
a night ! Mon JDieu! what a night ! What dreams ! "
said the Goualeuse, shuddering at their very recollec-
tion.
" Poor Marie ! " said the curd with emotion. " Why
did you not earlier tell me all this ? I should have found
comfort for you. But go on."
" I slept so late, that Mademoiselle Clara awoke me by
kissing me. To overcome what she called my coldness,
and show her regard, she told me a secret that she
was going to be married when she was eighteen to the
son of a farmer at Goussainville, whom she loved very
dearly, and the union had long been agreed upon by the
two families. Then she added a few words of her past
life, so simple, calm, and happy ! She had never quitted
her mother, and never intended to do so, for her husband
was to take part in the management of the farm with M.
Dubreuil. ' Now, Marie,' she said, ' you know me as well
as if you were my sister. So tell me all about your early
days.'
" I thought when I heard the words that I should
have died of them ; I blushed and stammered ; I did
not know what Madame Georges had said of me, and I
was fearful of telling a falsehood ; I answered vaguely,
that I had been an orphan, educated by a very rigid
person ; and that I had not been happy in my infancy ;
and that my happiness was dated from the moment
when I had come to live with Madame Georges ; then
Clara, as much by interest as curiosity, asked me where
I had been educated, in the city or the country, my
father's name, and, above all, if I remembered anything
of my mother. All these questions embarrassed as much
93
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
as they pained me, for I was obliged to reply with false-
hood, and you have taught me, father, how wicked it is
to lie; but Claia did not think that I was deceiving her ;
she attributed the hesitation of my answers to the pain
which my early sorrows renewed ; she believed me and
pitied me with a sincerity that cut me to the soul. Oh,
father, you never can know what I suffered in this con-
versation, and how much it cost me only to reply in
language of falsehood and hypocrisy ! "
" Unfortunate girl ! The anger of heaven will weigh
heavily on those who, by casting you into the vile road
of perdition, have compelled you to undergo all your life
the sad consequences of a first fault."
" Oh, yes, they were indeed cruel, father," replied
Fleur-de-Marie, bitterly, " for my shame is ineffaceable.
As Clara talked to me of the happiness that awaited her,
her marriage, her peaceful joys of home, I could not
help comparing my lot with hers ; for, in spite of the
kindness showered upon me, my fate must always be
miserable. You and Madame Georges, in teaching me
what virtue is, have taught me the depth of that abase-
ment into which I had fallen ; nothing can take from me
the brand of having been the refuse of all that is vilest
in the world. Alas ! if the knowledge of good and evil
was to be so sad to me, why not have abandoned me to
my unhappy fate ? "
" Oh, Marie, Marie ! "
" Father, I speak ill, do I not ? Alas ! I dare not
confess it ; but I am at times so ungrateful as to repine
at the benefits heaped upon me, and to say to myself,
' If I had not been snatched from infamy, why, wretched-
ness, misery, blows, would soon have ended my life ; and,
at least, I should have remained in ignorance of that
purity which I must for ever regret.' "
" Alas ! Marie, that is indeed fatal ! A nature ever
so nobly endowed by the Creator, though plunged but
for one day in the foul mire from which you have
94
THE RECTORY -HOUSE.
been extricated, will perserve for ever the ineffaceable
stigma."
" Yes, yes, my father," cried Fleur-de-Marie, full of
grief, " I must despair until I die I "
*' You must despair of ever tearing out this frightful
page from the book of your existence," said the priest,
in a sad and serious voice ; " but you must have faith in
the infinite mercy of the Almighty. Here, on earth, my
poor child, there are for you tears, remorse, expiation ;
but, one day, there, up there," and he raised his hand
to the sky, now filling with stars, " there is pardon and
everlasting happiness."
" Pity, pity, mon Dieu ! I am so young, and my life
may still endure so long," said the Goualeuse, in a voice
rent by agony, and falling at the cure's knees almost
involuntarily.
The priest was standing at the top of the hill, not far
from where his " modest mansion rose ; " his black cas-
sock, his venerable countenance, shaded by long white
locks, lighted by the last ray of twilight, stood out from
the horizon, which was of a deep transparency, a per-
fect clearness : pale gold in the west, sapphire over his
head. The priest again elevated towards heaven one of
his tremulous hands, and gave the other to Fleur-de-
Marie, who bedewed it with her tears. The hood of
her gray cloak fell at this moment from her shoulders,
displaying the perfect outline of her lovely profile,
her charming features full of suffering, and suffused
with tears.
This simple and sublime scene offered a strange con-
trast, a singular coincidence with the horrid one which,
almost at the same moment, was passing in the ravine
between the Schoolmaster and the Chouette. Concealed
in the darkness of the sombre cleft, assailed by base
fears, a fearful murderer, carrying on his person the
punishment of his crimes, was also on his knees, but
in the presence of an accessory, a sneering, revengeful
d5
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
Fury, who tormented him mercilessly, and urged him on
to fresh crimes, that accomplice, the first cause of
Fleur-de-Marie's misery.
Of Fleur-de-Marie, whose days and nights were embit-
tered by never-dying remorse; whose angflish, hardly
endurable, was not conceivable ; surrounded from her
earliest days by degraded, cruel, infamous outcasts of
society ; leaving the walls of a prison for the den of the
ogress, even a more horrid prison ; never leaving the
precincts of her gaol, or the squalid streets of the Cit^ ;
this unhappy young creature had hitherto lived in utter
ignorance of the beautiful and th-e good, as strange to
noble and religious sentiments as to the magnificent
splendour of nature. Then all that was admirable in
the creature and in the Creator was revealed in a moment
to her astonished soul. At this striking spectacle her
mind expanded, her intelligence unfolded itself, her noble
instincts were awakened ; and because her mind ex-
panded, because her intelligence was unfolded, because
her noble instincts were awakened, yet the very con-
sciousness of her early degradation brings with it the
feeling of horror for her past life, alike torturing and
enduring, she feels, as she had described, that, alas!
there are stains which nothing can remove.
" Ah, unhappiness for me ! " said the Goualeuse, in
despair ; " my whole life has long to run, it may be ;
were it as long, as pure as your own, father, it must
henceforth be blighted by the knowledge and conscious-
ness of the past ; unhappiness for me for ever ! "
" On the contrary, Marie, it is happiness for you,
yes, happiness for you. Your remorse, so full of bitter-
ness, but so purifying, testifies the religious susceptibility
of your mind. How many there are who, less nobly
sensitive than you, would, in your place, have soon for-
gotten the fact, and only revelled in the delight of the
present. Believe me, every pang that you now endure
will tell in your favour when on high. God has left
96
THE RECTORY - HOUSE.
you for a moment in an unrighteous path, to reserve for
you the glory of repentance and the everlasting reward
reserved for expiation. Has he not said himself, ' Those
who fight the good fight and come to me with a smile
on their lips, they are my chosen ; but they who, wounded
in the struggle, come to me fainting and dying, they are
the chosen amongst my chosen ! ' Courage, then, my
child ! Support, help, counsel, nothing will fail you.
I am very aged, but Madame Georges and M. Rodolph
have still many years before them ; particularly M.
Rodolph, who has taken so deep an interest in you,
who watches your progress with so much anxiety."
The Goualeuse was about to reply, when she was
interrupted by the peasant girl whom we have already
mentioned, who, having followed in the steps of the cur^
and Marie, now came up to them. She was one of the
peasants of the farm. '
" Beg your pardon, M. le Cur^," she said to the priest,
"but Madame Georges told me to bring this basket of
fruit to the rectory, and then I could accompany Mile.
Marie back again, for it is getting late. So I have
brought Turk with me," added the dairy-maid, patting
an enormous dog of the Pyrenees, which w^ould have
mastered a bear in a struggle. " Although we never
have any bad people about us here in the country, it is
as well to be careful."
" You are quite right, Claudine. Here we are now
at the rectory. Pray thank Madame Georges for
me."
Then addressing the Goualeuse in a low tone, the cur^
said to her, in a grave voice :
'' I must go to-morrow to the conference of the diocese,
but I shall return at five o'clock. If you like, my child,
I will wait for you at the rectory. I see your state of
mind, and that you require a lengthened conversation
with me."
" I thank you, father," replied Fleur-de-Marie. " To-
97
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
morrow I will come, since you are so good as to allow
me to do so."
"Here we a\^e at the garden gate," said the priest.
" Leave your basket there, Claudine ; my housekeeper
will take it. Return quickly to the farm, with Marie,
for it is almost night, and the cold is increasing.
To-morrow, Marie, at five o'clock."
" To-morrow, father."
The abb^ went into his garden. The Goualeuse and
Claudine, followed by Turk, took the road to the farm.
98
CHAPTER VI.
THE RENCOUNTER.
The night set in clear and cold. Following the advice
of the Schoolmaster, the Chouette had gone to that part
of the hollow way which was the most remote from the
path, and nearest to the cross-road where Barbillon was
waiting with the hackney-coach. Tortillard, who was
posted as an advanced guard, watched for the return of
Fleur-de-Marie, whom he was desirous of drawing into
the trap by begging her to come to the assistance of a
poor old woman. The son of Bras Rouge had advanced
a few steps out of the ravine to try and discern Marie,
when he heard the Goualeuse some way off speaking to
the peasant girl who accompanied her. The plan had
failed ; and Tortillard quickly went down into the ravine
to run and inform the Chouette.
" There is somebody with the young girl," said he, in
a low and breathless tone.
" May the hangman squeeze her weasand, the little
beggar," exclaimed the Chouette in a rage.
" Who's with her ? " asked the Schoolmaster.
" Oh, no doubt, the country wench who passed along
the road just now, followed by a large dog. I heard a
woman's voice," said Tortillard. " Hark ! do you
hear? There's the noise of their sabots," and, in the
silence of the night, the wooden soles sounded clearly on
the ground hardened by the frost.
*' There are two of 'em. I can manage the young 'un
in the gray mantle, but what can we do with t'other?
99
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
^ourline can't see, and Tortillard is too weak to do for
the companion devil choke her ! What can be done ? "
asked the Chouette.
" I'm not strong, but, if you like, I'll cling to the
legs of the country-woman with the dog. I'll hold on
by hands and teeth, and not let her go, I can tell you.
You can take away the little one in the meantime, you
know, Chouette."
" If they cry or resist, they will hear them at the
farm," replied the Chouette, " and come to their assist-
ance before we can reach Barbillon's coach. It is no
easy thing to carry off a woman who resists."
" And they have a large dog with them," said Tor-
tillard.
" Bah ! bah ! If it was only that, I could break the
brute's skull with a blow of my shoe-heel," said the
Chouette.
" Here they are," replied Tortillard, who was listening
still to the echo of their footsteps. " They are coming
down the hollow now."
" Why don't you speak, /oitWm^.^" said the Chouette
to the Schoolmaster. " What is best to be done, long-
headed as you are, eh ? Are you grown dumb ? "
" There's nothing to be done to-day," replied the
miscreant.
" And the thousand ' bob ' of the man in mourning,"
said tlie Chouette ; " they are gone, then ? I'd sooner
Your knife your knife, fourline ! I will stick the
companion, that she may be no trouble to us ; and, as to
the young miss, Tortillard and I can make off with her."
" But the man in mourning does not desire that we
should kill any one."
" Well, then, we must put the cold meat down as an
extra in his bill. He must pay, for he will be an accom-
plice with us."
" Here they come down the hill," said Tortillard,
softly.
100
THE RENCOUNTER.
** Your knife, lad ! " said the Chouette, in a similar
tone.
" Ah, Chouette," cried Tortillard, in alarm, and ex-
tending his hands to the hag, " that is too bad to kill.
No! oh, no!"
" Your knife, I tell you ! " repeated the Chouette, in
an undertone, without paying the least attention to Tor-
tillard's supplication, and putting her shoes off hastily.
" I have taken off my shoes," she added, " that I may
steal on them quietly from behind. It is almost dark ;
but I can easily make out the little one by her cloak, and
I will do for the other."
" No," said the felon ; " to-day it is useless. There
will be plenty of time to-morrow."
" What ! you're afraid, old patterer, are you ? " said
the Chouette, with fierce contempt.
" Not at all," replied the Schoolmaster. " But you
may fail in your blow and spoil all."
The dog which accompanied the country-woman, scent-
ing the persons hidden in the hollow road, stopped short,
and barked furiously, refusing to come to Fleur-de-Marie,
who called him frequently.
" Do you hear their dog ? Here they are ! Your
knife ! or, if not " cried the Chouette, with a threat-
ening air.
" Come and take it from me, then by force," said
the Schoolmaster.
" It's all over it's too late," added the Chouette,
after listening for a moment attentively ; " they have
gone by. You shall pay for that, gallows-bird," added
she, furiously, shaking her fist at her accomplice. " A
thousand francs lost by your stupidity ! "
" A thousand two thousand perhaps three thou-
sand gained," replied the Schoolmaster, in a tone of au-
thority. " Listen, Chouette ! Do you go back to Barbillon,
and let him drive you to the place where you were to
meet the man in mourning. Tell him that it was im-
101
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
possible to do anything to-day, but that to-morrow she
shall be carried off. The young girl goes every evening
to walk home with the priest, and it was only a chance
which to-day led her to meet with any one. To-morrow
we shall have a more secure opportunity. So to-morrow
do you return and be with Barbillon at the cross-road in
his coach at the same hour."
" But thou thou ? "
" Tortillard shall lead me to the farm where the young
girl lives. I will cook up some tale say we have lost
our road, and ask leave to pass the night at the farm in
a corner of the stable. No one could refuse us that.
Tortillard will examine all the doors, windows, and ins
and outs of the house. There is always money to be
looked for amongst these farming people. You say the
farm is situated in a lone spot ; and, when once we know
all the ways and outlets, we need only return with some
safe friends, and the thing is done as easy "
" Always ' downy ! ' What a head-piece ! " said the
Chouette, softening. " Go on,/owrZme."
" To-morrow morning, instead of leaving the farm, I
will complain of a pain which prevents me from walking.
If they will not believe me, I'll show them the wound
which I have always had since I smashed the ' loop of
my darbies,' and which is always painful to me. I'll say
it is a burn I had from a red-hot bar when I was a work-
man, and they'll believe me. I'll remain at the farm
part of the day, whilst Tortillard looks about him.
When the evening comes on, and the little wench goes
out as usual with the priest, I'll say I'm better, and fit to
go away. Tortillard and I will follow the young wench
at a distance, and await your coming to us here. As she
will know us already, she will have no mistrust when she
sees us. We will speak to her, Tortillard and I ; and,
when once within reach of my arms, I will answer for
the rest. She's caught safe enough, and the thousand
francs are ours. That is not all. In two or three days
102
THE RENCOUNTER.
we can ^ give the office * of the farm to Barbillon and some
others, and share with them if they get any ' swag,' as
it will be me who put them on the ' lay.' "
" Well done, No-Eyes ! No one can come up to you,"
said the Chouette, embracing the Schoolmaster. " Your
plan is capital ! Tell you what, fourline, when you are
done up and old, you must turn consulting ' prig ' ; you
will earn as much money as a ' big-wig.' Come, kiss
your old woman, and be off as quick as you may, for
these joskins go to sleep with their poultry. I shall go
to Barbillon ; and to-morrow, at four o'clock, we will be
at the cross-road with the ' trap,' unless he is nabbed for
having assisted Gros-Boiteux and the Skeleton to ' do
for ' the milk-woman's husband in the Rue de la Yieille-
Draperie. But if he can't come, another can, for the
pretended hackney-coach belongs to the man in mourn-
ing who has used it before. A quarter of an hour after
we get to the cross-road, I will be here and wait for
you."
" All right ! Good-by till to-morrow, Chouette."
" I had nearly forgot to give the wax to Tortillard, if
there is any lock to get the print of at the farm. Here,
chickabiddy, do you know how to use it ? " said the one-
eyed wretch to Tortillard, as she gave him a piece of
wax.
" Yes, yes, my father showed me how to use it. I
took for him the print of the lock of the little iron chest
which my master, the quack doctor, keeps in his small
closet."
" Ah, that's all right ; and, that the wax may not
stick, do not forget to moisten the wax after you have
warmed it well in your hand."
" I know all about it," replied Tortillard.
" To-morrow, then,/(??^r?mg," said the Chouette.
" To-morrow," replied the Schoolmaster.
The Chouette went towards the coach. The School-
master and Tortillard quitted the hollow way, and bent
103
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
their steps towards the farm, the lights which shone from
the windows serving to guide them on their way.
Strange fatplitj, which again brought Anselm Dures-
nel under the same roof with his wife, who had not seen
him since his condemnation to hard labour for life !
104
CHAPTER Vn.
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
Perhaps a more gratifying sight does not exist than
the interior of a large farm-kitchen prepared for the
evening meal, especially during the winter season. Its
bright wood fire, the long table covered with the savoury,
smoking dishes, the huge tankards of foaming beer or
cider, with the happy countenances scattered round,
speak of peaceful labour and healthful industry. The
farm-kitchen of Bouqueval was a fine exemplification of
this remark. Its immense open chimney, about six feet
high and eight feet wide, resembled the yawning mouth
of some huge oven. On the hearth blazed and sparkled
enormous logs of beech or oak ; and from this prodigious
brazier there issued forth such a body of light, as well
as heat, that the large lamp suspended from the centre
beam sunk into insignificance, and was rendered nearly
useless. Every variety of culinary utensils, sparkling in
all the brightness of the most elaborate cleanliness, and
composed invariably of copper, brass, and tin, glowed in
the bright radiance of the winter fire, as they stood
ranged with the utmost nicety and effect on their appro-
priate shelves. An old-fashioned cistern of elaborately
polished copper showed its bright face, polished as a
mirror ; and close beside stood a highly polished bread-
trough and cover, composed of walnut-tree wood, rubbed
by the hand of housewifery till you could see your face
in it and from which issued a most tempting smell of
hot bread. A long and substantial table occupied the
105
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
centre of the kitchen ; a tablecloth, which, though coarse
in texture, vied with the falling snow for whiteness, cov-
ered its entire } ength ; while for each expected guest was
placed an earthenware plate, brown without, but white
within, and by its side a knife, fork, and spoon, lustrous
as silver itself. In the midst of the table, an immense
tureen of vegetable soup smoked like the crater of a
volcano, and diffused its savoury vapours over a dish of
ham and greens, flanked by a most formidable array
of mutton, most relishly stewed with onions and potatoes.
Below was placed a large joint of roast veal, followed by
two great plates of winter salad, supported by a couple
of baskets of apples ; and a similar number of cheeses
completed the arrangements of the table. Three or four
stone pitchers filled with sparkling cider, and a like
quantity of loaves of brown bread, equal in size to the
stones of a windmill, were placed at the discretionary
use of the supping party.
An old, shaggy, black shepherd dog, almost toothless,
the superannuated patriarch of all the canine tribe
employed on the farm, was, by reason of his great age
and long services, indulged with permission to enjoy the
cheering warmth of the chimney-corner ; but, using his
privilege with the utmost modesty and discretion, this
venerable servitor, who answered to the pastoral name
of Lysander, lay quietly stretched out in a secure side-
nook, his nose resting on his paws, watching with the
deepest attention the various culinary preparations which
preceded the supper.
The bill of fare thus presented to the reader, as the
ordinary mode of living at the farm of Bouqueval, may
strike some of our readers as unnecessarily sumptuous ;
but Madame Georges, faithfully following out the wishes
of Rodolph, endeavoured by all possible means to im-
prove the comforts of the labourers on the farm, who
were always selected as being the most worthy and
industrious individuals of their district. They were
106
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
well paid, liberally treated, and so kindly used that
to be engaged on the Bouqucval farm was the highest
ambition of all the best labourers in that part of the
country an ambition which most essentially p/omoted
the welfare and advantage of the masters they then
served ; for no applicant for employment at Bouqueval
could obtain a favourable hearing, unless he came pro-
vided with most satisfactory testimonials from his last
employer.
Thus, though on a very small scal^, had Rodolph
created a species of model farm, which had for its aim
not only the improvement of animals and agricultural
operations, but, above all, improving the nature of man
himself ; and this he effected by making it worth their
while to be active, honest, and intelligent.
After having completed all the preparations for supper.^
and placed on the table a jug of wine to accompany the
dessert, the farm-cook sounded the welcome tocsin, which
told all that the cheering meal was prepared, and, their
evening toil concluded, they might freely enjoy the
delights of wholesome and temperate refreshment. Ere
the sound had ceased to vibrate on the ear, a merry,
joyous throng, composed of men and maidens to the
number of twelve or fifteen, crowded around the table ;
the men had open, manly countenances, the women
looked healthy and good-humoured, while the young
girls belonging to the party wore the brightest glow of
youth and innocence. Every face was lighted up with
frank gaiety, content, and the satisfaction arising from
the consciousness of having well fulfilled one's duty.
Thus happily prepared in mind and body to do justice
to the excellent fare set before them, the happy party
took their appointed places at table.
The upper end was occupied by an old, white-haired
labourer, whose fine, bold, yet sensible expression of
face, bespoke him a descendant of the ancient Gaulish
mothers of the soil.
107
THE MYSTERIES OF PARTS.
Father Chatelain ( for so was this Nestor called ) had
worked on the farm from his early childhood. When
Rodolph purchased the farm, the old servant had been
strongly recommended to him, and he was forthwith
raised to the rank of overlooker, and, under the orders
of Madame Georges, general superintendent of all out-
door work ; and unbounded, indeed, was the influence
possessed by Father Chatelain by virtue of his age,
his knowledge, and experience.
Every one having taken their seat. Father Chatelain,
having fervently invoked a blessing, then, in pursuance
of an ancient and pious custom, marked one of the
loaves with the figure of a cross, and cut off a large
slice as the share of the Virgin or the poor, then,
pouring out a glass of wine with a similar consecration
to charitable purposes, he reverently placed both bread
and wine on a plate placed in the centre of the table
purposely to receive them. At this moment the yard
dogs barked furiously ; old Lysander replied by a low
growl, and, curling back his upper lip, displayed two
or three still formidable fangs.
*' Some person is passing near the wall of the court-
yard," observed Father Chatelain.
Scarcely had the words been uttered, than the bell of
the great gate sounded.
" Who can this possibly be at so late an hour ?" said
the old labourer ; " every one belonging to the place is
in. Go and see who it is, Jean Ren^."
The individual thus addressed was a stout, able-
bodied young labourer on the farm, who was then
busily employed blowing his scalding hot soup, with a
force of lungs that ^olus himself might have envied ;
but, used to prompt obedience, in a moment the half-
raised spoon was deposited in its place, and, half stifling
a sigh of regret, he departed on his errand.
" This is the first time our good Madame Georges
and Mile. Marie have failed paying a visit to the warm
108
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
chimney-corner, and looking on whilst we took our
supper, for this long time," said Father Ch^telain.
" I am hungry as a hunter, but I shall not relish my
supper half so well."
" Madame Georges is in the chamber of Mile. Marie,
who found herself somewhat indisposed on her return
from escorting M. le Cur^ to the rectory," replied
Claudine, the girl who had conducted La Goualeuse back
from the rectory, and thus unconsciously frustrated the
evil designs of the Chouette.
" I trust Mile. Marie is only indisposed, not seriously
ill, is^she, Claudine ?" inquired the old man, with almost
paternal anxiety.
" Oh, dear, no, Father Ch^telain ! God forbid ! I hope
and believe our dear mademoiselle is only just a little
struck with the cold of the night, and her walk perhaps
fatigued her. I trust she will be quite well by to-
morrow ; indeed Madame Georges told me as much, and
said that, if she had had any fears, she should have sent
to Paris for M. David, the negro doctor, who took such
care of mademoiselle when she was so ill. Well, I
cannot make out how any one can endure a black doctor !
For my part I should not have the slightest confidence in
anything he said or did. No, no ! if one must have a
doctor, let it be a Christian man with a white skin ; but
a downright blackamoor ! saints above ! why, the
very sight of him by my bedside would kill me ! "
" But did not this Monsieur David cure Mile. Marie
from the long illness with which she suffered when she
first came here ? " inquired the old man.
" Yes, Father ChEtelain, he certainly did."
" Well ? "
" Ah ! but for all that. Father Ch^telain, a doctor with
a black face is enough to terrify any one I should
scream myself into fits if he were to come rolling up the
great whites of his eyes at me."
" But is not this M. David the same person who cured
109
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Dame Anica of that dreadful wound in her leg, which
had confined her to her bed for upwards of three years?"
" Yes, exactly so. Father Chatelain ; he certainly did
set old Dame Anica up again."
" Well, then, my child ? "
" Nay, but only think ! a black man ! and when one
is ill, too ! when one can so ill bear up against such
horrid things. If he were only a little dark, or even
deep brown, but quite, quite a black all black oh,
Father Chatelain, I really cannot bring myself to think
of it ! "
" Tell me, my child, what colour is your favourite
heifer Musette?"
" Oh, white white as a swan. Father Chatelain ; and
such a milcher ! I can say that for the poor thing with-
out the least falsehood, a better cow we have not got on
the farm."
" And your other favourite, Rosette ? "
" Rosette ? Oh, she is as black as a raven, not one
white hair about her I should say ; and, indeed, to do her
justice, she is a first-rate milcher also. I hardly know
which is the best, she or my pretty Musette."
" And what coloured milk does she give ? "
" Why, white, of course, Father Chatelain ; I really
thought you knew that."
" Is her milk as white and as good as the milk of your
snowy pet. Musette ? "
" Every bit as good in colour and quality."
" Although Rosette is a black cow ? "
" To be sure ! why. Father Chatelain, what difference
can it possibly make to the milk whether the cow that
gives it is black, white, red, or brown ? "
" How, then, my good girl, can it in any way signify
whether a doctor has a black or white skin, or what his
complexion may be ? "
'' Well," answered Claudine, fairly hunted into a cor-
ner from which no argument could rescue her, " well,
110
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
as regards what makes a black doctor not so good as a
white one, it is it is, because a black skin is so very
ugly to look at, and a white one is so much moi'e agree-
able to one's eyes ; I'm sure I can't think of any other
reason. Father Chatelain, if I try for ever; but with
cows the colour of the skin makes not the very least
difference, of that you may be assured ; but, then, you
know there's a deal of difference between a cow and a
man."
These not very clear physiognomical reflections of
Claudine, touching the effect of light or dark skins in
the human and animal race, were interrupted by the
return of Jean Ecne, blowing his fingers with animation
as he had before blown his soup.
" Oh, how cold ! how cold it is this night ! " exclaimed
he, on entering ; " it is enough to freeze one to death ; it
is a pretty deal more snug and comfortable in-doors than
out this bitter night. Oh, how cold it is ! "
u Why,
' The frost that cometh from North and East
Biteth the most and ceaseth the least.'
Don't you know that, my lad ? " said the old superin-
tendent Chatelain. ^'But who was it that rang so late?"
" A poor blind man and a boy who leads him about.
Father Chatelain."
" And what does this poor blind man want ? " inquired
Chatelain.
" The poor man and his son were going by the cross-
road to Louvres, and have lost themselves in the snow ;
and as the cold is enough to turn a man into an icicle,
and the night is pitch dark, the poor blind father has
come to entreat permission for himself and lad to pass
the night on the farm ; he says he shall be for ever
thankful for leave to lie on a little straw under a hovel,
or in any out-building."
lU
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Oh, as for that, I am quite sure that Madame
Georges, who never refuses charity to any unfortu-
nate being, will willingly permit them to do so ; but
we must first acquaint her with it ; go, Claudine, and
tell her the whole story." Claudine disappeared.
" And where is this poor man waiting ? " asked Father
ChUtelain.
" In the little barn just by."
" But why in the barn ? why put him there ?"
" Bless you, if I had left him in the yard, the dogs
would have eaten him up alive ! Why, Father Chate-
lain, it was no use for me to call out ' Quiet, M^dor !
come here, Turk ! down. Sultan ! ' I never saw dogs in
such a fury. And, besides, we don't use our dogs on the
farm to fly at poor folks, as they are trained to do at
other places."
" Well, my lads, it seems that the ' share for the poor '
has not been laid aside in vain to-night. But try and sit
a little closer ; there, that'll do ; now put two more
plates and knives and forks for this blind traveller and
his boy, for I feel quite certain what Madame Georges's
answer will be, and that she will desire them to be
housed here for the night."
" It is really a thing I can't make out," said Jean
Rend, " about the dogs being so very violent, especially
Turk, who went with Claudine this evening to the rec-
tory. Why, when I stroked him, to try and pacify him,
I felt his coat standing up on end like so many bristles
of a porcupine. Now, what do you say to that, eh.
Father Chdtelain you who know almost everything?"
" Why, my lad, I, ' who know everything,' say just this,
that the beasts know far more than I do, and can see
farther. I remember, in the autumn, when the heavy
rains had so swollen the little river, I was returning
with my team-horses one dark night ;- 1 was riding
upon Cuckoo, the old roan horse, and deuce take me
if I could make out any spot it would be safe to wade
112
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
through, for the night was as dark as the mouth of a
pit. Well, I threw the bridle on old Cuckoo's back, and
he soon found what, I'll answer for it, none of us could
have discovered. Now, who taught the dumb brute to
know the safe from the unsafe parts of the stream, let
me ask you ? "
" Ay, Father Chateiain, that's what I was waiting to
ask you. Who taught the old roan to discover danger
and escape from it so cleverly ? "
" The same Almighty wisdom which instructs the
swallow to build in our chimneys, and guides the marten
to make his nest among the reeds of our banks, my lad.
Well, Claudine," said the ancient oracle of the kitchen
to the blooming dairymaid, who just then entered, bear-
ing on her arms two pairs of snowy white sheets, from
which an odoriferous smell of sage and thyme was wafted
along, '^ well, I make no doubt but Madame Georges
has sent permission for these poor creatures, the blind
man and his child, to sleep here, has she not?"
" These sheets are to prepare beds for them, in the
little room at the end of the passage," said Claudine.
" Go and bid them come in, then, Jean Ren^ ; and you,
Claudine, my good girl, put a couple of chairs near the
fire they will be glad of a good warm before sitting
down to table."
The furious barking of the dogs was now renewed,
mingled with the voice of Jean Rend, who was endeavor-
ing to pacify them ; the door of the kitchen was abruptly
opened, and the Schoolmaster and Tortillard entered with
as much precipitation as though they feared a pursuit
from some dangerous foe.
" For the love of heaven, keep off your dogs ! " cried
the Schoolmaster, in the utmost terror ; " they have been
trying to bite us ! "
" They have torn a great bit out of my blouse,"
whined Tortillard, shivering with cold and pale with
fear.
113
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
"Don't be frightened, good man," said Jean Ren^,
shutting the door securely ; " but I never before saw
our dogs in such a perfect fury it must be the cold
makes them so spiteful ; perhaps, being half frozen, they
fancied biting you would serve to warm them there
is no knowing what mere animals may mean by what
they do."
a Why, are you going to begin, too ? " exclaimed the
old farmer, as Lysander, who had hitherto lain perfectly
happy in the radiance of the glowing fire, started up,
and, growling fiercely, was about to fly at the strangers.
" This old dog is quiet enough, but, having heard the
other dogs make such a furious noise, he thinks he must
do the same. Will you lie down and be quiet, you old
brute ? Do you hear, sir ? lie down ! "
At these words from Father ChRtelain, accompanied
by a significant motion of the foot, Lysander, with a
low, deep growl of dissatisfaction, slowly returned to his
favourite corner by the hearth, while the Schoolmaster
and Tortillard remained trembling by the kitchen-door,
as though fearful of approaching farther. The features
of the ruffian were so hideous, from the frightful effects
produced by the cold, that some of the servants in the
kitchen shuddered with alarm, while others recoiled in
disgust ; this impression was not lost on Tortillard, who
felt reassured by the terrors of the villagers, and even
felt proud of the repulsiveness of his companion. This
first confusion over. Father Ch^telain, thinking only of
worthily discharging the duties of hospitality, said to the
Schoolmaster :
" Come, my good friend come near the fire and
warm yourself thoroughly, and then you shall have some
supper with us ; for you happened to come very fortu-
nately, just as we were sitting down to table. Here, sit
down, just where I have placed your chair. But what
am I thinking about ? " added the worthy old labourer.
" I ought to have spoken to your son, not you, seeing
114
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
that it has pleased God to take away your eyesight a
heavy loss, a heavy loss ; but let us hope all for your
good, my friend, though you may not now think so.
Here, my boy, lead your father to that snug place in the
chimney-corner."
" Yes, kind sir," drawled out Tortillard, with a nasal
twang and canting, hypocritical tone ; " may God bless
you for your charity to the poor blind ! Here, father,
take my arm ; lean on my shoulder, father ; take care,
take care, gently ; " and, with affected zeal and tender-
ness, the urchin guided the steps of the brigand till they
reached the indicated spot. As the pair approached
Lysander, he uttered a low, growling noise ; but as the
Schoolmaster brushed past him, and the sagacious ani-
mal had full scent of his garments, he broke out into one
of those deep howls with which, it is asserted by the super-
stitious, dogs frequently announce an approaching death.
" What, in the devil's name, do all these cursed ani-
mals mean by their confounded noise ? " said the School-
master to himself. " Can they smell the blood on my
clothes, I wonder ? for I now recollect I wore the
trousers I have on at present the night the cattle-dealer
was murdered."
" Did you notice that ? " inquired Jean Ren^ of Father
Chatelain. " Why, I vow that, as often as old Lysander
had caught scent of the wandering stranger, he actually
set up a regular death-howl."
And this remark was followed up by a most singular
confirmation of the fact ; the cries of Lysander were so
loud and mournful that the other dogs caught the sound
(for the farmyard was only separated from the kitchen
by a glazed window in the latter), and, according to the
custom of the canine race, they each strove who should
outdo the other in repeating and prolonging the funereal
wail, which, according to vulgar belief, always foretells
death. Though but little given to superstitious dread,
the farm-people looked from one to another with a feel-
115
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
ing of wonder not unmixed with awe. Even the School-
master himself, diabolically hardened as he was, felt a
cold shudder steal over him at the thought that all these
fatal sounds burst forth upon the approach of him the
self-convicted murderer ! while Tortillard, too audacious
and hardened to enter into such alarms, with all the
infidelity in which he had been trained, even from his
mother's arms, looked on with delighted mockery at the
universal panic, and was, perhaps, the only person pres-
ent devoid of an uneasy feeling; but, once freed from
his apprehensions of suffering from the violence of the
animals, he listened even with pleasure to the horrible
discord of their long-drawn-out wailings, and felt almost
tempted to pardon them the fright they had originally
occasioned him, in consideration of the perfect terror
they had struck into the inhabitants of the farm, and for
the gratification he derived from the convulsive horror
of the Schoolmaster. But after the momentary stupor
had passed away Jean Rend again quitted the kitchen,
and the loud cracking of his whip soon put an end to
the prophetic bowlings of Medor, Turk, and Sultan, and
quickly dispersed them to their separate kennels, and as
the noise ceased, the gloomy cloud passed away from
the kitchen, and the peasants looked up with the same
honest cheerfulness they had worn upon the entrance of
the two travellers. Ere long they had left off wonder-
ing at the repulsive ugliness of the Schoolmaster, and
only thought with pity of his great affliction, in being
blind ; they commiserated the lameness of the poor boy,
admired the interesting sharpness of his countenance,
the deep, cute glance of his ever-moving eye, and, above
all, loaded him with praises for the extreme care and
watchfulness with which he attended to his afflicted
parent. The appetite of the labourers, which had been
momentarily forgotten, now returned with redoubled
violence, and for a time nothing could be heard but the
clattering of plates and rattling of knives and forks.
116
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
Still, however busily employed with their suppers, the
servants assembled round the table, both male and
female, could not but remark, with infinite pleasure, the
tender assiduity of the lad towards the blind creature
who sat beside him. Nothing could exceed the devoted
affection and filial care with which Tortillard prepared
his meat for him, cutting both that and his bread with
most accurate nicety, pouring out his drink, and never
attempting even to taste a morsel himself, till his father
expressed himself as having completed his supper. But,
for all this dutiful attention, the young ruffian took
ample and bitter revenge. Instigated as much by an
innate spirit of cruelty as the desire of imitation natural
to his age, Tortillard found an equal enjoyment with
the Chouette in having something to torment (a hete de
souffranee) ; and it was a matter of inexpressible exulta-
tion to his wretched mind that he, a poor, distorted,
crippled, abject creature, should have it in his power
to tyrannise over so powerful and ferocious a creature as
the Schoolmaster, it was like torturing a muzzled
tiger. He even refined his gratification, by compelling
his victim to endure all the agonies he inflicted, without
wincing or exhibiting the slightest external sign of his
suffering. Thus he accompanied each outward mark of
devoted tenderness towards his supposed parent, by aim-
ing a severe kick against the Schoolmaster's legs, on one
of which there was (in common with many who had
long worked in the galleys) a deep and severe wound, the
effect of the heavy iron chain worn during the term of
punishment around the right leg ; and, by way of com-
pelling the miserable sufferer to exercise a greater
degree of stoical courage, the urchin always seized the
moment when the object of his malice was either drink-
ing or speaking.
" Here, dear father ! here is a nice peeled nut," said
Tortillard, placing on the plate of his supposed parent a
nut carefully prepared.
117
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Good boy," said old Chatelain, smiling kindly at
him. Then, addressing the bandit, he added : " However
great may be ycur affliction, my friend, so good a son is
almost sufficient to make up even for the loss of sight ;
but Providence is so gracious, he never takes away one
blessing without sending another."
" You are quite right, kind sir ! My lot is a very
hard one, and, but for the noble conduct of my excellent
child, I "
A sharp cry of irrepressible anguish here broke from
the quivering lips of the tortured man ; the son of Bras
Rouge had this time aimed his blow so effectually, that
the point of his heavy-nailed shoe had reached the very
centre of the wound, and produced unendurable agony.
" Father ! dear father ! what is the matter ? " ex-
claimed Tortillard, in a whimpering voice ; then, suddenly
rising, he threw both his arms round the Schoolmaster's
neck, whose first impulse of rage and pain was to stifle
the limping varlet in his Herculean grasp ; and so power-
fully did he compress the boy's chest against his own,
that his impeded respiration vented itself in a low moan-
ing sound. A few minutes, and Tortillard' s last prank
would have been played ; but, reflecting that the lad
was for the present indispensable to the furtherance of
the schemes he had on hand, the Schoolmaster, by a
violent effort, controlled his desire to annihilate his tor-
mentor, and contented himself with pushing him off his
shoulders back into his own chair. The sympathising
group around the table were far from seeing through all
this, and merely considered these close embraces as an
interchange of paternal and filial tenderness, while the
half suffocation and deadly pallor of Tortillard they
attributed to emotion caused by the sudden illness of his
beloved father.
" What ailed you just now, my good man ? " inquired
Father Chatelain ; " only see, you have quite frightened
your poor boy. Why, he looks pale as death, and can
iia
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
scarcely breathe. Come, my little man ; you must not
take on so your father is all right again."
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen all," replied the
Schoolmaster, controlling himself with much difiiculty,
for the pain he was still enduring was most excruciating.
" I am better now. I'll tell you, with your kind leaves,
all about it. You see I am by trade a working lock-
smith, and, one day that I was employed in beating out
a huge bar of red hot iron, it fell over on my tw^o legs,
and burnt them so dreadfully that it has never healed ;
unfortunately, just now, I happened to strike the leg
that is worst against the table, and the sudden agony it
occasioned me drew forth the sudden cry which so much
disturbed all this good company, and for which I humbly
beg pardon."
" Poor dear father ! " whined out Toi^tillard, casting a
look of-fendish malice at the shivering Schoolmaster, and
wholly recovered from his late attack of excessive emo-
tion. " Poor father ! you have indeed got a bad leg
nobody can cure. Ah, kind gentlemen, I hope you wall
never have such a shocking wound, and be obliged to
hear all the doctors say it never will get well. No !
never never. Oh, my dear, dear father! how I wish
I could but suffer the pain instead of you ! "
At this tender, moving speech, the females present
expressed the utmost admiration for the dutiful speaker,
and began feeling in their vast pockets for some more
substantial mark of their regard.
" It is unlucky, my honest friend," said old Chatelain,
addressing the Schoolmaster, " you had not happened to
come to this farm about three weeks ago, instead of
to-night."
" And why so, if you please ? "
" Because we had staying for a few days in the house
a celebrated Paris doctor, who has an infallible remedy
for all diseases of the legs. A worthy old woman, be-
longing to our village, had been confined to her bed
119
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
upwards of three years with some affection of the legs.
Well, this doctor, being here, as I said, heard of the
case, applied an. unguent to the wounds, and now,
bless you, she is as surefooted, ay, and as swift, too, as
any of our young girls ; and the first holiday she makes
she intends walking to the house of her benefactor, in
the Allde des Veuves, at Paris, to return her grateful
thanks. To be sure it is a good step from hence, but
then, as Mother Anica says Why, what has come over
you again, my friend ? Is your leg still so painful ? "
The mention of the All^e des Veuves had recalled
such frightful recollections to the Schoolmaster, that,
involuntarily, a cold shudder shook his frame, while a
fearful spasm, by contracting his ghastly countenance,
made it appear still more hideous.
" Yes," replied he, trying to conceal his emotion, " a
sudden darting pain seized me, and Pray excuse my
interrupting your kind and sensible discourse, and be
pleased to proceed."
" It really is a great pity," resumed the old labourer,
" that this excellent doctor should not be with us at
present; but I tell you what, he is as good as he is
skilful, and I am quite sure if you let your little lad
conduct you to his house when you return to Paris,
that he will cure you. His address is not difficult to
recollect, it is 17 All^e des Veuves. Even should you
forget the number, it will not matter, for there are but
very few doctors in the neighbourhood, and no other
negro surgeon, for, only imagine, this clever, kind,
and charitable man is a black, but his heart is white and
good. His name is David, Doctor David, you will
be able to remember that name, I dare say."
The features of the Schoolmaster were so seamed and
scarred that it was difficult to perceive when his colour
varied. He did, however, on the present occasion, turn
ghastly pale as he first heard the exact number men-
tioned of Rodolph's house, and afterwards the descrip-
120
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
tion of the black doctor, of David, the negro surgeon,
who, by Rodolph's orders, had inflicted on him the fear-
ful punishment, the terrible results of which were each
hour more painfully developed. Father Chatelain, how-
ever, was too much interested in his subject to notice
the deadly paleness of the Schoolmaster, and proceeded
with his discourse :
" When you leave us, my poor fellow, we will be sure
to write his address on a slip of paper and give it to your
son, for I know that, besides putting you in a certain way
to be cured of your painful wound, it would be gratifying
to M. David to be able to relieve your sufferings. Oh, he
is so good, never so happy as when he has rendered
any person a service. I wish he had not always that
mournful and dejected look. I fear he has some heavy
care near his heart ; and he is so good, so full of pity
for all who suffer. Well, well. Providence will bless
him in another world ; but come, friend, let us drink to
the health and happiness of your future benefactor,
here take this mug."
'' No, thank you ! " returned the Schoolmaster, with a
gloomy air ; " none for me. I I am not thirsty, and
I never drink unless I am."
" Nay, friend, but this is good old wine I have poured
out for you ; not cider," said the labourer. " Many
tradespeople do not drink as good. Bless your heart,
this farm is not conducted as other farms are, what
do you think of our style of living, by the by ? have you
relished your supper?"
"All very good," responded the Schoolmaster me-
chanically, more and more absorbed in the painfulness
of his ideas.
" Well, then, as we live one day, so we do another.
We work well, we live well, we have a good conscience,
and an equally good bed to rest upon after the labours of
the day. Our lives roll on in peace and contentment.
There are seven labourers constantly employed on the
121
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
farm, who are paid almost double wages to what others
get ; but then 1 can venture to assert, that if we are paid
double, we do as much work among us as fourteen ordi-
nary labourers would do. The mere husbandry servants
have one hundred and fifty crowns a year, the dairy-
women and other females engaged about the place sixty
crowns, and a tenth share of the produce of the farm is
divided among us all. You may suppose we do not
idle away much time, or fail to make hay while the
sun shines, for Nature is a bountiful mother, and
ever returns a hundredfold to those who assiduously
seek her favour ; the more we give her, the more she
returns."
" Your master cannot get very rich if he treats you
and pays you thus liberally," said the Schoolmaster.
" Oh, our master is different to all others, and has a
mode of repaying himself peculiarly his own."
" From what you say," answered the blind man, hop-
ing by engaging in conversation to escape from the
gloominess of his own thoughts, " your master must be
a very extraordinary person."
" Indeed he is, my good man, a most uncommon
master to meet with. Now, as chance has brought you
among us, and a strange though a lucky chance for you
it has proved, lying out of the highroad as this village
does, it is so very seldom any stranger ever finds it out.
Well, I was going to say, here you are, and no fault to
find with your quarters, is there ? Now, in all human
probability, when you turn your back upon the place
you will never return to it, but you shall not depart
without hearing from me a description of our master
and all he has done for the farm, upon condition that
you promise to repeat it again wherever you go, and to
whomsoever you may meet with. You will see, I mean,
I beg pardon, you will then be able to understand."
" I listen to you," answered the Schoolmaster; " pro-
ceed."
122
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
" And I can promise you you will not be throwing
away your time by listening," replied the venerable
Chatelain. " Now, one day our master thought all at
once : ' Here am I, rich enough to eat two dinners a day
if I liked, but I don't. Now, suppose I were to provide
a meal for those who have none at all, and enable such
as can hardly procure half a dinner to enjoy as much
good food as they desired, would not that be better than
over-indulging myself ? So it shall be,' says he, and
away he goes to work, and, first thing, he buys this farm,
which was not much of a concern then, and scarcely
kept a couple of ploughs at work ; and, being born and
bred on the place, I ought to know something about it.
Next, master made considerable additions to the farm.
I'll tell you all about that by and by. At the head of
the farm he placed a most worthy and respectable female,
who had known a great deal of trouble in her past life
master always chose out people for their goodness
and their misfortunes and, when he brought the per-
son I am telling you of here, he said to her in my hear-
ing, ' I wish this place to be like the Temple of our
great Maker, open to the deserving and the afflicted, but
closed against the wicked and hardened reprobate.' So
idle beggars are always turned from the gate ; but those
who are able and willing to work have always the oppor-
tunity set before them : the charity of labour, our master
says, is no humiliation to him who receives it, but a favour
and service conferred on the person whose labour is thus
done ; and the rich man who does not act upon this
principle but ill employs his wealth. So said our mas-
ter. But he did more than talk he acted. There
was formerly a road from here to Ecouen, which cut off
a good mile of distance, but, Lord love you ! it was one
great rutty bog, impossible to get up or down it ; it was
the death of every horse, and certain destruction to
every vehicle that attempted to pass through it. A little
labour, and a trifling amount of money from each farmer
123
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
in the adjoining country would soon have repaired the
road ; but they never could be brought to any unanimity
on the subject, and, in proportion as one farmer would
be anxious to contribute towards putting the road in
order, the others would invariably decline sending either
men or money to assist. So our master, preceiving all
this, said, ' The road shall be repaired ; but as those
who can afford to contribute will not, and as it is more
for convenience and accommodation to the rich than ne-
cessity for the poor, it shall first become useful to those
who would work if they could get it to do, who have
heart, and hands, and courage, but no employ. Well,
this road shall be reserved as a constant occupation for
persons of this description. Horsemen and carriages
belonging to the rich and affluent, who care not how
roads are repaired, so that they can travel at their ease,
may go round by the farther side.' So, for example,
whenever a strong, sturdy fellow presented himself at
the farm, pleading hunger and want of work, I'd say to
him, ' Here, my lad ; here is a basin of warm nourish-
ing soup take it and welcome ; then, if you wish for
work, here is a pickaxe and spade ; one of our people
will show you the Ecouen road ; make every day twelve
feet of it good, by spreading and breaking the flints ;
and every evening, after your work is examined, you
shall receive at the rate of forty sous for the quantity
named ; twenty sous for half as much ; ten sous for
a quarter; for less than that, nothing at all.' Then,
towards evening, upon my return from labour, I used to
go on the road, measure their work, and examine
whether it was well done."
" And only to think," interposed Jean Ren^, in a fit
of virtuous indignation, " only think, now, of there com-
ing two heartless vagabonds, who drank their soup and
walked off with the pickaxe and shovel. It is enough
to sicken one of doing good or trying to benefit one's
fellow creatures."
124
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
" Quite right, Master Rend," exclaimed the other la-
bourers ; " so it is."
" Come, come, lads," resumed Father Chatelain, " don't
be too warm. Just see here. We might as well say it
is useless to plant trees, or sow grain, because there are
caterpillars, weevils, and other injurious insects that gnaw
the leaves or devour the seeds put in the ground. No,
no ! we destroy the vermin. But God Almighty, who is
no niggard, causes fresh buds to burst forth and new
ears of corn to sprout ; the damage is abundantly re-
paired, and no trace remains of the mischievous insects
which have passed over our work. Am I not right, my
friend ? " said the old labourer, addressing the School-
master.
" No doubt no doubt," replied the latter, who had
appeared for some time past lost in a train of serious
meditation.
" Then, as for women and children, there is plenty of
occupation for them also, according to their age and
strength," added Father Chatelain.
" Yet, spite of all this," observed Claudine, joining in
the conversation, " the road gets on but very slowly."
" Which only goes to prove, my good girl, that in this
part of the country there is happily no scarcity of em-
ployment for the honest and industrious labourer."
" But now, as in the case of a poor, helpless, afflicted
creature such as I am," said the Schoolmaster, hastily,
" would not the worthy owner of the farm grant me a
humble corner in it for charity's sake a shelter and a
morsel of bread for the little while I have to remain
a burden to any one in this troublesome world ? Oh,
my worthy sir, could I but obtain such a boon I would
pass the remainder of my days in praying for a blessing
on my benefactor."
And these words were really pronounced in entire
sincerity of meaning ; not that compunction for his
many crimes touched the brigand's stony heart, but he
125
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
contrasted the happy peacefulness of the lives of these
labourers to his own wretched, stormy existence ; and
still further did he envy them when he reflected upon
all that the Chouette might have in store for him; he
shuddered as he reflected upon the future she would
provide for him, and more than ever regretted, by hav-
ing recalled his old accomplice, having for ever lost the
means of dwelling with good and honest persons, such
as those with whom the Chourineur had placed him.
Father Chatelain surveyed the Schoolmaster with an air
of surprise.
" My good man," said he, " I did not know you were
so utterly destitute."
" Alas ! yes, it is even so. I lost my sight by an
accident while working at my trade. I am going to
Louvres to endeavour to find a distant relation there,
who, I hope, may be willing to assist me. But, you are
aware, people are not always so open-hearted as they
should be ; they do not like distressed objects, such as
myself, coming to claim kindred, and are frequently harsh
and unkind," answered the Schoolmaster, sighing deeply.
" But the most selfish heart would grieve at your
distress," replied the old labourer. " The most hard-
hearted relative would pity a man like you a good
and honest workman overtaken by a sudden calamity,
and left without hope or help. Then the moving specta-
cle of this young and tender child, your only friend and
guide, would wring pity from the very stones. But how
is it that the master for whom you worked previously to
your accident has done nothing for you ? "
"He is now dead," said the Schoolmaster, after a
short hesitation ; " and he was my only friend on
earth."
" But then there is the hospital for the blind."
" I am not the right age to qualify me for admission."
" Poor man ! yours is, indeed, a hard case."
"Do you think it likely that, in the event of my rela-
126
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
tion at Louvres refusing to assist me, your master, whom
I already respect without knowing, would take pity on
me?"
" Unfortunately, you see, the farm is not a hospital.
Our general rule is to grant all infirm or afflicted travel-
lers a temporary shelter of a night or a day in the house.
Then some assistance is furnished, and they are put on
their road with a prayer to kind Providence to take
them under its charge."
" Then you think there is no hope of interesting your
master in my unhappy fate ? " asked the brigand, with a
sigh of regret.
" I tell you what is the general custom here, my good
man ; but so compassionate a person as our master might
go any lengths to serve you."
" Do you really think so ? " said the Schoolmaster.
" Oh, if he would but permit me to remain here, I could
live in any retired corner, and be happy and grateful
for such a mere trifle of subsistence ! "
" As I said before, our master is capable of the most
generous actions. But, were he to consent to your
remaining at the farm, there would be no occasion for
you to hide yourself ; you would fare in every respect as
you have seen us treated to-day. Some occupation
would be found for your son suitable to his age and
strength. He would not want for good instruction or
wise counsels ; our venerable minister would teach him
with the other children of the village, and, in the words
of Scripture, he would grow in goodness and in stature
beneath the pious care of our excellent cur^. But the
best way for you to manage this will be to lay every
particular of your case and petition before our ' Lady of
Ready Help,' when she comes into the kitchen, as she
is sure to do before you start on your journey to-morrow
morning."
" What name did you call your lady by ? "
" Nay, I meant our mistress, who always goes by that
127
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
appellation amongst us. If she interests herself for you,
your suit will be granted ; for, in matters of charity, our
master never opposes her smallest wish."
" Oh, then," exclaimed the Schoolmaster, in a joyous
tone, already exulting in his hoped-for deliverance from
the power of the Chouette, " I will thankfully follow
your advice, and speak to her whenever I have the
blessed opportunity ! "
This hope found no echo in the mind of Tortillard,
who felt not the slightest disposition to avail himself of
the offers of the old labourer, and grow up in goodness
under the auspices of the venerable cur^. The incli-
nations of Bras Rouge's son were anything but rural,
neither did his turn of mind incline to the pastoral.
Faithful to the code of morality professed by the
Chouette, and promulgated by her, he would have been
severely distressed to see the Schoolmaster emancipate
himself from their united tyranny ; and he now thought
it high time to recall the brigand from the illusory
visions of flowery meads and all the et cceteras of a
country life, in which his fancy seemed revelling, to the
realities of his present position.
" Yes, oh, yes," repeated the Schoolmaster ; " I will
assuredly address my prayers to your ' Lady of Ready
Help.' She will pity me and kindly "
Tortillard here interrupted him by a vigorous and
artfully managed kick, so well directed, that, as before,
it took the direst effect on the most sensitive spot. The
intense agony for a time quite bereft the brigand of
speech or breath ; but remembering the fatal conse-
quences of giving way to the feelings which boiled
within him, he struggled for self-command, and, after
a pause of a few minutes, added, in a faint and suffering
voice, " Yes, I venture to hope your good mistress would
pity and befriend me."
" Dear father," said Tortillard, in a hypocritical tone,
"you forget my poor dear aunt, Madame la Chouette,
128
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
who is so fond of you. Poor Aunty Chouette, she
would never part with you so easily, I know. Directly
she heard of your staying here, she would come along
with M. Barbillon and fetch you away that she would,
I know."
" Madame la Chouette and M. Barbillon. Why this
honest man seems to have relations among all the ' birds
of the air and fishes of the sea,' " uttered Jean Rend in
a voice of mirthful irony, giving his neighbour rather a
vigorous poke with his elbow. " Funny, isn't it,
Claudine?"
" Oh, you great unfeeling calf ! How can you make a
joke on these poor creatures ? " replied the tender-hearted
dairy-maid, returning Jean Rent's thrust with sufficient
interest to compromise the safety of his ribs.
" Is Madame la Chouette a relation of yours ? " in-
quired the old labourer of the Schoolmaster.
" Yes, a distant one," answered the other, with a dull,
dejected manner.
" And is she the person you were going to Louvres to
try and find ? " asked Father Chatelain.
" She is," replied the blind man ; " but I think my son
overrates her zeal on my account. However, under any
circumstances, I shall speak to your excellent lady to-
morrow, and entreat her aid to further my request with
the kind, charitable owner of this farm, but," added he,
purposely to divert the conversation into another chan-
nel, and so put an end to the imprudent remarks of
Tortillard, " talking of farms, you promised to explain
to me the difference that exists in the management of
this farm and farms in general."
" I did so," replied Father Chatelain, " and I will keep
my word. Now, after having planned all I told you
about the charity of labour, our master said to himself,
' There are many institutions where plans are devised,
and rewards assigned, for improvements in the breed of
horses, cattle, sheep, and other animals for the best con-
129
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
structed ploughs, and other agricultural implements.
And I cannot help thinking that all this time we are
not going to the fountain-head, and beginning, as we
ought to begin, by improving the condition of the labour-
ing classes themselves, before we give all this heed to the
beast which perisheth. Good beasts are capital things,
but good men are better, and more difficult to meet with.
Give your horses and cattle plenty of good food, clear
running water ; place them either out-of-doors in a fine,
healthy atmosphere, or give them a clean, well-managed
stable, with good and regular attendance, and they will
thrive to your heart's content, and be capable of reaching
any degree of excellence. But with men, look you, it is
quite another thing. You cannot elevate a man's mind
as you can fatten an ox. The animal fattens on his
pasture because its taste gratifies his palate ; he eats
because he likes what he feeds on, and his body profits
and thrives in proportion to the pleasure with which he
has devoured his food. Well, then, my opinion is, that
to make good advice really profitable to men, they should
be enabled clearly to perceive their own personal advan-
tage in following it.' "
" Just as the ox is profited by eating the fine grass
that grows around him, Father Chatelain ? " said several
voices.
" Precisely the same."
" But, Father Chatelain," exclaimed another voice.
" I have heard talk of a sort of farm where young
thieves, who might in other respects have conducted
themselves very well, are taken in, taught all sorts of
farming knowledge, and fed and treated like princes."
" You have heard quite right, my good fellow, there
is such an institution, and, as far as it goes, is founded
on pure and just motives, and is calculated to do much
good. We should never despair for the wicked, but we
should also hope all things for the good. Suppose now
a strong, healthy, and industrious young man, of excel-
130
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
lent character, ready and willing to work, but desirous
of receiving good instruction in his way of life, were to
present himself at the place you are speaking of this
farm of reclaimed thieves well, the first question
would be, ' Well, my chap, are you a rogue and a vaga-
bond ? ' ' No ! ' ' Oh, then we can't receive you here
we've no room for honest lads.'"
" What you say, father, is right, every word of it,"
rejoined Jean Ren^. " Rascals are provided for, while
honest men want ; and beasts are considered, and their
condition continually improved, while men are passed
over and left in ignorance and neglect."
" It was purposely to remedy what you complain of,
my brave lad, that our master took this farm (as I was
mentioning to our blind visitor). * I know very w^ell,'
said he, ' that honest men will be rewarded on high, but
then, you see, it is far and long to look forward to, and
there are many (and much to be pitied are they) who
can neither look to such a distance, nor wait with
patience the indefinite period which bids them live on
hope alone. Then how are these poor, depressed, and
toil-worn creatures to find leisure thus to seek religious
comfort ? Rising at the first dawn of day, they toil and
labour with weary limbs, till night releases them and
sends them to their wretched hovels. Sunday is spent
by them at the public-house, drinking to drive away the
recollections both of their past and future wretchedness.
Neither can these poor beings turn their very hardships
to a good account by extracting a useful moral from
them. After a hard day's work does their bread seem
less coarse and black, their pallet less hard, their infants
less sickly and meagre, their wives less worn down by
giving nourishment to the feeble babes of their breast ?
No, no, far from it. Alas, the thin, half-starved mother
is but ill calculated to nourish another, when she is
obliged to yield her slender share of the family meal to
still the clamours of her famishing children. Yet all
131
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
this might be endured, aye, even cheerfully, for use has
familiarised them with hardships and privations ; their
bread is food, though coarse and homely, their straw bed
rests their weary limbs, and their children, though
stunted and sickly, live on. All these, I say, could be
borne, did no comparison arise between their own poverty
and the condition of others; but, when they visit the
town or city on market-days, they see an abundance of
good white loaves crowding the windows of the bakers'
shops ; warm, soft mattresses and blankets are displayed
for sale to such as have the means of purchasing ; chil-
dren fresh and blooming as the flowers of May are play-
ing joyously about, and even from the superabundance
of their meals casting a portion to the dogs and other
pet animals. Ah ! human courage gives way at this
reverse in the picture of human condition; and when
the tired, care-worn men return to their mud hovels,
their black bread and straw pallet, and are surrounded
by a number of squalid, half-starved, wailing infants, to
whom they would gladly have brought the share of cakes
and buns thrown by the pampered children of great
towns in the streets, or cast to the animals, then bitter
discontent and repining take possession of their mind,
and, utterly forgetting that on high is One who careth
for all, they say, " Why is this difference allowed ? and, if
there must be both rich and poor in the world, why were
not we born to riches ? why should not every man have
his turn in worldly prosperity ? We are not justly used
or fairly treated in being always poor and hard worked."
Of course, all this is both sinful and unreasonable ; neither
does it in any manner serve to lighten their load ; and
yet they must go on, bending, staggering under the
burden too heavy for them to bear, till they sink, utterly
exhausted and worn out. They must toil, toil on, with-
out hope, without relaxing their daily efforts, or without
once daring to entertain the idea that, by a long continu-
ance in honest, virtuous, industrious conduct, the day
132
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
might come when, like the great Creator of all, they
might rest from their labours, and behold peaceful ease
succeeding the hard-griping hand of poverty. Think of
a whole life passed thus, in one continued struggle for
the bare means of life, without a glimmer of hope to
cheer the thorny path. What must such a life be like ?
Why, it would resemble one long rainy day, without a
single ray of brightness from the blessed sun to help us
through it. Then labour is resumed with an unwilling
and dissatisfied spirit. " What does it signify to us," cry
the worn-out labourers, " whether the harvest yields ill or
well ? Whether the ears of corn be heavy or light makes
no difference to us. Why should we overwork our-
selves, or trouble our heads with matters that only con-
cern our master ? It is sufficient for us to act with strict
honesty. We will not commit any crime, because there
are laws ready to punish such as do ; but neither will we
try to perform acts of goodness, because for those the
laws provide no recompense." Such a mode of arguing,
my boys, is as unwise as it is wrong and sinful, but,
depend upon it, it is true to nature. From this indiffer-
ence comes idleness, and from idleness to crime the dis-
tance is very short. Now, unfortunately, among the
class I have been describing, the far greater proportion
consists of those whose conduct may be considered as
neither good nor bad, that is to say, without any partic-
ular leaning either way, and, consequently, a mere trifle
might firmly enlist them in the service of virtue or vice.
These are the very individuals,' continued our master,
' we ought to try and improve, just as we should have
done had they been born to the honour of figuring as
animals with hoofs, horns, or woolly coats. Let us con-
tinue to point out to them how completely it is to their
interest to be active, industrious, steady, and well quali-
fied to discharge their several duties ; let us effectually
convince them that, by becoming better men, they will
also be much happier; let them see how closely their
133
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
good behaviour and prosperity are interwoven, and, that
good advice may sink the deeper into their hearts, give
them, as it W3re, such a taste of earthly comfort as shall,
in a slight degree, communicate to them the hope and
notion of expecting the unspeakable reward prepared by
the Great Giver of all, whose dwelling is on high.'
" Having well arranged his plans, our master caused
it to be made known in the environs that he wished to
engage twelve farm servants, six men and six females ;
but that his choice would be entirely regulated by the
most satisfactory certificates of good conduct obtained
from the civil and religious authorities in their native
place. They were to be paid like princes, fed upon the
best food to their hearts' content ; and further, a tenth
part of the produce of the harvest was to be shared
among the labourers. The engagement at the farm was
to last but two years, at the end of which time they were
to give place to other labourers, chosen upon the same
terms ; but, at the expiration of five years, the original
labourers were taken on again, in the event of there
being any vacancies ; so that, since the establishment of
this farm, it is usual for the labourers and working classes
in the neigbourhood to say, ' Let us be active, honest, and
industrious, so as to obtain a high character for such
good qualities, and, perhaps, one day we may be fortu-
nate to get engaged at Bouqueval Farm. There, for a
couple of years, we shall lead a life of perfect happiness.
We shall learn our business thoroughly; we shall save
a little money, so that, when our time is up, every one
will be glad to engage us, because they know that we
must have had first-rate characters to have been admitted
on the establishment at all.' "
" I am already bespoke by M. Dubreuil for his farm at
Arnouville," said Jean Ren^.
" And I am engaged to a first-rate service at Gonesse,"
chimed in another labourer.
" You see, my good friend, by this plan everybody is
134
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
a gainer, the neiT^hboiiring farmers particularly. There
are but twelve places for servants on the farm, but there
are, perhaps, fifty candidates who have all earned their
right to solicit an engagement by certificates and testi-
monials of excellent conduct. Well, though thirty-eight
out of the fifty must be disappointed, yet the good which
is in them will still remain ; and there arc so many
good and deserving characters in the environs we can
safely reckon upon ; for, though they have failed in this
application, they still live in hopes of succeeding another
time. Why, for every prize animal to which the medal
is assigned, whether for swiftness, strength, or beauty,
there must be a hundred or more trained to stand
forward and dispute the choice ; and those animals re-
jected do not lose any of those qualifications because
they were not accepted ; far from it ; their value is
acknowledged, and they quickly find persons desirous
of possessing them. Now, friend," said Father Chate-
lain, having fairly talked himself out of breath, " do you
not confess that I was right when I said ours was no
common farm, any more than our 'employer was no
ordinary master ? "
" Indeed," said the Schoolmaster, " your account is
most interesting, and fully bears out all you asserted.
But, the more I hear of the exalted views and noble
generosity of your master, the more earnestly do I pray
he may be induced to look with pity on my wretched
condition. To such a man, so filled with a desire to
improve the condition of God's creatures, a charitable
action more or less would make but little difference.
Oh, tell me beforehand his name, and that of your kind
Lady of the Ready Help, that I may already bless and
thank them ; for full certain am I, minds so bent upon
good deeds will never turn a deaf ear to my petition."
" Now I dare say you expect to be told the high-
sounding titles of some great, grand personages. But,
bless you ! no such thing ; no more parade about their
135
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
names than those of the saints themselves. * Our Lady
of Help ' is called Madame Georges, and our good master
plain M. Rodolph."
" Merciful powers ! My wife ! my judge ! my execu-
tioner ! " faintly exclaimed the robber, struck almost
speechless at this unexpected revelation. " Rodolph !
Madame Georges ! "
It was wholly impossible for the Schoolmaster to
entertain a doubt respecting the identity of the persons
to whom those names belonged. Previously to adjudg-
ing him his fearful punishment, Rodolph had spoken of
the lively interest he took in all that concerned Madame
Georges. The recent visit of the negro David to this
farm was another conclusive proof of there being no
mistake in the matter. It seemed as though the very
hand of Providence had brought about this singular
rencontre, overthrowing as it so completely did his re-
cently cherished hopes of emancipation from his present
misery, through the intervention of the generosity of the
proprietor of this farm. To fly was his first impulse.
The very name of Rodolph inspired him with the most
intense terror. Possibly he was even now in the house.
Scarcely recovered from his first alarm, the brigand rose
from the table, and, grasping the hand of Tortillard,
exclaimed, in a wild and terrified manner:
" Let us be gone ! quick ! lead me hence. Let us
go, I say."
The whole of the servants looked on with aston-
ishment.
" Go ! " said Father Ch^telain, with much surprise.
" Why ? Wherefore should you go ? What are you
thinking about, my friend ? Come, what fresh whim
is this ? Are you quite in your right senses ? "
Tortillard cleverly availed himself of this last sugges-
tion, and, uttering a deep sigh, touched his forehead
significantly with his forefinger, so as to convey to the
minds of the wondering labourers the impression that
136
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
his pretended parent was not quite right in his head.
The signal elicited a corresponding gesture of pity and
due comprehension.
" Come, I say, come ! " persisted the Schoolmaster,
endeavouring to draw the boy along with him ; but, fully
determined not to quit such comfortable quarters to
wander about in the fields all night during the frost and
snow, Tortillard began in a whimpering voice to say :
" Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! poor father has got one of his
old fits come on again. There, there, father, sit down
and keep yourself quiet. Pray do, and don't think of
wandering out in the cold it would kill you, maybe.
No, not if you are ever so angry with me, will I be so
wicked as to lead you out in such weather." Then, ad-
dressing himself to the labourers, he said, " Will none
of you good gentlemen help me to keep my poor dear
father from risking his life by going out to-night ? "
" Yes, yes, my boy," answered Father Ch^telain ;
" make yourself perfectly easy. We will not allow your
father to quit the place. He shall stay here to-night, in
spite of himself."
" Surely you will not keep me here against my will ? "
inquired the wretched Schoolmaster, in hurried accents ;
" and perhaps, too, I should offend your master by my
presence that Monsieur Rodolph. You told me the
farm was not an hospital ; once more, therefore, I ask
you to let me go forth in peace on my way."
" Offend our master ! that you would not, I am quite
sure. But make yourself easy on that score. I am sorry
to say that he does not live here, neither do we see him
half as frequently as we could wish. But, if even he
had been here, your presence would have made no sort
of difference to him."
" No, no," persisted the blind man with continued
alarm ; " I have changed my mind about applying to
him. My son is right. No doubt my relation at Louvres
will take care of me. I will go there at once."
137
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" All I have got to say," replied Father Chatelain,
kindly conceiving that he was speaking to a man whose
brain was unhappily affected, " is just this that to at-
tempt to proceed on your journey with this poor child
to-night is wholly out of the question. Come, let me
put matters to rights for you, and say no more about it."
Although now being reassured of Rodolph's not being
at Bouqueval, the terrors of the Schoolmaster were by no
means dissipated ; and, spite of his frightfully disfigured
countenance, he was in momentary dread of being recog-
nized by his wife, who might at any moment enter the
kitchen, when he was perfectly persuaded she would in-
stantly denounce and give him into custody ; his firm
impression having been, from the hour of receiving his
horrible punishment from the hands of Rodolph, that it
was done to satisfy the hatred and vengeance of Ma-
dame Georges. But, unable to quit the farm, the ruffian
found himself wholly at the mercy of Tortillard. Re-
signing himself, therefore, to what was unavoidable, yet
anxious to escape from the eyes of his wife, he said to
the venerable labourer :
" Since you kindly assure me my being here will in no
way displease either your master or mistress, I will gladly
accept your hospitality ; but, as I am much fatigued, and
must set out again at break of day, I would humbly ask
permission to go at once to my bed."
" Oh, yes, to-morrow morning by all means, and as
soon as you like ; we are very early people here. And,
for fear even that you should again wander from the
right road, some one shall conduct you part of the way."
" If you have no objection," said Jean Ren^, address-
ing Father Chatelain, " I will see the poor man a good
step on the road ; because Madame Georges said yester-
day I was to take the chaise and go to the lawyer's at
Villi ers le Bel to fetch a large sum of money she requires
of him."
" Go with the poor blind traveller by all means," re-
138
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
plied Father Chatelain ; " but you must walk, mind.
Madame has changed her mind about sending to Yilliers
del Bel, and, wisely reflecting that it was not worth
while to have so large a sum of money lying useless at
the farm, has determined to let it remain with the lawyer
till Monday next, which will be the day she requires it."
" Of course, Father Chatelain ; mistress knows best.
But please to tell me why she should consider it unsafe
to have money at the farm. What is she afraid of ? "
" Of nothing, my lad. Thank God, there is no occa-
sion for fear. But, for all that, I would much rather
have five hundred sacks of corn on the premises than ten
bags of crowns. Come," said old Chatelain, addressing
himself to the brigand and Tortillard, " come, follow me,
friend ; and you too, my lad." Then, taking up a small
lamp, he conducted his two guests to a chamber on the
ground floor, first traversing a large passage into which
several doors opened. Placing the light on a table, the
old labourer said to the Schoolmaster, " Here is your
lodging, and may God grant you a good and peaceful
night's repose, my good friend. As for you, my little
man, you are sure to sleep sound and well ; it belongs to
your happy age to do so."
The Schoolmaster, pensive and meditative, sat down
by the side of the bed to which Tortillard conducted
him. At the instant when Father Chatelain was quit-
ting the room, Tortillard made him a sign indicative of
his desire to speak with him alone, and hastily rejoined
him in the passage.
" What is it, my boy, you have to say to me ? "
inquired the old man, kindly.
"Ah, my kind sir, I only wanted to say that my
father is frequently seized during the night with most
violent convulsion-fits, which require a much stronger
person than I am to hold him ; should I be obliged to
call for help, is there any person near who could hear
me?"
139
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Poor child ! '* said the labourer, sympathisingly ;
" make yourself easy. There, - do you see that door
beside the staircase ? "
" Oh, yes, good, kind gentleman ; I see it."
" Well, one of the farm labourers sleeps in that room.
You will only just have to run to him. He never locks
his door ; and he will come to your father in an
instant."
" Thank you, sir ; God bless you ! I will remember
all your kindness when I say my prayers. But suppose,
sir, the man and myself were not strong enough to-
gether to manage my poor father when these violent
convulsions come on, could you, who look so good, and
speak so kind could you be kind enough to come and
tell us what to do ? "
" Me, my boy ? Oh, I sleep, as well as all the other
men servants, out of the house, in a large outbuilding in
the courtyard. But make yourself quite comfortable.
Jean Ren^ could manage a mad bull, he is so powerful.
Besides, if you really wished any further help he would
go and call up our old cook ; she sleeps on the first
floor, even with our mistress and young mademoiselle,
and I can promise you that our old woman is a most
excellent sick-nurse should your father require any one
to attend to him when the fit is over."
"Thank you, kind gentleman, a thousand times.
Good-night, sir. I will go now and pray of God to
bless you for your kindness and pity to the poor
bhnd."
" Good night, my lad ! Let us hope both you and
your father will enjoy a sound night's rest, and have no
occasion to require any person's help. You had better
return to your room now ; your poor father may be
wanting you."
" I will, sir. Good night, and thank you ! "
" God preserve you both, my child ! " And the old
man returned to the kitchen.
140
I
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
Scarcely had he turned his back than the limping
rascal made one of those supremely insulting and deri-
sive gestures familiar to all the blackguards of Paris,
consisting in slapping the nape of the neck repeatedly
with the left hand, darting the right hand quite open
continually out in a straight line. With the most con-
summate audacity, this dangerous child had just gleaned,
under the mask of guileless tenderness and apprehension
for his father, information most important for the
furtherance of the scnemes of the Chouette and School-
master. He had ascertained during the last few minutes
that the part of the building where he slept was only
occupied by Madame Georges, Fleur-de-Marie, an old
iemale servant, and one of tiie farm-labourers. Upon
his return to the room he was to share with the blind
man, Tortillard carefully avoided approaching him.
The former, however, heard his step, and growled
out :
" Where have you oeen, you vagabond ? "
" What ! yo.i vvant to know, do you, old blind 'un ?"
" Oh, I'll make you pay for all you have made me
suffer this evening, you wretched urchin ! " exclaimed
the Schoolmaster, rising furiously, and groping about in
every direction after Tortillard, feeling by the walls as a
guide. " I'll strangle you when I catch you, you young
fiend you infernal viper ! "
" Poor, dear father ! How prettily he plays at blind-
man's buff with his own little boy," said Tortillard,
grinning, and enjoying the ease with which he escaped
from the impotent attempts of the Schoolmaster to seize
him, who, though impelled to the exertion by his over-
boiling rage, was soon compelled to cease, and, as had
been the case before, to give up all hopes of inflicting
the revenge he yearned to bestow on the impish son of
Bras Rouge.
Thus compelled to submit to the impudent persecution
of his juvenile tormentor, and await the propitious hour
141
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
when all his injuries could safely be avenged, the brigand
determined to reserve his powerless wrath for a fitting
opportunity of paying off old scores, and, worn out in
body by his futile violence, threw himself, swearing and
cursing, on the bed.
" Dear father ! sweet father ! have you got the
toothache that you swear so ? Ah, if Monsieur le Cur^
heard you, what would he say to you ? He would give
you such penance ! Oh, my ! "
" That's right ! go on ! " replied the ruffian, in a
hollow and suppressed voice, after long enduring this
entertaining vivacity on the part of the young gentleman.
" Laugh at me ! mock me ! make sport of my
calamity, cowardly scoundrel that you are ! That is a
fine, noble action, is it not? Just worthy of such a
mean, ignoble, contemptible soul as dwells within that
wretched, crooked body!''
" Oh, how fine we talk ! How nice we preach about
being generous, and all that, don't we ? " cried Tortillard,
bursting into peals of laughter. " I beg your pardon,
dear father, but I can't possibly help thinking it so funny
to hear you, whose fingers were regular fish-hooks, pick-
ing and stealing whatever came in their way ; and, as
for generosity, I beg you don't mention it, because, till
you got your eyes poked out I don't suppose you ever
thought of such a word ! "
" But, at least, I never did you any harm. Why, then,
torment me thus ? "
" Because, in the first place, you said what I did not
like to the Chouette ; then you had a fancy for stopping
and playing the fool among the clodhoppers here. Per-
haps you mean to commence a course of asses' milk ? "
" You impudent young beggar ! If I had only had the
opportunity of remaining at this farm which I now
wish sunk in the bottomless pit, or blasted with eternal
lightning you should not have played your tricks of
devilish cruelty with me any longer! "
142
AN EV^ENING AT THE FARM.
" You to remain here ! that would be a farce ! Who,
then, would Madame la Chouette have for her hete de
souffrance ? Me, perhaps, thank ye ! don't you wish
you may get it ? "
" Miserable abortion ! "
" Abortion ! ah, yes, another reason why I say, as
well as Aunt Chouette, there is nothing so funny as to
see you in one of your unaccountable passions you,
who could kill me with one blow of your fist ; it's more
funny than if you were a poor, weak creature. How
very funny you were at supper tonight ! Bieii de Dieu !
what a lark I had all to myself ! Why, it was better
than a play at the Gait!). At every kick I gave you on
the sly, your passion made all the blood fly in your face,
and your white eyes became red all round ; they only
wanted a bit of blue in the middle to have been real tri-
coloured. They would have made two fine cockades for
the town-sergeant, wouldn't they ? "
" Come, come, you like to laugh you are merry :
bah ! it's natural at your age it's natural I'm not
angry with you," said the Schoolmaster, in an air of
affected carelessness, hoping to propitiate Tortillard ;
" but, instead of standing there, saying saucy things, it
would be much better for you to remember what the
Chouette told you; you say you are very fond of her.
You should examine all over the place, and get the print
of the locks. Didn't you hear them say they expected
to have a large sum of money here on Monday ? We will
be amongst them then, and have our share. I should
have been foolish to have stayed here ; I should have
had enough of these asses of country people at the end
of a week, shouldn't I, boy ? " asked the ruffian, to flatter
Tortillard.
" If you had stayed here I should have been very
much annoyed, 'pon my word and honour," replied Bras
Rouge's son, in a mocking tone.
" Yes, yes, there's a good business to be done in this
143
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
house ; and, if there should be nothing to steal, yet I
will return here with the Chouette, if only to have my
revenge," said the miscreant, in a tone full of fury and
malice, " for now I am sure it is my wife who excited
that infernal Rodolph against me ; he who, in blinding
me, has put me at the mercy of all the world, of the
Chouette, and a young blackguard like yourself. Well,
if I cannot avenge myself on him, I will have vengeance
against my wife, yes, she shall pay me for all, even if
I set fire to this accursed house and bury myself in its
smouldering ruins. Yes, I will I will have "
" You will, you want to get hold of your wife, eh, old
gentleman ? She is within ten paces of you ! that's vex-
ing, ain't it ? If I liked, I could lead you to the door of
her room, that's what I could, for I know the room. I
know it I know it I know it," added Tortillard,
singing according to his custom.
" You know her room ? " said the Schoolmaster, in an
agony of fervent joy ; " you know it ? "
" I see you coming," said Tortillard ; " come, play the
pretty, and get on your hind legs like a dog when they
throw him a dainty bone. Now, old Cupid ! "
" You know my wife's chamber ? " said the miscreant,
turning to the side whence the sound of Tortillard' s
voice proceeded.
" Yes, I know it ; and, what's still better, only one of
the farm servants sleeps on the side of the house where
we are. I know his door the key is in it click,
one turn, and he's all safe and fast. Come, get up, old
blind Cupid ! "
" Who told you all this ? " asked the blind scoundrel,
rising involuntarily.
" Capital, Cupid ! By the side of your wife's room
sleeps an old cook one more turn of the key, and
click ! we are masters of the house masters of your
wife, and the young girl with the gray mantle that you
must catch hold of and carry off. Now, then, your
144
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
paw, old Cupid ; do the pretty to your master di-
rectly."
" You lie ! you lie ! how could you know all tHis ? "
"Why, I'm lame in my leg, but not in my head.
Before we left the kitchen I said to the old guzzling
labourer that sometimes in the night you had convul-
sions, and I asked him where I could get assistance if
you were attacked. He said if you were attacked 1
might call up the man servant and the cook ; and he
showed me where they slept ; one down, the other up
stairs in the first floor, close to your wife your wife
your wife ! "
And Tortillard repeated his monotonous song. After
a lengthened silence the Schoolmaster said to him, in a
calm voice, but with an air of desperate determination :
" Listen, boy. I have stayed long enough. Lately
yes, yes, I confess it I had a hope which now makes
my lot appear still more frightful ; the prison, the hagne^
the guillotine, are nothing nothing to what I have
endured since this morning ; and I shall have the same
to endure always. Lead me to my wife's room ; I have
my knife here ; I will kill her. I shall be killed after-
wards ; but what of that ? My hatred swells till it
chokes me ; I shall have revenge, and that will console
me. What I now suffer is too much too much ! for
me, too, before whom everybody trembled. Now, lad,
if you knew what I endure, even you would pity me.
Even now my brain appears ready to burst ; my pulse
beats as if my veins would burst; my head whirls "
" A cold in your * knowledge-box,' old chap that's it ;
sneeze that'll cure you," said Tortillard, with a loud
grin ; " what say you to a pinch of snuff, old brick ? "
And striking loudly on the back of his left hand,
which was clenched, as if he were tapping on the lid of
a snuff-box, he sang :
" J'ai du boil tabac dans ma tabatiere ;
J'ai du bon tabac, tu n'en auras pas."
X45
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Oh, mon Bieu! mon Dieuf they will drive me
mad ! " cried the brigand, becoming really almost
demented by a sort of nervous excitement arising
from bloodthirsty revenge and implacable hatred, which
in vain sought to satiate itself. The exuberant strength
of this monster could only be equalled by the impossi-
bility of satisfying his deadly desires. Let us imagine a
hungry, furious, maddened wolf, teased during a whole
day by a child through the bars of his den, and scenting
within two paces of him a victim who would at once
satisfy his hunger and his rage. At the last taunt of
Tortillard the brigand almost lost his senses ; unable to
reach his victim, he desired in his frenzy to shed his
own blood, for his blood was stifling him. One moment
he resolved to kill himself, and, had he had a loaded
pistol in his hand, he would not have hesitated ; he
fumbled in his pocket, and drew out a clasp-knife,
opened it, and raised it to strike ; but, quick as were his
movements, reflection, fear, and vital instinct were still
more rapid, the murderer lacked courage, his arm
fell on his knees. Tortillard had watched all his actions
with an attentive eye, and, when he saw the finale of
this pseudo-tragedy, he continued, mockingly,
" How, boys, a duel ? Ah, pluck the chickens ! "
The Schoolmaster, fearing that he should lose his
senses if he gave way to an ineffectual burst of fury,
turned a deaf ear to this fresh insult of Tortillard,
who so impertinently commented on the cowardice of
an assassin who recoiled from suicide. Despairing
of escape from what he termed, by a sort of avenging
fatality, the cruelty of his cursed child, the ruffian
sought to try what could be done by assailing the
avarice of the son of Bras Rouge.
" Ah," said he to him, in a tone almost supplicatory,
" lead me to the door of my wife's room, and take any-
thing you like that's in her room and run away with it !
leave me to myself. You may cry out ' murder ' if you
146
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
like ; they will apprehend me kill me on the spot
I care not, I shall die avenged, if I have not the courage
to end my existence myself. Oh, lead me there lead
me there ; depend on it she has gold, jewels, anything,
and you may take all, all for yourself, for your own, do
you mind ? your own ; only lead me to the door where
she is."
" Yes, I mind well enough ; you want me to lead you
to her door, then to her bed, and then to tell you when
to strike, then to guide your hand eh ! that's it, ain't
it ? You want to make me a handle to your knife, old
monster ! " replied Tortillard, with an expression of con-
tempt, anger, and horror, which, for the first time in his
life gave an appearance of seriousness to his weasel face,
usually all impertinence and insolence ; " I'll be killed
first, I tell you, sooner than I'll lead you to where your
wife is ! "
" You refuse ? "
The son of Bras Rouge made no reply. He approached
with bare feet and without being heard by the School-
master, who, seated on the bed, still held his large knife
in his hand, and then, in a moment, with marvellous
quickness and dexterity, Tortillard snatched from him
his weapon, and with one jump skipped to the further
end of the chamber.
" My knife ! my knife ! " cried the brigand, extending
his arms.
" No ; for then you might to-morrow morning ask to
speak with your wife and try to kill her, since, as you
say, you have had enough of life, and are such a coward
that you don't dare kill yourself."
" How he defends my wife against me ! " said the
bandit, whose intellect became obscure. " This little
wretch is a devil ! Where am I ? Why does he try to
save her ? "
" Because I like it," said Tortillard, whose face
resumed its usual appearance of sly impudence.
147
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Ah, is that it ? '* murmured the Schoolmaster, whose
mind was wandering ; " well, then, I'll fire the house !
we'll all burn all ! I prefer that furnace to the other.
The candle ! the candle ! "
" Ah ! ah ! ah ! " exclaimed Tortillard, bursting out
again into loud laughter. " If your own candle your
' peepers ' had not been snuffed out, and for ever, you
would have known that ours had been extinguished
an hour ago." And Tortillard sang :
" Ma chandelle est morte,
Je n'ai plus de feu."
The Schoolmaster gave a deep groan, stretched out
his arms, and fell heavily on the floor, his face on the
ground, and, struck by a rush of blood, remained motion-
less.
" Not to be caught, old boy," said Tortillard ; " that's
only a trick to make me come to you that you may
serve me out ! When you have been long enough on
the floor you'll get up."
Bras Rouge's boy resolved not to go to sleep for fear
of being surprised by the Schoolmaster, so seated him-
self in a chair, with his eyes fixed on the ruffian, per-
suaded that it was a trap laid for him, and not believing
the Schoolmaster in any danger. That he might em-
ploy himself agreeably Tortillard drew silently and
carefully from his pocket a little red silk purse, and
counted slowly, and with looks of joy and avarice, the
seventeen pieces of gold which it contained. Tortillard
had acquired his ill-gotten riches thus : It may be re-
membered that Madame d'Harville was nearly surprised
by her husband at the rendezvous which she had granted
to the commandant. Rodolph, when he had given the
purse to the young lady had told her to go up to the
fifth story to the Morels, under the pretence of bringing
them assistance. Madame d'Harville ran quickly up the
staircase holding the purse in her hands. When Tortil-
148
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
lard, who was coming from the quack's, caught a glimpse
of the purse, and, pretending to stumble as he passed the
marquise, pushed against her, and, in the shock, slily
stole the purse. Madame d'Harville, bewildered, and
hearing her husband's footsteps, hurried on to the fifth
story without thinking or complaining of the impudent
robbery of the little cripple. After having counted and
recounted his gold Tortillard cast his eyes towards the
Schoolmaster who was extended still on the ground.
Disquieted for a moment, he listened, and hearing the
robber breathe freely he thought that he was still medi-
tating some trick against him.
Chance saved the Schoolmaster from a congestion of
the brain which else must have proved mortal. His
fall had caused a salutary and abundant bleeding at
the nose. He then fell into kind of a feverish torpor
half sleep, half delirium, and then had this wild, this
fearful dream !
I4d
CHAPTER VIIL
THE DREAM.
This was the Schoolmaster's dream :
He was again in Rodolph's house in the Allee des
Veuves. The saloon in which the miscreant had received
his appalling punishment had not undergone any altera-
tion. Rodolph himself was sitting at the table on which
were the Schoolmaster's papers and the little Saint-
Esprit of lapis which he had given to the Chouette.
Rodolph's countenance was grave and sad. On his right
the negro David was standing motionless and silent ; on
his left was the Chourineur, who looked on with a
bewildered mien. In his dream the Schoolmaster was
no longer blind, but saw through a medium of clear
blood, which filled the cavities of his eyeballs. All and
everything seemed to him tinted with red. As birds of
prey hover on motionless wing above the head of the
victim which they fascinate before they devour, so a
monstrous screech-owl ((?^0Me^^e), having for its head the
hideous visage of the one-eyed hag, soared over the
Schoolmaster, keeping fixed on him her round, glaring,
and green eye. This fixed stare was upon his breast
like a heavy weight. The Schoolmaster discerned a vast
lake of blood separating him from the table at which
Rodolph was seated. Then this inflexible judge, as well
as the Chourineur and the negro, grew and grew, ex-
panding into colossal proportions, until they touched the
ceiling ; and then it also became higher in proportion.
The lake of blood was calm, and as unruffled as a red
150
THE DREAM.
mirror ; the Schoolmaster saw his hideous countenance
reflected therein. Then that was suddenly effaced by
the tumult of the swelling waves. From their troubled
surface there arose a vapour resembling the foul exhala-
tion of a marsh, a livid-coloured mist of that violet hue
peculiar to the lips of the dead. In proportion as this
miasma rises rises, the faces of Rodolph, the Chou-
rineur, and the negro continue to expand and expand
in an extraordinary manner, and always remain above
this fearful cloud. In the midst of the awful vapour,
the Schoolmaster sees the pale ghosts, and those murder-
ous scenes in which he had been the actor. In this fan-
tastic mirage he first sees a little bald-headed old man,
clad in a long brown coat, and wearing an eye-shade of
green silk. He is employing himself in a dilapidated
chamber in counting and arranging pieces of gold into
piles by the light of a lamp. Through the window,
lighted by the dim moonlight reflected on the tops of
some high trees waving in the wind, the Schoolmaster
recognises his own figure. Pressing his distorted fea-
tures against the glass, following every motion of the
old man with glaring eyes, then breaking a pane, he
opens the window itself, leaps with a bound upon his
victim, and stabs him between the shoulders with his
long and keen knife. The movement is so rapid, the
blow so quick and sure, that the dead body of the old
man remains seated in the chair.
The murderer tries to withdraw his weapon from the
dead body, he cannot ! He redoubles his efforts,
in vain ! He then seeks to quit the deadly steel,
impossible !
The hand of the assassin clings to the handle of the
poignard, as the blade of the poignard clings to the frame
of the wounded man. The murderer then hears the
sound of clinking spurs and clashing swords in the
adjoining room. He must escape at all risks, and
attempts to carry with him the body of the feeble old
151
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
man, from which he cannot withdraw either his weapon
or his hand.
He cannot do even this. The light and feeble carcass
weighs him down like a mass of lead. Despite his her-
culean shoulders, his desperate efforts, the Schoolmaster
cannot even stir this overwhelming weight.
The sound of echoing steps and jingling sabres comes
nearer and nearer. The key turns in the lock, the
door opens. The vision disappears.
And then the screech-owl flaps her wing, and shrieks
out:
" It is the old miser of the Rue de la Roule. Your
maiden murder ! murder ! murder ! "
A moment's darkness, then the miasma which
covers the lake of blood resumes its transparency,
and another spectre is revealed.
The day begins to dawn, the fog is thick and heavy,
A man, clothed like a cattle-dealer, lies stretched, dead
on the bank of the highroad. The trampled earth, the
torn turf, proved that the victim had made a desperate
resistance. The man has five bleeding wounds in his
breast. He is lifeless ; yet still he seems to whistle on
his dogs, calling co them, " Help ! help ! "
But his whistling, his cries, proceed from five large
and gaping wounds,
" Each one a death in nature,"
which move like so many complaining lips. The five
calls, the five whistlings, all made and heard at once,
come from the dead man by the mouths of his gushing
wounds ; and fearful are they to hear !
At this instant the Chouette waves her wings, and
mocks the deathly groans of the victim with five bursts
of laughter, a laughter as unearthly and as horrible
as the madman's mirth ; and then again she shrieks :
" The cattle-dealer of Poissy. Murder ! murder !
murder ! "
152
THE DREAM.
Protracted and underground echoes iirst repeat aloud
the malevolent laughter of the screech-owl. Then they
seem to die away in the very bowels of the earth.
At this sound two large dogs, as black as midnight,
with eyes glaring like burning coals, begin to run rapidly
around around around the Schoolmaster, baying
furiously. They almost touch him, and yet their bark
appears as distant as if carried on the wind of the
morning.
Gradually these spectres fade away as the previous
one did, and are lost in the pale vapour which is
continually ascendina:.
A new exhalation now arises from the lake of blood,
and spreads itself on its surface. It is a sort of greenish,
transparent mist ; it resembles the vertical section of a
canal filled with water. At first he sees the bed of the
canal covered in by a thick vase formed of numberless
reptiles usually imperceptible to the unassisted eye, but
which, enlarged, as if viewed through a microscope,
assume monstrous forms, vast proportions relatively
to their actual size. It is no longer mud, but a com-
pact, living, crawling mass, an inextricable conglom-
eration which wriggles and curls ; so close, so dense, that
a sullen and low undulation hardly stirs the level of this
vase, or rather bed of foulest animalculge. Above trickles
gently gently, a turbid stream, thick and stagnating,
which, in its dilatory flow, disturbs the filth incessantly
vomited by the sewers of a great city, fragments of
all sorts, carcasses of animals, etc., etc. Suddenly the
Schoolmaster hears the plash of a body, which falls
heavily on the water ; in its recoil the water sprinkles
his very face. In the midst of the air-bubbles which
rise thick and fast to the surface of the canal he sees
the body of a woman, which sinks rapidly as she
struggles struggles.
Then he sees himself and the Chouette running
hastily along the banks of St. Martin's Canal, carry-
153
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
ing with them a box covered with black cloth ; and yet
he is still present during all the variations of agony
suffered by the victim whom he and the Chouette have
thrown into the canal. After the first immersion the
. victim rises to the surface and moves her arms in violent
agitation like some one who, not knowing how to swim,
tries in vain to save herself. Then she utters a piercing-
cry, a cry of one in the last extremity, despair-
ing which ends in the sullen, stifled sound of involun-
tary choking; and the woman the second time sinks
beneath the troubled waters.
The screech-owl, which hovers continually motionless,
imitates the convulsive rattle of the drowning wretch, as
she mocked the dying groans of the cattle-dealer. In the
midst of bursts of deathlike laughter the screech-owl
utters, " Glou ! glou ! glou ! ''
The subterranean echoes repeated the sound.
A second time submerged the woman is fast suffocat-
ing, and makes one more desperate effort for breath ;
but, instead of air, it is water which she inspires. Then
her head falls back, her convulsed features are swollen
and become livid, her neck becomes blue and tumefied,
her arms stiffen, and, in a last spasmodic effort, the
drowning woman in her agony moves her feet, which are
resting on the vase. Then she is surrounded by a mass
of black soil, which ascends with her to the surface of
the water. Scarcely has the choked wretch breathed her
last sigh than she is covered with myriads of the micro-
scopic reptiles, the greedy and horrible vermin of the
mud. The carcass floats for a moment, balances for a
moment, and then sinks slowly, horizontally, the feet
lower than the head, and between the double waters
begins to follow the current of the land. Sometimes
the dead corpse turns, and its pale face is before the
Schoolmaster. Then the spectre fixes on him glaringly
its two blue, glassy, and opaque eyes ; the livid mouth
opens. The Schoolmaster is far away from the drown-
154
THE DREAM.
ing woman, and yet ner lips murmur in his ears, " Glou !
glou ! glou ! " accompanying these appalling syllables with
that singular noise which a bottle thrust into the water
makes when filling itself.
The screech-owl repeats, " Glou ! glou ! glou ! " flapping
her wings, and shrieking :
"The woman of the Canal St. Martin! Murder!
murder ! murder ! "
The vision of the drowned woman disappears. The
lake of blood, through which the Schoolmaster still con-
stantly beholds Rodolph, becomes of a bronzed, black
colour, then red again, and then changes instantaneously
into a liquid, furnace-like, molten metal. Then that lake
of fire rises rises rises towards the sky like an
immense whirlpool. There is now a fiery horizon like
iron at a white heat. This immense, boundless horizon
dazzles and scorches the very eyes of the Schoolmaster,
who, fascinated, fastened to the spot, cannot turn away
his gaze. Then, at the bottom of this burning lava,
whose reflection seems to consume him, he sees pass
and repass, one by one, the black and giant spectres of
his victims.
" The magic - lanthorn of remorse ! remorse ! re-
morse ! " shrieks the night - bird, flapping her hideous
wings, and laughing mockingly.
Notwithstanding the intolerable anguish which his
impatient gaze creates, the Schoolmaster has his eyes
fixed on the grisly phantoms which move in the blazing
sheet. Then an indefinable horror steals over him.
Passing through every step of indescribable torture, by
dint of contemplating this blazing sight, he feels his
eyeballs which have replaced the blood with which
his orbits were filled at the commencement of his dream
he feels his eyeballs grow hot, burning, and melt in
this furnace to smoke and bubble and at last to
become calcined in their cavities like two crucibles filled
with red fire. By a fearful power, after having seen as
155
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
well as felt the successive transformations of his eyeballs
into ashes, he falls into the darkness of his actual
blindness.
But now, suddenly, his intolerable agonies are assuaged
as though by enchantment. An odorous air of delicious
freshness passes over his burning eyeballs. This air is
a lovely admixture of the scents of springtime, which
exhale from flowers bathed in evening dew. The
Schoolmaster hears all about him a gentle murmur, like
that of the breeze which just stirs the leaves like that
of a brook of running waters, which rushes and mur-
murs on its bed of stone and moss " in the leafy month
of June." Thousands of birds warble the most enchant-
ing melodies. They are stilled, and the voices of chil-
dren, of angelic tone, sing strange, unknown words
words that are " winged " (if we may use the expres-
sion), and which the Schoolmaster hears mount to
heaven with gentle motion. A feeling of moral health,
of tranquillity, of undefined languor, creeps over him by
degrees. It is an expansion of the heart, an elevation
of the mind, an effort of the soul, of which no physical
feeling, how delicious soever it may be, can impart the
least idea. He foels himself softly soaring in a heavenly
sphere ; he seems to rise to an immeasurable height.
After having for some moments revelled in this un-
speakable felicity he again finds himself in the dark
abyss of his habitual thoughts. His dream continues ;
but he is again but the muzzled miscreant who blas-
phemes and curses in the paroxysm of his impotent
rage. A voice is heard sonorous solemn. It is
Rodolph's. The Schoolmaster starts "like a guilty
thing upon a fearful summons." He has the vague con-
sciousness of a dream ; but the alarm with which
Rodolph inspires him is so great that he tries, but
vainly, to escape from this fresh vision. The voice
156
THE DREAM.
speaks he listens. The tone of Rodolph is not severe ;
it is " rather in sorrow than in anger."
" Unhappy man," he says to the Schoolmaster, " the
hour of your repentance has not yet sounded. God only
knows when it will strike. The punishment of your
crimes is still incomplete ; you have suffered, but not
expiated. Destiny follows out its work of full justice.
Your accomplices have become your tormentors. A
woman, a child, tame, subdue, conquer you. When I
sentenced you to a terrible punishment for your crimes
I said do you remember my words ? ' You have
wickedly abused the great bodily strength bestowed upon
you ; I will paralyse that strength. The strongest have
trembled before you ; I will make you henceforward
shrink in the presence of the weakest of beings.' You
have left the obscure retreat in which you might have
dwelt for repentance and expiation. You were afraid of
silence and solitude. You sought to drown remem-
brance by new crimes. Just now, in a fearful and
bloodthirsty access of passion, you have wished to kill
your wife. She is here under the same roof as yourself.
She sleeps without defence. You have a knife. Her
apartment is close at hand. There was nothing to
prevent you from reaching her. Nothing could have
protected her from your rage nothing but your impo-
tence. The dream you have had, and in which you are
still bound, may teach you much, may save you. The
mysterious phantoms of this dream bear with them a
most pregnant meaning. The lake of blood, in which
your victims have appeared, is the blood you have shed.
The molten lava which replaced it is the gnawing, eat-
ing remorse, which must consume you before one day,
that the Almighty, having mercy on your protracted tor-
tures, shall call you to himself, and let you taste the in-
effable sweetness of his gracious forgiveness. But this
will not be. No, no ! these warnings will be useless.
Far from repenting, you regret every day, with horrid
157
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
blasphemies, the time when you could commit such atroc-
ities. Alas ! from this continual struggle between your
bloodthirsty desires and the impossibility of satisfying
them, between your habits of fierce oppression and the
compulsion of submitting to beings as weak as they are
depraved, there will result to you a fate so fearful, so
appalling. Ah, unhappy wretch ! "
Rodolph's voice faltered, and for a moment he was
silent, as if emotion and horror had hindered him from
proceeding. The Schoolmaster's hair bristled on his
brow. What could be would be that fate, which
even his executioner pitied ?
" The fate that awaits you is so horrible," resumed
Rodolph, " that, if the Almighty, in his inexorable and
all-powerful vengeance, would make you in your person
expiate all the crimes of all mankind, he could not
devise a more fearful punishment 1 Ah, woe for you !
woe for you ! "
At this moment the Schoolmaster uttered a piercing
shriek, and awoke with a bound at this horrid, frightful
dream.
158
CHAPTER IX.
THE LETTER.
The hour of nine had struck on the Bouqueval clock,
when Madame Georges softly entered the chamber of
Fleur-de-Marie. The light slumber of the young girl
was quickly broken, and she awoke to find her kind
friend standing by her bedside. A brilliant winter's sun
darted its rays through the blinds and chintz window-
curtains, the pink linings of which cast a bright glow on
the pale countenance of La Goualeuse, giving it the look
of health it so greatly needed.
" Well, my child," said Madame Georges, sitting down
and gently kissing her forehead, " how are you this
morning ? "
" Much better, madame, I thank you."
" I hope you were not awoke very early this
morning ? "
" No, indeed, madame."
" I am glad of it ; the blind man and his son, who
were permitted to sleep here last night, insisted upon
quitting the farm immediately it was light, and I was
fearful that the noise made in opening the gates might
have woke you."
" Poor things ! why did they go so very early ? "
" I know not. After you became more calm and
comfortable last night, I went down into the kitchen
for the purpose of seeing them, but they had pleaded
extreme weariness, and begged permission to retire.
Father Ch^telain tells me the blind man does not
159
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
seem very right in his head ; and the whole body of
servants were unanimous in praising the tenderness and
care with which the boy attended upon his blind parent.
But now, my dear Marie, listen to me ; you must not
expose yourself to the risk of taking fresh cold after the
attack of fever you suffered from last night, and, there-
fore, I recommend your keeping quite quiet all day, and
not leaving the parlour at all."
" Nay, madame, I have promised M. le Cur^ to be at
the T-ectory at five o'clock ; pray allow me to go, as I am
expected."
" Indeed I cannot, it would be very imprudent ; I can
perceive you have passed a very bad night, your eyes are
quite heavy."
" I have not been able to rest through the most fright-
ful dreams which pursued me whenever I tried to sleep.
I fancied myself in the power of a wicked woman who
used to torment me most cruelly when I was a child ;
and I kept starting up in dread and alarm. I am
ashamed of such silly weakness as to allow dreams to
frighten me, but, indeed, I suffered so much during the
night that when I awoke my pillow was wetted with my
tears."
" I am truly sorry for this weakness, as you justly
style it, my dear child," said Madame Georges, with
affectionate concern, seeing the eyes of Fleur-de-Marie
again filling fast, " because I perceive the pain it
occasions you."
The poor girl, overpowered by her feelings, threw her
arms around the neck of her adopted mother and buried
her sobs in her bosom.
" Marie, Marie ! my child, you terrify me ; why, why
is this ? "
" Pardon me, dear madame, I beseech you ! Indeed, I
know not myself what has come over me, but for the
last two days my heart has seemed full almost to burst-
ing. I cannot restrain my tears, though I know not
160
THE LETTER.
wherefore I weep. A fearful dread of some great evil
about to befall me weighs down my spirits and resists
every attempt to shake it off."
" Come ! come ! I shall scold you in earnest if you
thus give way to imaginary terrors."
At this moment Claudine, whose previous tap at the
door had been unheard, entered the room.
"What is it, Claudine?"
" Madame, Pierre has just arrived from Arnouville, in
Madame Dubreuil's chaise ; he brings a letter for you
which he says is of great importance."
Madame Georges took the paper from Claudine's
hand, opened it and read as follows :
"My Dear Madame Georges:
" You could do me a considerable favour, and assist me under
very perplexing circumstances, by hastening to the farm here
without delay. Pierre has orders to wait till you are ready, and
will drive you back after dinner. I reallj^ am in such confusion
that I hardly know what I am about. M. Dubreuil has gone to
the wool-fair at Pontoise ; I have, therefore, no one to turn to for
advice and assistance but you and Marie. Clara sends her best
love to her very dear adopted sister, and anxiously expects her
arrival. Try to be with us by eleven o'clock, to luncheon.
" Ever yours most sincerely,
"F. Dubreuil."
" What can possibly be the matter ? " asked Madame
Georges of Fleur-de-Marie ; " fortunately the tone of
Madame Dubreuil's letter is not calculated to cause
alarm."
" Do you wish me to accompany you, madame ? "
asked the Goualeuse.
" Why, that would scarcely be prudent, so cold as it is.
But, upon second thoughts," continued Madame Georges,
" I think you may venture if you wrap yourself up very
warm ; it will serve to raise your spirits, and possibly
the short ride may do you good."
The Goualeuse did not immediately reply, but, after a
few minutes' consideration, she ventured to say :
161
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS,
" But, madamej M. le Cur^ expects me this evening,
at five o'clock, at the rectory.
" But I promise you to be back in good time for you
to keep your engagement ; now will you go ? "
" Oh, thank you, madame ! Indeed, I shall be so
delighted to see Mile. Clara."
" What ! again ? " uttered Madame Georges, in a tone
of gentle reproach. " Mile. Clara ? She does not speak
so distantly to you when she addresses you."
" Oh, no, madame ! " replied the poor girl, casting
down her eyes, while a bright flush rose even to her
temples ; " but there is so great a difference between us
that "
^' Dear Marie ! you are cruel and unkind thus need-
lessly to torment yourself. Have you so soon forgotten
how I chided you but just now for the very same fault ?
There, drive away all such foolish thoughts ! dress your-
self as quickly as you can, and pray wrap up very
carefully. If we are quick, we may reach Arnouville
before eleven o'clock."
Then, leaving Fleur-de-Marie to perform the duties of
her simple toilet, Madame Georges retired to her own
chamber, first disraissing Claudine with an intimation to
Pierre that herself and niece would be ready to start
almost immediately.
Half an hour afterwards, Madame Georges and Marie
were on their way to Arnouville, in one of those large,
roomy cabriolets, in use among the rich farmers in the
environs of Paris ; and briskly did their comfortable
vehicle, drawn by a stout Norman horse, roll over the
grassy road which led from Bouqueval to Arnouville.
The extensive buildings and numerous appendages to the
farm, tenanted by M. Dubreuil in the latter village, bore
testimony to the wealth and importance of the property
bestowed as a marriage-portion on Mile. C^sarine de Noir-
mont upon her union with the Duke de Lucenay.
The loud crack of Pierre's whip apprised Madame
162
THE LETTER.
Dubreuil of the arrival of her friend, Madame Georges,
with Fleur-de-Maric, who were most affectionately greeted
by Clara and her mother. Madame Dubreuil was a good-
looking woman of middle age, with a countenance ex-
pressive of extreme gentleness and kindness ; while her
daughter Clara was a handsome brunette, with rich hazel
eyes, and a happy, innocent expression for ever resting
on her full, rosy lips, which seemed never to open but
to utter words of sweetness and amiability. As Clara
eagerly threw her arms around her friend's neck as she
descended the vehicle, the Goualeuse saw with extreme
surprise that the kind-hearted girl had laid aside her
more fashionable attire, and was habited as a simple
country maiden.
" Why, Clara ! " said Madame Georges, affectionately
returniiig her embrace, " what is the meaning of this
strange costume ? "
" It is done in imitation and admiration of her sister
Marie," answered Madame Dubreuil ; " I assure you she
let me have no peace till I had procured her a woollen
bodice, and a fustian skirt exactly resembling your
Marie's. But, now we are talking of whims and ca-
prices, just come this way with me," added Madame
Dubreuil, drawing a deep sigh, " while I explain to you
my present difficulty, as well as the cause of my so
abruptly summoning you hither ; but you are so kind,
I feel assured you will not only forgive it, but also
render me all the assistance I require."
Following Madame Georges and her mother to their
sitting-room, Clara lovingly conducted the Goualeuse
also thither, placing her in the warmest corner of the
fireside, and tenderly chafing her hands to prevent the
cold from affecting her ; then fondly caressing her, and
styling her again and again her very dear sister Marie,
she playfully reproached her for allowing so long an in-
terval to pass away without paying her a visit. After
the recent conversation which passed between the poor
163
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Goualeuse and the cur^ (no doubt fresh in the reader's
memory), it will easily be believed that these tender
marks of affection inspired the unfortunate girl with
feelings of deep humility, combined with a timid joy.
" Now, then, dear Madame Dubreuil," said Madame
Georges, when they were comfortably seated, " do pray
tell me what has happened, and in what manner I can
be serviceable to you."
" Oh, in several ways ! I will tell you exactly how. In
the first place, I believe you are not aware that this
farm is the private property of the Duchesse de Lucenay,
and that we are accountable to her alone, having noth-
ing whatever to do with the duke or his steward."
" No, indeed, I never heard that before."
" Neither should I have troubled you with so unimpor-
tant a matter now, but that it forms a necessary .part of
the explanation I am about to give you of my present
pressing need of your kind services. You must know,
then, that we consider ourselves as the tenants of
Madame de Lucenay, and always pay our rent either to
herself or to Madame Simon, her hesid/emme de chamhre;
and, really, spite of some little impetuosity of temper,
Madame la Duchesse is so amiable that it is delightful
to have business with her. Dubreuil and I would go
through fire and water to serve her : but, la ! that is
only natural, considering we have known her from her
very cradle, and were accustomed to see her playing
about as a child during the visits she used annually to
pay to the estate during the lifetime of her late father,
the Prince de Noirmont. Latterly she has asked for
her rent in advance. Forty thousand francs is not
picked up by the roadside,' as the old proverb says;
but happily we had laid that sum by as Clara's dowry,
and the very next morning after the request reached us
we carried madame her money in bright, shining, golden
louis. These great ladies spend so much, you see, in
luxuries such as you and I have no idea of. Yet it is
164
THE LETTER.
only within the last twelvemonth Madame de Lucenay
has wished to be paid beforehand, she used always to
seem as though she had plenty of money ; but things are
very different now."
" Still, my dear Madame Dubreuil, I do not yet per-
ceive in what way I can possibly assist you."
" Don't be in a hurry ! I am just coming to that part
of my story ; but I was obliged to tell you all this that
you might be able to understand the entire confidence
Madame la Duchesse places in us. To be sure, she showed
her great regard for us by becoming, when only thirteen
years of age, Clara's godmother, her noble father stand-
ing as the other sponsor ; and, ever since, Madame de
Lucenay has loaded her godchild with presents and kind
attentions. But I must not keep you I see you are
impatient ; so I will at once proceed with the business
part of my tale. You must know, then, that last night
I received by express the following letter from Madame
de Lucenay :
" My Dear Madame Dubreuil :
" ' You must prepare the small pavilion in the orchard for
occupation by to-morrow evening. Send there all the requisite
furniture, such as carpets, curtains, etc., etc. Let nothing be
wanted to render it, in every respect, as comfortable as possible.'
" Do you mark the word ' comfortable,' Madame
Georges ? " inquired Madame Dubreuil, pausing in the
midst of her reading ; " it is even underlined." Then
looking up at her friend with a thoughtful, puzzled ex-
pression of countenance, and receiving no answer, she
continued the perusal of her letter :
" ' It is so long since the pavilion has been used that it will
require large and constant fires both night and day to remove
the dampness from the walls. I wish yon to behave in every re-
spect to the person who will occupy the apartments as you would
do to myself. And you will receive by the hands of the new
visitant a letter from me explanatory of all I expect from your
well-known zeal and attachment. I depend entirely on you and
165
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
feel every assurance that I may safely reckon on your fidelity
and desire to serve me. Adieu, my dear Madame Dubreuil;
remember me most kindly to my pretty goddaughter ; and believe
me ever,
" Yours, sincerely and truly,
" ' NOIRMONT DE LuCENAY.
" ' P. S. The person whom I so strongly recommend to your
best care and attention will arrive the day after to-morrow, about
dusk. Pray do your very utmost to render the pavilion as com-
fortaUe as you possibly can.'
" Comfortable again, you see, and underlined as be-
fore," said Madame Dubreuil, returning the letter of
Madame de Lucenay to her pocket.
" Well," replied Madame Georges, " all this is simple
enough ! "
" How do you mean, simple enough ? you cannot have
heard me read the letter. Madame la Duchesse wishes
particularly 'that the pavilion should be rendered as
comfortable as possible.' Now that is the very reason
of my asking you to come to me to-day ; Clara and I
have been knocking our heads together in vain to dis-
cover what ' comfortable ' can possibly mean, but without
being able to find it out. Yet it seems odd, too, that
Clara should not know its meaning, for she was several
years at school at Villiers le Bel, and gained a quantity
of prizes for history and geography ; however, she knows
as little as I do about that outlandish word. I dare say
it is only known at court, or in the fashionable world.
However, be that as it may, Madame la Duchesse has
thrown me into a pretty fuss by making use of it ; she
says, and you see twice repeats the words, and even
underlines it, ' that she requests I will furnish the pavil-
ion as comfortably as possible.' Now what are we to
do when we have not the slightest notion of the meaning
of that word ? "
"Well, heaven be praised, then, that I can relieve
your perplexity by solving this grand mystery ! " said
Madame Georges, smiling. " Upon the present occasion
166
THE LETTER.
the word comfortable merely means an assemblage of
neat, well-chosen, well-arranged, and convenient furni-
ture, so placed, in apartments well warmed and protected
from cold or damp, that the occupant shall find every
thing that is necessary combined with articles that to
some might seem superfluities."
" Thank you. I perfectly understand what comfortable
means as regards furnishing apartments ; but your expla-
nation only increases my difficulties."
" How so ? "
" Madame la Duchesse speaks of carpets, furniture,
and many et cceteras ; now we have no carpets here,
and our furniture is of the most homely description.
Neither can I make out by the letter whether the per-
son I am to expect is a male or female ; and yet every
thing must be prepared by to-morrow evening. What
shall I do ? What can I do ? I can get nothing here.
Really, Madame Georges, it is enough to drive one wild
to be placed in such an awkward situation."
" But, mother," said Clara, " suppose you take the
furniture out of my room, and whilst you are refurnish-
ing it I will go and pass a few days with dear Marie at
Bouqueval."
" My dear child, what nonsense you talk ! as if the
humble fittings-up of your chamber could equal what
Madame la Duchesse means by the word ' comfortable,' "
returned Madame Dubreuil, with a disconsolate shrug of
the shoulders. " Lord ! Lord ! why will fine ladies
puzzle poor folks like me by going out of their way to
find such expressions as comfortable ?"
" Then I presume the pavilion in question is ordina-
rily uninhabited ? " said Madame Georges.
" Oh, yes ! There, you see that small white building
at the end of the orchard that is it. The late Prince
de Noirmont, father of Madame la Duchesse, caused it
to be built for his daughter when, in her youthful days,
she was accustomed to visit the farm, and she then
167
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
occupied it. There are three pretty chambers in it, and
a beautiful little Swiss dairy at the end of the garden,
where, in her childish days, Madame la Duchesse used
to divert herself with feigning to manage. Since her
marriage, she has only been twice at the farm, but each
time she passed several hours in the pavilion. The
first time was about six years ago, and then she came
on horseback with " Then, as though the presence of
Clara and Fleur-de-Marie prevented her from saying
more, Madame Dubreuil interrupted herself by saying,
*' But I am talking instead of doing ; and that is not the
way to get out of my present difficulty. Come, dear,
good Madame Georges, and help a poOr bewildered
creature like myself ! "
" In the first place," answered Madame Georges,
"tell me how is this pavilion furnished at the present
moment."
" Oh, scarcely at all ! In the principal apartment
there is a straw matting on the centre of the floor ; a
sofa, and a few arm-chairs composed of rushes, a table,
and some chairs, comprise all the inventory, which, I
think you will allow, falls far short of the word
comfortable."
" Well, I tell you what I should do in your place.
Let me see ; it is eleven o'clock. I should send a
person on whom you can depend to Paris."
" Our overseer ! ^ There cannot be a more active,
intelligent person."
" Exactly ! just the right sort of messenger. Well,
in two hours at the utmost, he may be in Paris. Let
him go to some upholsterer in the Chauss^e d'Antin
never mind which and give him the list I will draw
out, after I have seen what is wanting for the pavilion ;
and let him be directed to say that, let the expense be
what it may "
1 A species of overseer employed in most of the large farming establish-
ments in the environs of Paris.
168
THE LETTER.
" I don't care about expense, if I can but satisfy the
duchess."
" The upholsterer, then, must be told that, at any
cost, he must see that every article named in the list
be sent here either this evening or before daybreak to-
morrow, with three or four of his most clever and active
workmen to arrange them as quickly as possible."
' They might come by the Gonesse diligence, which
leaves Paris at eight o'clock every evening."
" And as they would only have to place the furniture,
lay down carpets, and put up curtains, all that could
easily be done by to-morrow evening."
" Oh, my dear Madame Georges, what a load you have
taken off my mind ! I should never have thought of
this simple yet proper manner of proceeding. You are
the saving of me ! Now, may I ask you to be so kind
as to draw me out the list of articles necessary to render
the pavilion what is that hard word ? I never can
recollect it."
" Comfortable ! Yes, I will at once set about it, and
with pleasure."
" Dear me ! here is another difficulty. Don't you see
we are not told whether to expect a lady or a gentle-
man ? Madame de Lucenay, in her letter, only says ' a
person,' It is very perplexing, isn't it ? "
" Then make your preparations as if for a lady, my
dear Madame Dubreuil ; and, should it turn out a gentle-
man, why he will only have better reason to be pleased
with his accommodations."
" Quite right ; right again, as you always are.'^
A servant here announced that breakfast was
ready.
" Let breakfast wait a little," said Madame Georges.
" And, while I draw out the necessary list, send some
person you can depend upon to take the exact height
and width of the three rooms, that the curtains and
carpets may more easily be prepared."
169
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Thank you. I will set our overseer to work out
this commission."
" Madame," continued the servant, speaking to her
mistress, " the new dairy-woman from Stains is here
with her few goods in a small cart drawn by a donkey.
The beast has not a heavy load to complain of, for the
poor body's luggage seems but very trifling."
" Poor woman ! " said Madame Dubreuil, kindly.
"What woman is it ?" inquired. Madame Georges.
"A poor creature from Stains, who once had four
cows of her own, and used to go every morning to Paris
to sell her milk. Her husband was a blacksmith, and
one day accompanied her to Paris to purchase some iron
he required for his work, agreeing to rejoin her at the
corner of the street where she was accustomed to sell
her milk. Unhappily, as it afterwards turned out, the
poor woman had selected a very bad part of Paris ; for,
when her husband returned, he found her in the midst
of a set of wicked, drunken fellows, who had, for mere
mischief's sake, upset all her milk into the gutter. The
poor blacksmith tried to reason with them upon the
score of their unfair conduct, but that only made mat-
ters worse ; they all fell on the husband, who sought in
vain to defend himself from their violence. The end of
the story is, that, in the scuffle which ensued, the man
received a stab with a knife, which stretched him a
corpse before the eyes of his distracted wife."
" Dreadful, indeed ! " ejaculated Madame Georges.
" But, at least, the murderer was apprehended ? "
" Alas, no ! He managed to make his escape during
the confusion which ensued, though the unfortunate
widow asserts she should recognise him at any minute
she might meet him, having repeatedly seen him in com-
pany with his associates, inhabitants of that neighbour-
hood. However, up to the present hour all attempts
to discover him. have been useless. But, to end my tale,
I must tell you that, in consequence of the death of her
170
THE LETTER.
husband, the poor widow was compelled, in order to pay
various debts he had contracted, to sell not only her
cows but some little land he possessed. The bailiff of
the chateau at Stains recommended the poor creature to
me as a most excellent and honest woman, as deserving
as she was unfortunate, having three children to provide
for, the eldest not yet twelve years of age. 1 happened,
just then, to be in want of a first-rate dairy-woman,
therefore offered her the place, which she gladly ac-
cepted, and she has now come to take up her abode on
the farm."
" This act of real kindness on your part, my dear
Madame Dubreuil, does not surprise me, knowing you
as well as I do."
" Here, Clara," said Madame Dubreuil, as though
seeking to escape from the praises of her friend, " will
you go and show this good woman the way to the lodge
she is to occupy, while I hasten to explain to our over-
seer the necessity for his immediate departure for
Paris?"
" Willingly, dear mother ! Marie can come with me,
can she not ? "
" Of course," answered Madame Dubreuil, " if she
pleases." Then added, smilingly, "I wonder whether
you two girls could do one without the other ! "
"And now," said Madame Georges, seating herself
before a table, " I will at once begin my part of the
business, that no time may be lost; for we must posi-
tively return to Bouqueval at four o'clock."
" Dear me ! " exclaimed Madame Dubreuil ; " how
early ! Why, what makes you in such a hurry ? "
" Marie is obliged to be at the rectory by five
o'clock."
" Oh, if her return relates to that good Abb^ Laporte,
I am sure it is a sacred duty with which I would not
interfere for the world. Well, then, I will go and give
the necessary orders for everything being punctual to
171
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
that hour. Those two girls have so much to say to
each other that we must give them as much time as we
can."
" Then we shall leave you at three o'clock, my dear
Madame Dubreuil ? "
" Yes ; I promise not to detain you since you so posi-
tively wish it. But pray let me thank you again and
again for coming. What a good thing it was I thought
of sending to ask your kind assistance," rejoined
Madame Dubreuil. " Now then, Clara and Marie, off
with you ! "
As Madame Georges settled herself to her writing,
Madame Dubreuil quitted the room by a door on one
side, while the young friends, in company with the ser-
vant who had announced the arrival of the milkwoman
from Stains, went out by the opposite side.
" Where fs the poor woman ? " inquired Clara.
" There she is, mademoiselle, in the courtyard, near
the barns, with her children and her little donkey-cart."
" You shall see her, dear Marie," said Clara, taking
the arm of la Goualeuse. " Poor woman ! she looks so
pale and sad in her deep widow's mourning. The last
time she came here to arrange with my mother about
the place she made my heart ache. She wept bitterly
as she spoke of her husband ; then suddenly burst into
a fit of rage as she mentioned his murderer. Really,
she quite frightened me, she looked so desperate and
full of fury. But, after all, her resentment was natural.
Poor thing ! I am sure I pity her ; some people are very
unfortunate, are they not, Marie ? "
" Alas, yes, they are, indeed ! " replied the Goualeuse,
sighing deeply. " There are some persons who appear
born only to trouble and sorrow, as you justly observe,
Miss Clara."
" This is really very unkind of you, Marie," said
Clara, colouring with impatience and displeasure.
"This is the second time to-day you have called me
172
THE LETTER.
Miss Clara.' What can I have possibly done to offend
you ? For I am sure you must be angry with me, or
you would not do what you know vexes me so very
much."
" How is it possible that you could ever offend me ? "
" Then why do you say miss ? ' You know very
well that both Madame Georges and my mother have
scolded you for doing it. And I give you due warning,
if ever you repeat this great offence, I will have you
well scolded again. Now then, will you be good or
not ? Speak ! "
" Dear Clara, pray pardon me ! Indeed, I was not
thinking when I spoke."
" Not thinking ! " repeated Clara, sorrowfully. " What,
after eight long days' absence you cannot give me your
attention even for five minutes ? Not thinking ! That
would be bad enough ; but that is not it, Marie. And
I tell you what, it is my belief you are too proud to own
so humble a friend as myself."
Fleur-de-Marie made no answer, but her whole coun-
tenance assumed the pallor of death.
A woman, dressed as a widow, and in deep mourning,
had just caught sight of her, and uttered a cry of rage
and horror which seemed to freeze the poor girl's blood.
This woman was the person who supplied the Goualeuse
with her daily milk, during the time the latter dwelt
with the ogress at the tapis-franc.
The scene which ensued took place in one of the
yards belonging to the farm, in the presence of all the
labourers, both male and female, who chanced just then
to be returning to the house to take their mid-day meal.
Beneath a shed stood a small cart, drawn by a donkey,
and containing the few household possessions of the
widow ; a boy of about twelve years of age, aided by
two younger children, was beginning to unload the vehi-
cle. The milk-woman herself was a woman of about
forty years of age, her countenance coarse, masculine,
173
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
and expressive of great resolution. She was, as we
before stated, attired in the deepest mourning, and her
eyelids looked red and inflamed with recent weeping.
Her first impulse at the sight of the Goualeuse had been
terror; but quickly did that feeling change into grief
and rage, while the most violent anger contracted her
features. Rapidly darting towards the unhappy girl,
she seized her by the arm, and, presenting her to the
gaze of the farm servants, she exclaimed :
" Here is a creature who is accquainted with the
assassin of my poor husband ! I have seen her more
than twenty times speaking to the ruffian when I was
selling my milk at the corner of the Rue de la Yieille-
Draperie ; she used to come to buy a ha'porth every
morning. She knows well enough who it was struck
the blow that made me a widow, and my poor children
fatherless. ' Birds of a feather flock together,' and such
loose characters as she is are sure to be linked in with
thieves and murderers. Oh, you shall not escape me,
you abandoned wretch ! " cried the milk- woman, who
had now lashed herself into a perfect fury, and who,
seeing poor Fleur-de-Marie confused and terror-stricken
at this sudden attack, endeavouring to escape from it
by flight, grasped her fiercely by the other arm also.
Clara, almost speechless with surprise and alarm at this
outrageous conduct, had been quite incapable of inter-
fering ; but this increased violence on the part of the
widow seemed to restore her to herself, and angrily
addressing the woman she said :
" What is the meaning of this improper behaviour ?
Are you out of your senses ? Has grief turned your
brain ? Good woman, I pity you ! But let us pass on ;
you are mistaken."
" Mistaken ! " repeated the woman, with a bitter smile.
" Me mistaken ! No, no, there is no mistake ! Just look
at her pale, guilty looks ! Hark how her very teeth rattle
in her head ! Ah, she knows well enough there is no
174
THE LETTER.
mistake ! Ah, you may hold your wicked tongue if you
like, but justice will find a way to make you speak.
You shall go with me before the mayor ; do you hear ?
Oh, it is not worth while resisting ! I have good strong
wrists ; I can hold you. And sooner than you should
escape I would carry you every step of the way."
" You good-for-nothing, insolent woman ! How dare
you presume to speak in this way to my dear friend and
sister ? "
" Your sister. Mile. Clara ! Believe me, it is you who
are deceived it is you who have lost your senses,"
bawled the enraged milk-woman, in a loud, coarse voice.
" Your sister ! A likely story a girl out of the streets,
who was the companion of the very lowest wretches in
the worst part of the Cite, should be a sister of yours ! "
At these words the assembled labourers, who naturally
enough took that part in the affair which concerned a
person of their own class, and who really sympathised
with the bereaved milk-woman, gave utterance to deep,
threatening words, in which the name of Fleur-de-Marie
was angrily mingled. The three children, hearing their
mother speaking in a loud tone, and fearing they knew
not what, ran to her, and, clinging to her dress, burst
out into a loud fit of weeping. The sight of these poor
little fatherless things, dressed also in deep mourning,
increased the pity of the spectators for the unfortunate
widow, while it redoubled their indignation against Fleur-
de-Marie ; while Clara, completely frightened by these
demonstrations of approaching violence, exclaimed, in an
agitated tone, to a group of farm labourers :
" Take this woman off the premises directly ! Do you
not perceive grief has driven her out of her senses ?
Marie ! dear Marie ! never mind what she says. She is
mad, poor creature, and knows not what she does ! "
The poor Goualeuse, pale, exhausted, and almost faint-
ing, made no effort to escape from the powerful grasp of
the incensed milk-woman ; she hung her head, as though
175
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
unable or unwilling to meet the gaze of friend or foe.
Clara, attributing her condition to the terror excited by
so alarming a scene, renewed her commands to the
labourers, " Did you not hear me desire that this mad
woman might be instantly taken away from the farm ?
However, unless she immediately ceases her rude and
insolent language, I can promise her, by way of punish-
ment, she shall neither have the situation my mother
promised her nor ever be suffered to put her foot on the
premises again."
Not a person stirred to obey Clara's orders ; on the
contrary, one of the boldest among the party exclaimed :
" Well, but. Miss Clara, if your friend there is only a
common girl out of the streets, and, as such, acquainted
with the murderer of this poor woman's husband, surely
she ought to go before the mayor to give an account of
herself and her bad companions ! "
" I tell you," repeated Clara, with indignant warmth,
and addressing the milk-woman, " you shall never enter
this farm again unless you this very instant, and before
all these people, humbly beg pardon of Mile. Marie for
all the wicked things you have been saying about her ! "
" You turn me off the premises then, mademoiselle, do
you ? " retorted the widow with bitterness. *' Well, so
be it. Come, my poor children, let us put the things
back in the cart, and go and seek our bread elsewhere.
God will take care of us. But, at least, when we go, we
will take this abandoned young woman with us. She
shall be made to tell the mayor, if she won't us, who it
was that took away your dear father's life ; for she knows
well enough she who was the daily companion of the
worst set of ruffians who infest Paris. And you, miss,"
added she, looking spitefully and insolently at Clara,
"you should not, because you choose to make friends
with low girls out of the streets, and because you happen
to be rich, be quite so hard-hearted and unfeeling to poor
creatures like me ! "
176
THE LETTER.
" No more she ought," exclaimed one of the labourers ;
" the poor woman is right ! "
" Of course she is, she is only standing up for her
own ! '^
" Poor thing, she has no one now to do so for her !
Why, they have murdered her husband among them ! I
should think that might content them, without trampling
the poor woman under foot.'*
" One comfort is, nobody can stop her from doing all
in her power to bring the murderers of her husband to
justice."
" It is a shame to send her away in this manner, like
a dog ! "
" Can she help it, poor creature, if Miss Clara thinks
proper to take up with common girls and thieves, and
make them her companions?"
" Infamous to turn an honest woman, a poor widow
with helpless children, into the streets for such a base
girl as that!"
These different speeches, uttered nearly simultane-
ously by the surrounding crowd, were rapidly assuming
a most hostile and threatening tone, when Clara joyfully
exclaimed :
" Thank God, here comes my mother ! "
It was, indeed, Madame Dubreuil, who was crossing
the courtyard on her return from the pavilion.
" Now, then, my children," said Madame Dubreuil,
gaily approaching the assembled group, " will you come
in to breakfast ? I declare it is quite late ! I dare say
you are both hungry ? Come, Marie ! Clara ! "
" Mother," cried Clara, pointing to the widow, " you
are fortunately just in time to save my dear sister Marie
from the insults and violence of that woman. Oh, pray
order her away instantly ! If you only knew what she
had the audacity to say to Marie ! "
" Impossible, Clara ! "
" Nay, but, dear mother, only look at my poor dear
177
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
sister ! See how she trembles ! She can scarcely support
herself. Oh, it is a shame and disgrace such conduct
should ever have been offered to a guest of ours ! My
dear, dear friend Marie, dear ! look up, and say
you are not angry with us. Pray tell me you will
try and forget it ! "
" What is the meaning of all this ? " inquired Madame
Dubreuil, looking around her with a disturbed and un-
easy look, after having observed the despairing agony of
the Goualeuse.
" Ah, now we shall have justice done the poor widow
woman ! " murmured the labourers. " Madame will see
her righted, no doubt about it ! "
" Now, then," exclaimed the milk-woman, exultingly,
" here is Madame Dubreuil. Now, my fine miss," con-
tinued she, addressing Fleur-de-Marie, " you will have
your turn of being turned out-of-doors ! "
" Is it true, then," cried Madame Dubreuil, addressing
the widow, who still kept firm hold of Fleur-de-Marie's
arm, " that you have dared to insult my daughter's
friend, as she asserts ? Is this the way you show your
gratitude for all I have done to serve you ? Will you
leave that young Icody alone ? "
" Yes, madame," replied the woman, relinquishing her
grasp of Fleur-de-Marie, " at your bidding I will ; for I
respect you too much to disobey you. And, besides,
I owe you much gratitude for all your kindness to a
poor, friendless creature like myself. But, before you
blame me, and drive me off the premises with my poor
children, just question that wretched creature that has
caused all this confusion what she knows of me. I know
a pretty deal more of her than is to her credit ! "
" For Heaven's sake, Marie," exclaimed Madame
Dubreuil, almost petrified with astonishment, " What
does this woman allude to ? Do you hear what she says ? "
" Are you, or are you not known by the name of
the Goualeuse?" said the milk-woman to Marie.
178
THE LETTER.
"Yes," said the wretched girl, in a low, trembling
voice, and without venturing to lift up her eyes to-
wards Madame Dubreuil, "yes, I am called so."
" There you see ! " vociferated the enraged labourers.
" She owns it ! she owns it ! "
"What does she own?" inquired Madame Dubreuil,
half frightened at the assent given by Fleur-de-Marie.
" Leave her to me, madame," resumed the widow,
" and you shall hear her confess that she was living in
a house of the most infamous description in the Rue-
aux-Feves in the Cit^, and that she every morning pur-
chased a half-pennyworth of milk of me. She cannot
deny either having repeatedly spoken in my presence to
the murderer of my })oor husl)aud. Oh, she knows him
well enough, I am quite certain ; a pale young man,
who smoked a good deal, and always wore a cap and
a blouse, and wore his hair very long; she could tell
his name if she chose. Is this true, or is it a lie ? "
vociferously demanded the milk-woman.
" I may have spoken to the man who killed your hus-
band," answered Fleur-de-Marie, in a faint voice ; " for,
unhappily, there are more than one in the Cit^ capa-
ble of such a crime. But, indeed, I know not of
whom you are speaking ! "
" What does she say ? " asked Madame Dubreuil, hor-
ror-struck at her words. " She admits having possibly
conversed with murderers ? "
" Oh, such lost wretches as she is," replied the widow,
" have no better companions ! "
At first, utterly stupefied by so singular a discovery,
confirmed, indeed, by Flcur-de-Marie's own admission,
Madame Dubreuil seemed almost incapable of compre-
hending the scene before her; but quickly the whole
truth presented itself to her mental vision, and shrinking
from the unfortunate girl with horror and disgust, she
hastily seized her daughter by the dress, as she was
about to sustain the sinking form of the poor Goua-
179
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
leuse, and, drawing her towards her with sudden violence,
she exclaimed :
" Clara ! For Heaven's sake approach not that vile,
that abandoned young woman ! Oh, dreadful, indeed,
ever to have admitted her here ! But how came Ma-
dame Georges to have her under her roof ? And how
could she so far insult me as to bring her here, and
allow my daughter to This is, indeed, disgraceful !
I hardly know whether to trust the evidence of my own
senses. But Madame Georges must have been as much
imposed on as myself, or she never would have permitted
such an indignity ! No, no ! She is incapable of such
dishonourable conduct. It would, indeed, be a disgrace
for one female so to have deceived another."
Poor Clara, terrified and almost heart-broken at this
distressing scene, could scarcely believe herself awake.
It seemed as though she were under the influence of a
fearful dream. Her innocent and pure mind compre-
hended not the frightful charges brought against her
friend ; but she understood enough to till her with the
most poignant grief at the unfortunate position of La
Goualeuse, who stood mute, passive and downcast, like
a criminal in the presence of the judge.
" Come, come, my child," repeated Madame Dubreuil,
" let us quit this disgraceful scene." Then, turning
towards Fleur-de-Marie, she said :
'' As for you, worthless girl, the Almighty will punish
you as you deserve for your deceit! That my child,
good and virtuous as she is, should ever have been
allowed to call you sister or friend. Her sister ! You
the very vilest of the vile ! the outcast of the most
depraved and lost wretches ! What hardihood, what
effrontery you must have possessed, to dare to show
your face among good and honest people, when your
proper place would have been along with your bad
companions in a prison ! "
" Ay, ay ! " cried all the labourers at once ; " let her
180
THE LETTER.
be sent off to prison at once. She knows the murderer I
Let her be made to declare who and what he is."
" She is most likely his accomplice ! "
" You see," exclaimed the widow, doubling her fist in
the face of the Goualeusc, " that my words have come
true. Justice will overtake you before you can commit
other crimes."
" As for you, my good woman," said Madame Dubreuil
to the milk-woman, " far from sending you away 1 shall
reward you for the service you have done me in unmask-
ing this infamous girl's real character."
" There, 1 told you," murmured the voices of the
labourers, "-our mistress always does justice to every
one ! "
" Come, Clara," resumed Madame Dubreuil, " let us
retire and seek Madame Georges, that she may clear up
her share of this disgraceful business, or she and I never
meet again ; for either she has herself been most dread-
fully deceived, or her conduct towards us is of the very
worst description."
" But, mother, only look at poor Marie ! "
" Oh, never mind her ! Let her die of shame, if she
likes, there will be one wicked, hardened girl less in
the world. Treat her with the contempt she deserves.
I will not suffer you to remain another instant where
she is. It is impossible for a young person like you to
notice her in any way without disgracing herself."
" My dear mother," answered Clara, resisting her
mother's attempts to draw her away, " I do not under-
stand what you mean. Marie must be wrong in some
way, since you say so I But look, only look at her
she is fainting ! Pity her ! Oh, mother, let her be ever
so guilty, pray take pity on her present distress ! "
" Oh, Mile. Clara, you are good very, very good
to pardon me and care for me," uttered poor Fleur-
de-Marie, in a faint voice, casting a look of unutter-
able gratitude on her young protectress. Believe me,
181
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
it was sorely against my will ever to deceive you ; and
daily, hourly, have I reproached myself for so doing."
" Mother," exclaimed Clara, in the most piteous tones,
" are you then so merciless ? Can you not pity her ? "
" Pity ! " returned Madame Dubreuil, scornfully. " No,
I waste no pity on such as she is. Come, I say ! Were
it not that I consider it the office of Madame Georges to
clear the place of so vile a creature, I would have her
spurned from the doors, as though she carried the
plague about with her." So saying, the angry mother
seized her daughter's hand, and, spite of all her strug-
gles, led her away, Clara continually turning back her
head, and saying :
" Marie, my sister, I know not what they accuse you
of, but I am quite convinced of your innocence. Be
assured of my constant love, whatever they may say
or do,"
" Silence ! silence ! I command ! " cried Madame Du-
breuil, placing her hand over her daughter's mouth.
" Speak not another word, I insist ! Fortunately, we
have plenty of witnesses to testify that, after the odious
discovery we have just made, you were not suffered to
remain a single -nstant with this lost and unfortunate
young woman. You can all answer for that, can you
not, my good people ? " continued she, speaking to the
assembled labourers.
" Yes, yes, madame," replied one of them, " w^e all
know well enough that Mile. Clara was not allowed to
stop with this bad girl a single instant after you found
out her wickedness. No doubt she is a thief or she
would not be so intimate with murderers."
Madame Dubreuil led Clara to the house, while the
Goualeuse remained in the midst of the hostile circle
which had now formed around her. Spite of the
reproaches of Madame Dubreuil, her presence, and that
of Clara, had, in some degree, served to allay the fears
of Fleur-de-Marie as to the probable termination of the
182
rHE LETTER.
scene. But, after the departure of both mother and
daughter, when she found herself so entirely at the
mercy of the enraged crowd, her strength seemed to
foi-sake her, and she was obliged to k(^ep herself from
falling by leaning on the parapet of the deep watering-
place where the farm cattle were accustomed to drink.
Nothing could be conceived more touching than the
attitude of the unfortunate girl, nor could a more threat-
ening appearance have been displayed than was exhibited
in the words and looks of the countrymen and women
who surrounded her. Seated, or rather supporting her-
self on the narrow margin of the wall which enclosed
the drinking-place, her head hanging down, and con-
cealed by both hands, her neck and bosom hid by the
ends of the little red cotton handkerchief which was
twisted around her cap, the poor Goualeuse, mute and
motionless, presented a most touching picture of grief
and resignation.
At some little distance from Fleur-de-Marie stood the
widow of the murdered man. Triumphant in her vin-
dictive rage, and still further excited by the indignation
expressed by Madame Dubreuil, she pointed out the
wretched object of her wrath to the labourers and her
children, with gestures of contempt and detestation.
The farm servants, who had now formed into a close
circle, sought not to conceal their disgust and thirst for
vengeance ; their rude countenances expressed at once
rage, desire for revenge, and a sort of insulting raillery.
The women were even still more bitter, and bent upon
mischief. Neither did the striking beauty of the Goua-
leuse tend to allay their wrath. But neither men nor
women could pardon Fleur-de-Marie the heinous offence
of having, up to that hour, been treated by their supe-
riors as an equal ; and some of the men now present,
having been unsuccessful candidates for the vacant situ-
ations at Bouqueval, and attributing their failure to
Madame Georges, when, in reality, their disappointment
183
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
arose entirely from their recommendations not being
sufficiently satisfactory, determined to avail themselves
of the opportunity now before them to wreak their vex-
ation and ill-will on the head of one she was known
to protect and love. The impulses of ignorant minds
always lead to extremes either of good or bad. But
they speedily put on a most dangerous form, when the
fury of an enraged multitude is directed against those
who may already have awakened their personal anger
or aversion.
Although the greater number of the labourers now
collected together might not have been so strictly virtu-
ous and free from moral blame as to be justified in
throwing the first stone at the trembling, fainting girl,
who was the object of all their concentrated wrath, yet,
on the present occasion, they unanimously spoke and
acted as though her very presence was capable of con-
taminating them ; and their delicacy and modesty alike
revolted at the bare recollection of the depraved class to'
which she had belonged, and they shuddered to be so
near one who confessed to having frequently conversed
with assassins. Nothing, then, was wanting to urge on-
a blind and prejud'ced crowd, still further instigated by
the example of Madame Dubreuil.
" Take her before the mayor ! " cried one.
" Ay, ay ! and, if she won't walk, we'll drag her.''
" And for her to have the impudence to dress herself
like one of us honest girls ! " said an awkward, ill-look-
ing farm-wench.
" I'm sure," rejoined another female, with her mock-
modest air, " one might have thought she would go to
heaven, spite of priest or confession ! "
" Why, she had the assurance even to attend mass ! "
" No ! Did she ? Why did she not join in the com-
munion afterwards then, I should like to know ? "
" And then she must play the young lady, and hold
up her head as high as our betters ! "
184
THE LETTP]R.
" As though we were not good company enough for
her ! "
" However, every dog has his day ! "
" Oh, I'll make you find your tongue, and tell who it
was took my husband's life ! " vociferated the enraged
widow, breaking out into a fresh storm, now she felt her
party so strong. " You all belong to one gang ; and Fm
not sure but I saw you among them at the very time
and place when the bloody deed was done I Come,
come ; don't stand there shedding your crocodile tears ;
you are found out, and may as well leave off shamming
any more. Show your face, I say ! You are a beauty,
ain't you ? " And the infuriated woman, suiting the
action to the word, violently snatched the two hands of
poor Fleur-de-Marie from the pale and grief-worn coun-
tenance they concealed, and down which tears were fast
streaming.
The Goualeuse, sinking under a sense of shame, and
terrified at finding herself thus at the mercy of her per-
secutors, joined her hands, and, turning towards the
milk-woman her supplicating and timid looks, she said,
in a gentle voice :
" Indeed, indeed, madam, I have been at the farm of
Bouqueval these last two months. How could I, then,
have been witness to the dreadful misfortune you speak
of ? And "
The faint tones of Fleur-de-Marie's voice were
drowned in the loud uproarious cries of the sur-
rounding multitude.
" Let us take her before the mayor ! She can speak ;
and she shall, too, to some purpose. March, march, my
fine madam ! On with you ! '*'
So saying, the menacing crowd pressed upon the poor
girl, who, mechanically crossing her hands on her bosom,
looked eagerly around, as though in search of help.
"Oh," cried the milk-woman, "you need not stare
about in that wild way. Mile. Clara is not here
185
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
now to take your part. You don't slip through my
fingers, I promise you ! "
" Alas ! madam," uttered Fleur-de-Marie, trembling
violently, " I ^eek not to escape from you. Be assured,
I am both ready and willing to answer all the questions
put to me, if I can be of any service to you by so
doing. But what harm have I done to these people,
who surround and threaten me in this manner ? ''
'' What have you done ? " repeated a number of
voices, " why, you have dared to stick yourself up with
our betters, when we, who were worth thousands more
than such as you, were made to keep our distance,
that's what you have done ! "
" And what right had you to cause this poor woman
to be turned away with her fatherless children ? " cried
another.
" Indeed, it was no fault of mine. It was Mile.
Clara, who wished "
" That is not true ! " interrupted the speaker. " You
never even opened your mouth in her favour. No, not
you ? You were too well pleased to see her bread taken
from her."
" No, no ! no more she did," chimed in a burst of
voices, male and female.
" She is a regular bad one ! "
" A poor widow- woman, with three helpless children ! "
" If I did not plead for her with Mile. Clai-a, it was
because I had not power to utter a word."
" You could find strength enough to talk to a set of
thieves and murderers ! "
And, as is frequently the case in public commotions,
the country people, more ignorant than vicious, actually
talked themselves into a fury, until their own words and
violence excited them to fresh acts of rage and vengeance
against their imhappy victim.
The menacing throng, gesticulating, and loudly threat-
ening, advanced closer and closer towards Fleur-de-
186
THE LETTER.
Marie, while the widow appeared to have lost all
command over herself. Separated from the deep [)ond
only by the parapet on which she was leaning, the
Goualeuse shuddered at the idea of their throwing
her into the water ; and, extending towards them her
supplicating hands, she exclaimed :
" Good, kind people ! what do you want with me ?
For pity's sake do not harm me ! "
And as the milk-woman, with fierce and angry ges-
tures, kept coming nearer and nearer, holding her
clenched fist almost in the face of Fleur-de-Marie, the
poor girl, drawing herself back in terror, said, in
beseeching tones :
" Fray, pray, do not press so closely on me, or you
will cause me to fall into the water."
These words suggested a cruel idea to the rough spec-
tators. Intending merely one of those practical jokes
which, however diverting to the projectors, are fraught
with serious harm and suffering to the unfortunate
object of them, one of the most violent of the number
called out, " Let's give her a plunge in ! Duck her !
duck her ! "
" Yes, yes ! " chimed several voices, accompanied with
brutal laughter, and noisy clapping of hands, with other
tokens of unanimous approval. " Throw her in ! in
with her ! "
" A good dip will do her good 1 Water won't kill
her!"
" That will teach her not to show her face among
honest people again ! "
" To be sure. Toss her in ! fling her over ! "
" Fortunately, the ice was broken this morning ! "
" And when she has had her bath she may go and tell
her street companions how the folks at Arnouville farm
serve such vile girls as she is ! "
As these unfeeling speeches reached her ear, as she
heard their barbarous jokes, and observed the exas-
187
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
perated looks of the brutally excited individuals who
approached her to carry their threat into execution,
Fleur-de-Marie gave herself over for lost. But to her
first horror of a violent death succeeded a sort of gloomy
satisfaction. The future wore so threatening and hope-
less an aspect for her that she thanked heaven for
shortening her trial. Not another complaining word
escaped her ; but gently falling on her knees, and piously
folding her hands upon her breast, she closed her eyes,
and meekly resigned herself to her fate.
The labourers, surprised at the attitude and mute
resignation of the Goualeuse, hesitated a moment in the
accomplishment of their savage design ; but, rallied on
their folly and irresolution by the female part of the
assemblage, they recommenced their uproarious cries, as
though to inspire themselves with the necessary courage
to complete their wicked purpose.
Just as two of the most furious of the party were
about to seize on Fleur-de-Marie a loud, thrilling voice
was heard, exclaiming :
" Stop ! I command you ! "
And at the very instant Madame Georges, who had
forced a passage through the crowd, reached the still
kneeling Goualeuse, took her in her arms, and, raising
her, cried :
" Rise up, my child ! Stand up, my beloved daughter !
the knee should be bent to God alone ! "
The expression and attitude of Madame Georges were
so full of courageous firmness that the actors in this
cruel scene shrunk back speechless and confounded.
Indignation coloured her usually pale features, and
casting on the labourers a stern look she said to
them, in a loud and threatening voice:
" Wretches ! Are you not ashamed of such brutal
conduct to a helpless girl like this ? "
"She is"
'' My daughter ! " exclaimed Madame Georges, with
188
THE LETTER
severity, and abruptly interrupting the man who was
about to speak, " and, as such, both cheiished and
protected by our worthy cur(^, M. I'Abb^ Laporte,
whom every one venerates and loves ; and those whom he
loves and esteems ought to be res})ected by every one ! "
These simple words effectually imposed silence on the
crowd. The cure of Bouqueval was looked upon through-
out his district almost as a saint, and many there pres-
ent were well aware of the interest he took in the
Goualeuse. Still a confused murmur went on, and
Madame Georges, fully comprehending its import,
added :
" Suppose this poor girl were the very worst of crea-
tures the most abandoned of her sex your conduct
is not the less disgraceful ! What offence has she com-
mitted ? And what right have you to punish her ?
you, who call yourselves men, to exert your strength
and power against one poor, feeble, unresisting female I
Surely it was a cowardly action all to unite against a
defenceless girl ! Come, Marie ! come, child of my
heart ! let us return home ; there, at least, you are
known, and justly appreciated."
Madame Georges took the arm of Fleur-de-Marie,
while the labourers, ashamed of their conduct, the im-
propriety of which they now perceived, respectfully dis-
persed. The widow alone remained ; and, advancing
boldly to Madame Georges, she said, in a resolute tone :
" I don't care for a word you say ; and, as for this
girl, she does not quit this place until after she has
deposed before the mayor as to all she knows of my
poor husband's murder."
" My good woman ! " said Madame Georges, restrain-
ing herself by a violent effort, " my daughter has no
deposition to make here, but, at any future period that
justice may require her testimony let her be summoned,
and she shall attend with myself ; until then no person
has a right to question her."
18d
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" But, madame, I say *'
Madame Georges prevented the milk-woman from pro-
ceeding by replying, in a severe tone :
" The severe affliction you have experienced can
scarcely excuse your conduct, and you will one day
regret the violence you have so improperly excited. Mile.
Marie lives with me at the Bouqueval farm ; inform the
judge who received your deposition of that circumstance,
and say that we await his further orders."
The widow, unable to argue against words so temper-
ately and wisely spoken, seated herself on the parapet of
the drinking-place, and, embracing her children, began
to weep bitterly. Almost immediately after this scene
Pierre brought the chaise, into which Madame Georges
and Fleur-de-Marie mounted, to return to Bouqueval.
As they passed before the farmhouse of Arnouville,
the Goualeuse perceived Clara, who had hid herself be-
hind a partly closed shutter, weeping bitterly. She was
evidently watching for a last glimpse of her friend, to
whom she waved her handkerchief in token of farewell.
" Ah, madame ! what shame to me, and vexation to
you, has arisen this morning from our visit to Arnou-
ville ! " said Fleui -de-Marie to her adopted parent, when
they found themselves in the sitting-room at Bouqueval ;
" you have probably quarrelled for ever with Madame
Dubreuil, and all on my account ! Oh, I foresaw some-
thing terrible was about to happen ! God has justly pun-
ished me for deceiving that good lady and her daughter I
I am the unfortunate cause of perpetual disunion between
yourself and your friend."
" My dear child, my friend is a warm-hearted, excel-
lent woman, but rather weak ; still I know her too well
not to feel certain that by to-morrow she will regret her
foolish violence of to-day."
" Alas ! madame, think not that I wish to take her
part in preference to yours. No, God forl)id ! but par-
don me if I say that I fear your great kindness towards
190
THE LETTER.
me has induced you to shut your eyes to Put your-
self in the place of Madame Dubreuil to be told that
the companion of your darling daughter was what I
was Ah, could any one blame such natural indig-
nation ? "
Unfortunately Madame Georges could not find any
satisfactory reply to this question of Fleur-de-Marie's,
who continued with much excitement:
" Soon will the degrading scene of yesterday be in
everybody's mouth ! I fear not for myself, but who
can tell how far it may affect the reputation of Mile.
Clara ? Who can answer for it that I may not have tar-
nished her fair fame for ever ? for did she not, in the
face of the assembled crowd, persist in calling me her
friend her sister ? I ought to have obeyed my first
impulse, and resisted the affection which attracted me
towards Mile. Dubreuil, and, at the risk of incurring
her dislike, have refused the friendship she offered me.
But I forgot the distance which separated me frond
her, and now, as you perceive, I am suffering the just
penalty ; I am punished oh, how cruelly punished ! for
I have perhaps done an irreparable injury to one so vir-
tuous and so good."
" My child," said Madame Georges, after a brief si-
lence, " you are wrong to accuse yourself so cruelly.
'Tis true your past life has been guilty very highly so ;
but are we to reckon as nothing your having, by the sin-
cerity of your repentance, obtained the protection and
favour of our excellent cur^ ? and was it not under his
auspices and mine you were introduced to Madame Du-
breuil ? and did not your own amiable qualities inspire
her with the attachment she so voluntarily professed for
you ? was it not she herself who requested you to call
Clara your sister ? and, finally, as I told her just now, for
I neither wished nor ought to conceal the whole truth
from her, how could I, certain as I felt of your sincere
repentance how could I, by divulging the past, render
191
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
your attempts to reinstate yourself more painful and dif-
ficult, perhaps impossible, by throwing you, in despair of
being again received by the good and virtuous, back
upon the scorn and derision of those who, equally guilty,
equally unfortunate as you have been, would not perhaps
like you have preserved the secret instinct of honour and
virtue ? The disclosure made by the woman to-day is
alike to be lamented and feared ; but could I, in antici-
pation of an almost impossible casualty, sacrifice your
preseuo comfort and future repose ? "
'' Ah, madame, a convincing proof of the false and
miserable position I must ever hold may be found in the
fact of your being obliged to conceal the past ; and that
the mother of Clara despises me for that past ; views me
in the same contemptuous light all will henceforward
behold me, for the scene at the farm of Arnouville will
be quickly spread abroad, every one will hear of it !
Oh, I shall die with shame ! never again can I meet the
looks of any human being ! "
" Not even mine, my child ? " said Madame Georges^
bursting into tears, and opening her arms to Fleur-de-
Marie, " you will never find in my heart any other feel-
ing than the devoted tenderness of a mother. Courage,
then, dear Marie ! console yourself with the knowledge
of your hearty and sincere repentance ; you are here sur-
rounded with true and affectionate friends, let this home
be your world. We will anticipate the exposure you
dread so much ; our w^orthy abb^ shall assemble the peo-
ple about the farm, who all regard you with love and
respect, and he shall tell them the sad history of your
past life ; and, trust me, my child, told as the tale
would be by him, whose word is law here, such a dis-
closure will but serve to increase the interest all take in
your welfare."
'' I would fain think so, dear madame, and I submit
myself. Yesterday, when we were conversing together,
M. le Cur^ predicted to me that I should be called upon
192
THE LETTER.
painfully to expiate my past offences ; 1 ought not, there-
fore, to be astonished at their commencement, fie told
me also that my earthly trials would be accepted as
some atonement for the great wrong I have done ; I
would fain hope so. Supported through these painful
ordeals by you and my venerable pastor, I will not I
ought not to complain."
" You will go to his presence ere long, and never will
his counsels have been more valuable to you. It is
already half-past four ; prepare yourself for your visit
to the rectory, my child. I shall employ myself in
writing to M. Rodolph an account of what occurred at
the farm at Arnouville, and send my letter off by
express; I will then join you at our venerable abba's,
for it is most important we should talk over matters
together."
Shortly after the Goualeuse quitted the farm in
order to repair to the rectory by the hollow road,
where the old woman, the Schoolmaster, and Tortillard.
had agreed to meet.
As may have been perceived in her conversations
with Madame Georges and the cur^ of Bouqueval, Fleur-
de-Marie had so nobly profited by the example of her
benefactors, so assimilated herself with their principles,
that, remembering her past degradation, she daily be-
came more hopeless of recovering the place she had lost
in society. As her mind expanded so did her fine and
noble instincts arrive at mature growth, and bring forth
worthy fruits in the midst of the atmosphere of honour
and purity in which she lived. Had she possessed a
less exalted mind, a less exquisite sensibility, or an
imagination of weaker quality, Fleur-de-Marie might
easily have been comforted and consoled ; but, unfortu-
nately, not a single day passed in which she did not
recall, and almost live over again, with an agony of
horror and disgust, the disgraceful miseries of her past
193
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
life. Let the reader figure to himself a young creature
of sixteen, candid and pure, and rejoicing in that very
candour and purity, thrown, by frightful circumstances,
into the infamous den of the ogress, and irrecoverably
subjected to the dominion of such a fiend, such was
the reaction of the past on the present on Fleur-de-
Marie's mind. Let us still further display the resentful
retrospect, or, rather, the moral agony with which the
Goualeuse suffered so excruciatingly, by saying that she
regretted, more frequently than she had courage to own
to the cure, the not having perished in the midst of the
slough of wickedness by which she was encompassed.
However little a person may reflect, or however lim-
ited his knowledge of life may be, he will not refuse to
assent to our remarks touching the commiseration which
such a case as Fleur-de-Marie's fully called for. She
was deserving of both interest and pity, not only because
she had never known what it was to have her affections
fairly roused, but because all her senses were torpid,
and as yet unawakened by noble impulses untaught,
unaided, unadvised. Is it not wonderful that this unfor-
tunate girl, thrown at the tender age of sixteen years in
the midst of the herd of savage and demoralised beings
who infest the Cit^, should have viewed her degrading
position with horror and disgust, and have escaped from
the sink of iniquity morally pure and free from sin ?
194
CHAPTER X.
THE HOLLOW WAY.
The sun was descending, and the fields were silent
and deserted. Fleur-dc-Marie had reached the entrance
to the hollow way, which it was necessary to cross in
her walk to the rectory, when she saw a little lame lad,
dressed in a gray blouse and blue cap, come out of the
ravine. He appeared in tears, and directly he saw the
Goualeuse he ran towards her.
" Oh, good lady, have pity on me, I pray ! " he ex-
claimed, clasping his hands with a supplicating look.
" What do you want ? What is the matter with you,
my poor boy ? " said the Goualeuse, with an air of
interest.
" Alas, good lady ! my poor grandmother, who is
very, very old, has fallen down in trying to climb up the
ravine, and hurt herself very much. I am afraid she
has broken her leg, and I am too weak to lift her up
myself. Mon Dieu! what shall I do if you will not
come and help me ? Perhaps my poor grandmother will
die ! "
The Goualeuse, touched with the grief of the little
cripple, replied :
" I am not v^ery strong myself, my child ; but perhaps
I can help you to assist your poor grandmother. Let us
go to her as quickly as we can ! I live at the farm
close by here ; and, if the poor old woman cannot walk
there with us, I will send somebody to help her ! "
" Oh, good lady, le hon Dieu will bless you for your
195
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
kindness ! It is close by here not two steps down
this hollow way, as I told you. It was in going down
the slope that she fell."
" You do not belong to this part of the country ? "
said the Goualeuse, inquiringly following Tortillard,
whom our readers have, no doubt, recognised.
" No, good lady, we came from Ecouen."
" And where are you going ? "
*' To a good clergyman's, who lives on the hill out
there," said Bras Rouge's son, to increase Fleur-de-
Marie's confidence.
" To the Abb^ Laport's, perhaps ? "
" Yes, good lady ; to the Abb^ Laport's. My poor
grandmother knows him very, very well.'*
" And I was going there also. How strange that we
should meet," said Fleur-de-Marie, advancing still far-
ther into the hollow way.
" Grandmamma, I'm coming, I'm coming ! Take
courage, and I will bring you help ! " cried Tortillard, to
forewarn the Schoolmaster and the Chouette to prepare
themselves to lay hands on their victim.
" Your grandmother, then, did not fall down far off
from here ? " inquired the Goualeuse.
" No, good lady ; behind that large tree there, where
the road turns, about twenty paces from here."
Suddenly Tortillard stopped.
The noise of a horse galloping was heard in the silence
of the place.
" All is lost again ! " said Tortillard to himself.
The road made a very sudden bend a few yards from
the spot where Bras Rouge's son was with the Goua-
leuse. A horseman appeared at the angle, and when he
came nigh to the young girl he stopped. And then was
heard the trot of another horse ; and some moments
after there followed a groom in a brown coat with sil-
ver buttons, white leather breeches, and top-boots. A
leathern belt secured around his waist his master's mac-
196
THE HOLLOW WAY.
ill tosh. His master was dressed simply in a stout brown
frock-coat, and a pair of light gray trousers, which fitted
closely. He was mounted on a thoroughbred and splen-
did bay horse, which he sat admirably, and which, in
spite of the fast gallop, had not a bead of sweat on his
skin, which was as bright and brilliant as a star. The
groom's gray horse, which stood motionless a few paces
behind his master, was also well-bred and perfect of his
kind. In the handsome dark face of the gentleman
Tortillard recognised the Vicomte de Saint-R^my, who
was supposed to be the lover of the Duchesse de Lucenay.
" My pretty lass," said the viscount to the Goualeuse,
whose lovely countenance struck him, " would you be so
obliging as to tell me the way to the village of Arnou-
ville ? "
Fleur-de-Marie's eyes sunk before the bold and admir-
ing look of the young man, as she replied :
" On leaving the sunken road, sir, you must take the
first turning to the right, and that path will lead you to
an avenue of cherry-trees, which is the straight road to
Arnouville."
" A thousand thanks, my pretty lass ! You tell me
better than an old woman, whom I found a few yards
further on stretched under a tree, for I could only get
groans and moans out of her."
" My poor grandmother ! " said Tortillard, in a whin-
ing tone.
" One word more," said M. de Saint-R^my, addressing
La Goualeuse. " Can you tell me if I shall easily find
M. DubreuiPs farm at Arnouville ?"
Goualeuse could not prevent a shudder at these words,
which recalled to her the painful scene of the morning.
She replied :
"The farm-buildings border the avenue which you
must enter to reach Arnouville, sir."
" Once more, many thanks, my pretty dear," said M.
de Saint-R^my ; and he galloped off with his groom.
197
s
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
The handsome features of the viscount, were in full
animation whilst he was talking to Fleur-de-Marie, but
when he was again alone they became darkened and
contracted by painful uneasiness. Fleur-de-Marie, re-
membering the unknown person for whom they were so
hastily preparing a pavilion at the farm of Arnouville
by Madame de Lucenay's orders, felt convinced it was
for this young and good-looking cavalier.
The sound of the horses' feet as they galloped on was
heard for some time on the hard and frozen ground,
and by degrees grew fainter, then were no longer heard,
and all was once more hushed in silence. Tortillard
breathed again. Desirous of encouraging and warning
his accomplices, one of whom, the Schoolmaster, was
concealed from the horsemen, Bras Rouge's son called
out:
" Granny ! granny ! here I am ! with the good lady
who is coming to help you ! "
" Quick, quick, my boy ! The gentleman on horse-
back has made us lose some time," said the Goualeuse,
walking at a quicker pace, that she might reach the
turning into the hollow way.
She had scarcely entered it when the Chouette, who
was hidden there, exclaimed :
" Now then, fourline ! "
Then springing upon the Goualeuse, the one-eyed hag
seized her by the neck with one hand, whilst with the
other she pressed her mouth ; and Tortillard, throwing
himself at the young girl's feet, clung round her legs,
that she might not be able to stir.
This took place so rapidly that the Chouette had no
time to examine the Goualeuse's features ; but during
the few instants it required for the Schoolmaster to quit
the hole in which he was ensconced, to grope his way
along with his cloak, the beldame recognised her old
victim.
" La Pegriotte ! " she exclaimed, in great surprise.
198
THE HOLLOW WAY.
Then adding with savage delight, " What, is it you ?
Ah, the baker (the devil) sends you ! It is your fate,
then, to fall into my clutches ! I have my vitriol in the
fiacre now, and your white skin shall have a touch, miss ;
for it makes me sick to see your fine lady countenance.
Come, my man, mind she don't bite ; and hold her tight
whilst we bundle her up."
The Schoolmaster seized the Goualeuse in his two
powerful hands, and before she could utter a cry the
Chouette threw the cloak over her head, and wrapped
her up in it, tightly and securely. In a moment, Fleur-
de-Marie, tied and enveloped, was without any power to
move or call for assistance.
" Now take up your parcel, fourline" said the
Chouette. " He, he, he ! This is not such a load as
the ' black peter ' of the woman who was drowned in
the Canal of St. Martin is it, my man?'* And as
the brigand shuddered at these words, which reminded
him of his fearful vision, the one-eyed hag resumed,
" Well, well, what ails you, fourline ? Why, you seem
frozen ! Ever since the morning your teeth chatter as
if you had the ague ; and you look in the air as if you
were looking for something there ! "
" Vile impostor ! He is looking to see the flies," said
Tortillard.
" Come, quick ! Haste forward, my man ! Up with
Pegriotte ! That's it ! " said the Chouette, as she saw
the ruffian lift Fleur-de-Marie in his arms as he would
carry a sleeping infant. Quick to the coach ! quick,
quick I "
" But who will lead me ?" inquired the Schoolmaster,
in a hoarse voice, and securing his light and flexible
burden in his herculean arms.
" Old wise head ! he thinks of every thing ! " said
the Chouette.
Then, lifting aside her shawl, she unfastened a red
pocket-handkerchief which covered her skinny neck,
199
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
and, twisting it into its length, said to the School-
master :
" Open your ivories, and take the end of this ' wipe V
between them. Hold tight ! Tortillard will take the
other end in his hand, and you have nothing to do but
to follow him. The good blind jnan requires a good
dog ! Here, brat ! "
The cripple cut a caper, and made a sort of low and
odd barking. Then, taking the other end of the hand-
kerchief in his hand, he led the Schoolmaster in this
way, whilst the Chouette hastened forward to apprise
Barbillon. We have not attempted to paint Fleur-de-
Marie's terror when she found herself in the power of
the Chouette and the Schoolmaster. She felt all her
strength leave her, and could not offer the slightest
resistance.
Some minutes afterwards the Goualeuse was lifted into
the fiacre which Barbillon drove, and although it was
night they closed the window-blinds carefully ; and the
three accomplices went, with their almost expiring vic-
tim, towards the plain of St. Denis, where Thomas
Seyton awaited them.
200
CHAPTER XL
CLEMENCE d'HARVILLE.
The reader will kindly excuse our having left one of
our heroines in a most critical situation, the denouement
of which we shall state hereafter.
It will be remembered that Rodolph had preserved
Madame d'Harville from an imminent danger, occa-
sioned by the jealousy of Sarah, who had acquainted
M. d'Harville with the assignation Clemence had so
imprudently granted to M. Charles Robert. Deeply
affected with the scene he had witnessed, \he prince
returned directly home after quitting the Rue du
Temple, putting off till the next day the visit he
purposed paying to Mile. Rigolette and the distressed
family of the unfortunate artisan, of whom we have
spoken, believing them out of the reach of present want,
thanks to the money he had given Madame d'Harville to
convey to them, in order that her pretended charitable
visit to the house might assume a more convincing
appearance in the eyes of her husband.
Unfortunately, Rodolph was ignorant of Tortillard*s
having possessed himself of the purse, although the
reader has already been told how the artful young thief
contrived to effect the barefaced cheat.
About four o'clock the prince received the following
letter, which was brought by an old woman, who went
away the instant she had delivered it without awaiting
any answer.
201
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" My Lord :
" I owe you more than life ; and I would fain express my
heartfelt gratitude for the invaluable service you have rendered
me to-day. Tniorrow shame would, perhaps, close my lips. If
your royal highness will honour me with a call this evening, you
will finish the day as you began it by a generous action.
" D'Orbigny d'Harville.
" P. S. Do not, my lord, take the trouble to write an answer.
I shall be at home all the evening."
However rejoiced Rodolph felt at having been the
happy instrument of good to Madame d'Harville, he
yet could not help regretting the sort of a forced inti-
macy which this circumstance all at once established
between himself and the marquise. Deeply struck with
the graceful vivacity and extreme beauty of Cl^mence,
yet wholly incapable of infringing upon the friendship
which existed between himself and the marquis,
Rodolph, directly he became aware of the passion
which was springing up in his heart for the wife of
his friend, almost denied himself (after having previ-
ously devoted a whole month to the most assiduous
attentions) the pleasure of beholding her. And now,
too, he recollected with much emotion the conversation
he had overheard at the embassy between Tom and
Sarah, when the latter, by way of accounting for her
hatred and jealousy, had affirmed, and not without
truth, that Madame d'Harville still felt, even un-
known to herself, a serious affection for Rodolph.
Sarah was too acute, too penetrating, too well versed
in the knowledge of the human heart, not to be well aware
that Cl^mence, believing herself scorned by a man who
had made so deep an impression on her heart, and yield-
ing, from the effects of her irritated feelings, to the
importunities of a perfidious friend, might be induced
to interest herself in the imaginary woes of M. Charles
Robert, without, consequently, forgetting Rodolph.
Other women, faithful to the memory of a man they
202
CLEMENCE D'HARYILLE.
had once distinguished, would have remained indiffer-
ent to the melancholy looks of the commandant.
Cldmence d'Harville was therefore doubly blamable,
although she had only yielded to the seduction of un-
happiness, and, fortunately for her, had been preserved
alike by a keen sense of duty and the remembrance of
the prince (which still lurked in her heart, and kept
faithful watch over it) from the commission of an
irreparable fault.
A thousand contradictory emotions disturbed the
mind of Rodolph, as he thought of his interview with
Madame d'Harville. Firmly resolved to resist the
predilection which attracted him to her society, some-
times he congratulated himself on being able to cast
off his love for her by the recollection of her having
entangled herself with such a being as Charles Robert ;
and the next instant he bitterly deplored seeing the
flattering veil with which he had invested his idol fall
to the ground.
Cldmence d'Harville, on her part, awaited the ap-
proaching interview with much anxiety ; but the two
prevailing sentiments which pervaded her breast were
painful confusion, when she remembered the interfer-
ence of Rodolph, and a fixed aversion when she thought
of M. Charles Robert, and many reasons were con-
cerned in this feeling of dislike almost approaching
hatred itself. A woman will risk her honour or her
life for a man, but she will never pardon him for hav-
ing placed her in a mortifying or a ridiculous situation.
Madame d'Harville felt her cheeks flush, and her
pulse beat rapidly as she indignantly recalled the
insulting looks and impertinent remarks of Madame
Pipelet. Nor was this all. After receiving from
Rodolph an intimation of the danger she was incur-
ring, Cl^mence had proceeded rapidly towards the fifth
floor, as directed, but the position of the staircase was
203
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
such that, as she hurried on, she perceived M. Charles
Robert in his dazzling robe de chamhre, at the very in-
stant when, recognising the light step of the woman he
expected, he, with a self-satisfied, confident, and tri-
umphant look, set the door of his apartment half open.
The air of insolent familiarity, expressed by the negligee
toilet he had assumed, quickly enabled the marquise
to perceive how entirely she had been mistaken in his
character. Led away by the kindness and goodness of
her heart, and the generosity of her disposition, to take
a step which might for ever destroy her reputation, she
had accorded this meeting, not from love, but solely
from commiseration, in order to console him for the
ridiculous part the bad taste of the Duke de Lucenay
had made him play before her at the embassy. Words
can ill describe the disgust and vexation with which
Madame d'Harville beheld the slipshod deshabille of the
commandant, implying as it did his opinion how con-
pletely her ill-judged condescension had broken down
the barriers of etiquette, and led him to consider no
further respect towards her necessary.
The timepiece in the small salon which Madame
d'Harville ordinarily occupied struck nine o'clock.
Dressmakers and tavern-keepers have so much abused
the style of Louis XV. and the Renaissance, that the
marquise, a woman of infinite taste, had excluded from
her apartments this description of ornament, now be-
come so vulgarised, and confined it to that part of the
hotel devoted to the reception of visitors and grand
entertainments. Nothing could be more elegant or
more distingue than the fitting-up of the salon in which
the marquise awaited Rodolph. The colour of the walls
as well as the curtains (which, without either valances
or draperies, were of Indian texture) was bright straw
colour, on which were embroidered, in a darker shade,
in unwrought silk, arabesques of the most beautiful de-
signs and whimsical devices. Double curtains of point
204
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
d'Alen9on entirely concealed the windows. The rose-
wood doors were set off with gold mouldings, most
beautifully carved, surrounding in each panel an oval
medallion of Sevres china, nearly a foot in diameter,
representing a numberless variety of birds and flowers
of surpassing brilliancy and beauty. The frames of the
looking-glasses and the cornices of the curtains were
also of rosewood, ornamented with similar raised work
of silver gilt. The white marble mantelpiece, with its
supporting caryatides of antique beauty and exquisite
grace, was from the chisel of the proud and imperious
Marochetti, that great artist having consented to sculp-
ture this delicious chef-d^ceuvre in imitation of Ben-
venuto Cellini, who disdained not to model ewers and
armour. Two candelabras, and two candlesticks of
vermeil, forming groups of small figui-es beautifully
executed, stood on either side of the timepiece, which
was formed of a square block of lapis lazuli raised on
a pedestal of Oriental jasper, and surmounted with a
large and magnificently enamelled golden cup, lichly
studded with rubies and pearls, once the property of the
Florentine Republic. Several excellent pictures of the
Venetian school, of middle size, completed this assem-
blage of elegance and refined taste.
Thanks to a most charming invention but recently
introduced, this splendid yet simple apartment was
lighted only by the soft rays of a lamp, the unground
surface of whose crystal globe was half hid among a
mass of real flowers, contained in an immensely large
and deep blue and gold Japan cup, suspended from the
ceiling like a lustre by three chains of vermeil, around
which were entwined the green stalks of several climb-
ing plants ; while some of the flexible branches, thickly
laden with flowers, overhanging the edge of the cup and
hanging gracefully down, formed a waving fringe of
fresh verdure, beautifully contrasting with the blue
and gold enamel of the purple porcelain.
205
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
We have been thus precise in these details, trifling
as they may seem, in order to give some idea of the
exquisite taste possessed by Madame d'Harville (the
almost invariable companion of an elevated mind), and
also because misfortunes always strike us as more poign-
antly cruel when they insinuate themselves into abodes
like this, the favoured possessors of which seem gifted
by Providence with everything to make life happy and
enviable.
Buried in the downy softness of a large armchair,
totally covered by the same straw-coloured Indian silk
as formed the rest of the hangings, Cli^mence d'Harville
sat, awaiting the arrival of Rodolph. Her hair was
arranged in the most simple manner. She wore a high
dress of black velvet, which well displayed the beauty
and admirable workmanship of her large collar and
cuffs of English lace, which prevented the extreme
black of the velvet from contrasting too harshly with
the dazzling whiteness of her throat and hands.
In proportion as the hour approached for her inter-
view with Rodolph, the emotion of the marquise in-
creased ; but by degrees her embarrassment ceased, and
firmer resolves took possession of her mind. After a
long and mature reflection she came to the determina-
tion of confiding to Rodolph a great, a cruel secret, hop-
ing by her frankness to win back that esteem she now
so highly prized. Awakened by gratitude, her pristine
admiration of Rodolph returned with fresh force ; one
of those secret whispers, which rarely deceives the heart
that loves, told her that chance alone had not brought
the prince so opportunely to her succour, and that his
studied avoidance of her society during the last few
months had originated in anything but indifference.
A vague suspicion also arose in her mind as to the
reality and sincerity of the affection Sarah professed for
her.
While deeply meditating on all these things, a valet de
206
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
chamhre^ having first gently tapped at the door, entered,
saying:
" Will it please you, my lady, to see Madame Ashton
and my young lady ?"
Madame d'Harvillc made an affirmative gesture of
assent, and a little girl slowly entered the room.
The child was about four years old, and her counte-
nance would have been a very charming one but for its
sickly pallor and extreme meagreness. Madame Ashton,
the governess, held her by the hand, but, directly Claire
(that was the name of the little girl) saw her mother,
she opened her arms, and, spite of her feebleness, ran
towards her. Her light brown hair was plaited, and
tied at each side of her forehead with bows of cherry-
coloured riband. Her health was so delicate that she
wore a wrapping-dress of dark brown silk instead of one
of those pretty little white muslin frocks trimmed with
ribands of a similar colour as those in the hair, and well
cut over the bosom to show the plump, pinky arms, and
smooth, fair shoulders, so lovely in healthy children.
So sunken were the cheeks of poor Claire that her large
dark eyes looked quite enormous. But, spite of every
appearance of weakness, a sweet and gentle smile lit up
her small features when she was placed on the lap of
her mother, whom she kissed and embraced with intense
yet mournful affection.
" How has she been of late, Madame Ashton ? " in-
quired Madame d'Harville of the governess.
'^ Tolerably well, madame ; although at one time I
feared."
" Again ! " cried Cl^mence, pressing her daughter to
her heart with a movement of involuntary horror.
" Fortunately, madame, I was mistaken," said the
governess, " and the whole passed away without any
further alarm ; Mademoiselle Claire became composed,
and merely suffered from a momentary feeling of weak-
ness. 8he has not slept much this afternoon, but I
207
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
could not coax her to bed without allowing her the
pleasure of paying a visit to you."
" Dear little angel ! " cried Madame d'Harville, cover-
ing her daughter with kisses.
The interesting child repaid her mother's caresses
with infantine delight, when the groom of the chambers
entered and announced :
" His royal highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein."
Claire, standing on her mother's lap, had thrown her
arms about her neck, and was clasping her with all the
force of which her tiny arms were capable. At the
sight of Rodolph, Cl^mence blushed deeply, set her child
gently down on the carpet, and signed to Madame Ashton
to take her away ; she then rose to receive her guest.
" You must give me leave," said Rodolph, smilingly,
after having respectfully bowed to the marquise, " to
renew my acquaintance with my little friend here, who
I fear has almost forgotten me."
And, stooping down a little, he extended his hand to
Claire, who, first gazing at him with her large eyes, curi-
ously scrutinised his features, then, recognising him, she
made a gentle inclination of the head, and blew him a
kiss from the tipp. of her small, thin fingers.
" You remember my lord, then, my child ? " asked
Cl^mence of little Claire, who gave an assenting nod,
and kissed her hand to Rodolph a second time.
" Her health appears to me much improved since I
last saw her," said he, addressing himself with un-
feigned interest to Cldmence.
" Thank heaven, my lord, she is better, though still
sadly delicate and suffering."
The marquise and the prince, mutually embarrassed
at the thoughts of the approaching interview, would
have been equally glad, to defer its commencement,
through the medium of Claire's presence ; but, the
discreet Madame Ashton having taken her away,
Rodolph and Cl^mence were left quite alone.
208
CLfiMENCE D'HARVILLE.
The armchair in which Madame d'Harville was re-
clining stood on the right hand of the chimney, and
Rodolph remained without attempting to seat himself,
gracefully leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece. Never
had Cl^mence been so strongly impressed with admira-
tion at the noble and prepossessing appearance of the
prince ; never had his voice sounded more gentle or
sweet upon her ear. Fully understanding how^ painful
it must be to the marquise to open the conversation,
Rodolph at once proceeded to the main point by
observing :
" You have been, madame, the victim of a base and
treacherous action. A cowardly and dishonourable dis-
closure on the part of the Countess Macgregor has well-
nigh effected irremediable mischief."
" Is it, indeed, so ? " exclaimed Clemence, painfully
surprised ; " then my presentiments were not ill-founded !
And by what means did your royal highness discover
this ? "
" Last night, at the ball given by the Countess C ,
I discovered this infamous secret. I was sitting in a
lone part of the ' Winter Garden,' when Countess Sa-
rah and her brother, unconscious that a mass of ver-
dure alone concealed me from them, while it enabled
me to hear each word they spoke, began conversing
freely upon their own projects, and the snare they had
spread for you. Anxious to warn you of the danger
with which you were threatened, 1 hastened to Madame
de Nerval's ball, hoping to meet you there, but you did
not appear. To write and direct my letter here was to
incur the risk of its falling into the hands of the mar-
quis, whose suspicions were already aroused by your
treacherous friend ; and 1 therefore preferred awaiting
your arrival in the Rue du Temple, that I might unfold
to you the perfidy of Countess Macgregor. Let me hope
you will pardon my thus long dwelling on a subject
which must be so painful to you. And, but for the few
*^C0
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
lines you were kind enough to write, never would my
lips have in any way reverted to it."
After a momentary silence, Madame d'Harville said
to Rodolph :
" There is but one way, my lord, in which I can prove
to you my gratitude for your late generous conduct.
It is to confess to you that which I have never re-
vealed to a human being. What I have to say will
not exculpate me in your estimation, but it will,
perhaps, enable you to make some allowances for my
imprudence."
" Candidly speaking, madame," said Rodolph, smiling,
" my position as regards you is a very embarrassing one.
Cl^mence, astonished at the almost jesting tone in
which he spoke, looked at Rodolph with extreme sur-
prise, while she said, " How so, my lord ? "
" Thanks to a circumstance you are doubtless ac-
quainted with, I am obliged to assume the grave airs
of a mentor touching an incident which, since you have
so happily escaped the vile snare laid for you by Count-
ess Sarah, scarcely merits being treated with so much
importance. But," continued Rodolph with a slight
shade of gentle and affectionate earnestness, " your
husband and myself are almost as brothers ; and, be-
fore our time, our fathers had vowed the sincerest friend-
ship for each other. I have, therefore, a double motive
in most warmly congratulating you on having secured the
peace and happiness of your husband ! "
" And it is from my knowledge of the high regard
and esteem with which you honour M. d'Harville, that
I have determined upon revealing the whole truth, as
well as to explain myself relative to an interest which
must appear to you as ill-chosen and unworthy as it now
seems to me. I wish also to clear up that part of my
conduct which bears an injurious appearance against the
tranquillity and honour of him your highness styles
'almost a brother.' "
210
CLfiMENCE D'HARYILLE.
" Believe me, madame, I shall at all times be most
proud and happy to receive the smallest proof of your
confidence. Yet permit me to say, as regards the inter-
est you speak of, that I am perfectly aware it originated
as much in sincere pity as from the constant importuni-
ties of Countess Sarah Macgregor, who had her own
reasons for seeking to injure you. And I also know
equally well that you long hesitated ere you could make
up your mind to take the step you now so much regret."
Cl^mence looked at the prince with surprise.
" You seem astonished. Well, that you may not
fancy I dabble in witchcraft, some of these days I will
tell you all about it," said Rodolph, smiling. " But your
husband is perfectly tranquillised, is he not ? "
" Yes, my lord," said Cl^mence, looking down in
much confusion ; " and it is most painful to me to hear
him asking my pardon for having ever suspected me,
and then eulogising my modest silence respecting my
good deeds."
" Nay, do not chide an illusion which renders him so
happy. On the contrary, endeavour to maintain the in-
nocent deception. Were it not forbidden to treat your
late adventure lightly, and had not you, madame, been
80 much involved in it, I would say that a w oman never
appears more charming in the eyes of her husband than
when she has some fault to conceal. It is inconceivable
how many little cajoleries, and what winning smiles,
are employed to ease a troubled conscience. When I
was young," added Rodolph, smiling," I always, in spite
of myself, mistrusted any unusual marks of tenderness.
And, by the same rule, I can say of myself, that T never
felt more disposed to appear in an amiable light than
when I was conscious of requiring forgiveness. So,
directly I perceived a more than ordinary anxiety to
please and gratify me, I was very sure (judging by my
own conduct) to ascribe it to some little peccadillo that
needed overlooking and pardoning."
211
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
The light tone with which Rodolph continued to
discuss an affair which might have been attended with
circumstances so fearful, at first excited Madame
d'Harville's wonder; but she quickly perceived that the
prince, beneath his outward appearance of trifling,
sought to conceal, or at least lessen, the importance
of the service he had rendered her. And, profoundly
touched with his delicacy, she said :
" I comprehend your generous meaning, my lord ;
and you are fully at liberty to jest and forget as much
as you like the peril from which you have preserved me.
But that which I have to relate to you is of so grave, so
serious, and mournful a nature, is so closely connected
with the events of this morning, and your advice may
so greatly benefit me, that I beseech you to remember
that to you I owe both my honour and my life : yes, my
lord, my life ! My husband was armed ; and he has
owned, in the excess of his repentance, that it was his
intention to have killed me, had his suspicions proved
correct.''
" Great God ! " exclaimed Rodolph with emotion.
" And he would have been justified in so doing," re-
joined Madame d'Harville, bitterly.
"I beseech you, madame," said Rodolph, and this
time he spoke with deep seriousness, "I beseech you
to be assured I am incapable of being careless or in-
different to any matter in which you are concerned.
If I seemed but now to jest, it was but to make you
think less of a circumstance which has already occa-
sioned you so much pain. But now, madame, you may
command my most solemn attention. Since you honour
me by saying my advice may be useful, I listen most
anxious^/ and eagerly."
" You can, indeed, counsel me most beneficially, my
lord. But, before I explain to you my reasons for
seeking your aid, I must say a few words concern-
ing a period of which you are ignorant, I mean
212
CLi^MENCE D'HARYILLE.
the years which preceded my marriage with M. d'Har-
ville."
Rodolph bowed, and Cl^mence continued :
" At sixteen years of age I lost my mother (and here
a tear stole down the fair cheek of Madame d'Harville).
I cannot attempt to describe how much I adored that
beloved parent. Imagine, my lord, the very personifica-
tion of all earthly goodness. Her fondness for me was
excessive, and appeared her only consolation amid the
many bitter sorrows she had to endure. Caring but
little for what is styled the world, with delicate health,
and a natural predilection for sedentary occupation, her
great delight had been in attending solely to my educa-
tion, and her ample store of solid and varied knowledge
well fitted her for the task. Conceive, my lord, her as-
tonishment and mine when, in my sixteenth year, my
dear preceptress, considered my education nearly com-
pleted, my father making the feeble health of my
mother a pretext announced to us that a young and
accomplished widow, whose misfortunes rendered her
justly interesting, would henceforth be charged with
finishing what my dear parent had begun. My mother
at first resolutely refused obedience to my father's com-
mand, while I in vain besought him not to interpose a
stranger's authority between myself and my beloved
mother. He was inexorable alike to our tears and
prayers, and Madame Roland, who stated herself to be
the widow of a colonel who had died in India, came to
take up her abode with us, in the character of governess
to myself."
" What ! the same Madame Roland your father
married almost immediately after the death of your
mother ? "
" The same, my lord."
" Was she, then, very beautiful ? "
" Tolerably so, nothing more."
" Clever, witty, perhaps ? "
213
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" She was a clever dissembler, a skilful manoeu-
vrer; her talent went no higher. She might be about
five and twenty years of age, with extremely light hair
and nearly white eyelashes ; her eyes were large, round,
and a clear blue ; the expression of her countenance was
humble and gentle ; and while her outward manner was
attentive, even to servility, her real disposition was as
perfidious as it was unfeeling."
" And what were her acquirements ? "
"Positively none at all, my lord; and I cannot con-
ceive how my father, who until then had been so com-
pletely a slave to the dictates of worldly propriety, did
not reflect that the utter incapacity of this woman must
shamefully proclaim the real cause of her being in the
house. My mother earnestly pointed out to him the
extreme ignorance of Madame Roland ; he, however,
merely replied, in a tone which admitted of no further
argument, that, competent or otherwise, the young and
interesting widow should retain the situation in his es-
tablishment in which he had placed her. This I heard
subsequently. From that instant my poor mother
comprehended the whole affair, over which she deeply
grieved ; regretting less, I fancy, her husband's infidelity
than the domestic unhappiness which would result from
so indecorous a liaison^ the account of which she feared
might reach my ears."
" But, even so far as his foolish passion was concerned,
it seems to me that your father acted very unwisely in
introducing this woman into his house."
" And you would be still more at a loss to understand
his conduct if you had but known the extreme formality
and circumspection of his character. Nothing could ever
have induced him thus to trample under foot all the es-
tablished rules of society but the unbounded influence of
Madame Roland, an influence she exercised with so
much the more certainty as she veiled her designs under
the mask of the most passionate love for him."
214
CLfiMENCE D^HARVILLE.
" But what was your father's age then ? "
" About sixty."
" And he really credited the professions of love made
by so much younger a woman ? "
" My father had been in his time one of the most
fashionable and admired men of the day. And Madame
Roland, either following the suggestions of her own art-
ful mind or urged on by the counsels of others, who
could countenance much more "
" Counsel such a person ! "
" I will tell you, my lord. Imagining that a man
whose reputation for gallantry had always stood high
in the world would, as he advanced in years, be more
easily delighted than another by being flattered upon
his personal advantages, and more credulously receive
such compliments as served to recall those days most
soothing to his vanity to remember, well, my lord, in-
credible as it may appear, this woman began to flatter
my poor misguided father upon the graceful tournure
of his features and the inimitable elegance of his shape.
And he in his sixtieth year! Strange as you may
consider it, spite of the excellent sense with which my
father was endowed, he foil blindly into the snare, coarse
and vulgar as it was. Such was such still is, I doubt
not the secret of the unbounded influence this woman
obtained over him. And really, my lord, spite of my
present disinclination for mirth, I can scarcely restrain
a smile at the recollection of having frequently, before
my marriage, heard Madame Roland assert and main-
tain that what she styled real maturity was the finest
portion of a person's existence, and that this maturity
never began until about the fifty-fifth or sixtieth year of
one's age."
" I suppose that happened to be your father's
age?"
" Precisely so, my lord ! Then, and then only,
according to Madame Roland, had the understanding,
215
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
combined with experience, attained their full devel-
opment ; then only could a man, occupying a distin-
guished position in the world, enjoy the consideration
to which he was entitled ; at that period only were the
tout ensemble of his countenance, and the exquisite grace
of his manners, in their highest perfection ; the physiog-
nomy offering at this delightful epoch of a man's life a
heavenly mixture of winning serenity and gentle gravity.
Then the slight tinge of melancholy, caused by the
many recollections of the past deceit experience is fain
to look back upon, completes the irresistible charm of
real maturity ; unappreciable (Madame Roland hastily
added) except by women with head and heart sufficiently
good to despise the youthful frivolity of a poor, inexpe-
rienced forty years, when the character and countenance
can scarcely be called formed, and when good taste
turns away from the boyish folly of such an immature
season of life, and seeks the fine, majestic features im-
pressed with the sublime and poetic expression resulting
from a sixty years' study of the vast book of human
existence."
Rodolph could not restrain smiling at the powerful
irony with which Madame d'Harville sketched the por-
trait of her mother-in-law.
^' There is one thing," said he to the marquise, " for
which I cannot forgive ridiculous people."
" What is that, my lord ? "
" The being also wicked ; which prevents our being
able to laugh at them as much as they deserve."
" They probably calculate upon that available advan-
tage," replied Cl^mence.
" Indeed, it is very probable, though equally lament-
able, for, if it were not for the recollection of all the
pain Madame Roland has occasioned you, I could be
highly diverted with her system of real maturity as
opposed to the insipidity of mere boys of only forty
years of age, who, according to her assertion, would be
216
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
scarcely out of their leading-strings, as our grandfathers
and grandmothers would say."
" What principally excited my aversion for her was
the shamefulness of her conduct towards my dear
mother, and the unfortunately over-zealous part she
took in my marriage," said the marquise, after a mo-
ment's pause.
Rodolph looked at her with much surprise.
" Nay, my lord," said Cl^mence, in a firm, though
gentle tone, " I well remember that M. d'Harville is
your friend and my husband. I know perfectly the
grave importance of the words I have just uttered :
hereafter you yourself shall admit the justice of them.
But to return to Madame Roland, who was now, spite
of her acknowledged incapacity, established as my in-
structress : my mother had a long and most painful
altercation with my father on the subject, which drew
down on us his extreme displeasure, and from that
period my mother and myself remained secluded in
our apartments, while Madame Roland, in quality of
my governess, directed the whole household, and almost
publicly did the honours of the mansion."
" What must your mother have suffered ! "
" She did, indeed, my lord ; but her sorrow was less
for herself than me, whose future destiny might be so
deeply affected by the introduction of this woman.
Her health, always delicate, became daily weaker, and
she fell seriously ill. It chanced, most unfortunately,
that our family doctor, M. Sorbier, in whom she had
the highest confidence, died about this period, to my
mother's extreme regret. Madame Roland immediately
urged my father to place my mother's case in the hands
of an Italian doctor, a particular friend of her own, and
whom she described as possessing a more than ordinary
skill in the treatment of diseases. Thanks to her im-
portunities, my father, who had himself consulted him
in trifling maladies, and found no cause to be dissatis-
217
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
fied, proposed him to my mother, who, alas, raised no
objection. And this man it was who attended upon her
during her last illness."
Tears fihed the eyes of Madame d'Harville as she
uttered these words.
" I am ashamed to confess my weakness, my lord,"
added she ; " but, for the simple reason of this doctor
having been appointed at the suggestion of Madame
Roland, he inspired me (and at that time without any
cause) with the most involuntary repugnance, and it
was with the most painful misgivings I saw him estab-
lished in my mother's confidence. Still, as regarded his
knowledge of his profession. Doctor Polidori "
" What do I hear ? " exclaimed Rodolph.
" Are you indisposed, my lord ? " inquired Cl^mence,
struck with the sudden expression the prince's counte-
nance had assumed.
" No, no ! " said Rodolph, as though unconscious of
the presence of Madame d'Harville, " no, I must be
mistaken. Five or six years must have elapsed since
all this occurred, while I am informed that it is not more
than two years since Polidori came to Paris, and then
under a feigned name. He it was I saw yesterday, I
am sure of it, the quack dentist Bradamanti and
Polidori are one and the same. Still, 'tis singular ; two
doctors of the same name,^ what a strange rencontre ! "
" Madame," said Rodolph, turning to Madame d'Har-
ville, whose astonishment at his preoccupation still in-
creased, "we will, if you please, compare notes as to
this Italian. What age was he ? "
" About fifty."
" And his appearance, his countenance ? "
" Most sinister. Never shall I forget his clear, pierce-
ing, green eye, and his nose curved like the bill of an
eagle."
1 We muBt remind the reader that Polidori was a doctor of some emi-
nenoe when he undertook the education of Rodolph.
218
CLfiMENCE D'HARVILLE.
" Tis he, 'tis he himself ! " exclaimed Rodolph.
" And do you think, madame, that the Doctor Polidori
you were describing is still in Paris ? "
" That I cannot tell you, my lord. He quitted Paris
about a year after my father's marriage. A lady of my
acquaintance, who at this period also employed the
Italian as her medical adviser this lady, Madame de
Lucenay "
" The Duchess de Lucenay ? " interrupted Rodolph.
" Yes, my lord. But why this surprise ? "
" Permit me to be silent on that subject. But, at the
time of which you speak, what did Madame de Lucenay
tell you of this man ? "
" She said that he travelled much after quitting Paris,
and that she often received from him very clever and
amusing letters, descriptive of the various places he
visited. Now I recollect that, about a month ago,
happening to ask Madame de Lucenay whether she had
heard lately from M. Polidori, she replied, with an em-
barrassed manner, ' that nothing had been heard of or
concerning him for some time ; that no one knew what
had become of him ; and that by many he was supposed
to be dead.' "
" Strange, indeed," said Rodolph, recalling the
recent visit of Madame de Lucenay to the charlatan
Bradamanti.
" You know this man, then, my lord ?"
" Unfortunately for myself, I do ; but let me beseech
you to continue your recital ; hereafter I will give you
an insight into the history of this Polidori."
" Do you mean the doctor ? "
" Say, rather, the wretch stained with the most atro-
cious crimes."
* Crimes ! " 'cried Madame d'Harville, in alarm ; " can
it be possible, the man whom Madame Roland so highly
extolled, and into whose hands my poor mother was de-
livered, was guilty of crimes ? Alas, my dear parent
219
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
lingered but a very short time after she passed into his
care ! Ah, my lord, my presentiments have not deceived
me!"
" Your presentiments ? "
" Oh, yes ! I was telling you just now of the invinci-
ble antipathy I felt for this man from the circumstance
of his having been introduced among us by Madame
Roland ; but I did not tell you all, my lord."
" How so ? "
" I was fearful lest the bitterness of my own griefs
should make me guilty of injustice towards an innocent
person ; but now, my lord, you shall know everything.
My mother had lain dangerously ill about five days ; I
had always watched beside her, night as well as day.
One evening, that I felt much oppressed with confine-
ment and fatigue, I went to breathe the fresh air on the
terrace of the garden : after remaining about a quarter
of an hour, I was returning by a long and obscure
gallery ; by a faint light which streamed from the
apartment of Madame Roland I saw M. Polidori quit
the room, accompanied by the mistress of the chamber.
Being in the shadow, they did not perceive me ; Madame
Roland spoke some words to the doctor, but in so low a
tone I could not catch them ; the doctor's answer was
given in a louder key, and consisted only of these words :
* The day after to-morrow ; ' and, when Madame Roland
seemed to urge him, still in so low a voice as to prevent
the words reaching me, he replied, with singular empha-
sis, ' The day after to-morrow, I tell you, the day after
to-morrow.' "
" What could those words mean ? "
" What did they mean ? Alas, alas, my lord, it was
on the Wednesday evening I heard M. Polidori say ' The
day after to-morrow ; ' on the Friday my mother was a
corpse ! "
" Horrible, indeed ! "
"After this mournful event I was consigned to the
220
cl^:mence d'harville.
care of a relation, who, forgetful of the afflicted state
of my mind, as well as tender age, told me, without re-
serve or consideration of the consequences, what power-
ful reasons there were for my hating Madame Roland,
and fully enlightened me as to the ambitious projects
entertained by this woman : full well 1 could then im-
agine all my poor mother must have endured. I thought
my heart would break the first time I again saw my
father, which was upon the occasion of his coming to
fetch me from the house of my relation to take me into
Normandy, where we were to pass the first months of
our mourning. During the journey he informed me,
without the least embarrassment, and as though it had
been the most natural thing in the world, that, out of
regard for himself and me, madame had kindly con-
sented to take the command of the establishment, and
to act as my guide and friend. On arriving at Aubiers
(so was my father's estate called), the first object we
beheld was Madame Roland, who had established her-
self here on the very day of my mother's death. Spite
of her modest, gentle manner, her countenance betrayed
an ill-disguised triumph ; never shall I forget the look,
at once ironical and spiteful, she cast on me as I de-
scended from the carriage , it seemed to say, ' I am
mistress here, 'tis you who are the intruder.' A
fresh grief awaited me ; whether from an inexcusable
want of proper judgment or unpardonable assurance,
this woman occupied the apartment which had been my
mother's : in my just indignation I loudly complained
to my father of this unpleasant forgetfulness of my
rights as well as wishes. He reprimanded me se-
verely for making any remonstrance on the subject,
adding that it was needless for me either to feel or
express surprise on the subject, as it was his desire I
should habituate myself to consider Madame Roland in
every respect as a second mother, and show her a corre-
sponding deference. I replied that it would be a prof-
221
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
anation to that sacred name to act as he commanded ;
and, to his extreme wrath, I never allowed any oppor-
tunity to escape by which I could evince my deeply
rooted aversion to Madame Roland. At times my
father's rage knew no bounds, and bitterly would he
reproach me in the presence of that woman for the
coldness and ingratitude of my conduct towards an
angel, as he styled her, sent by heaven for our conso-
lation and happiness. ' Let me entreat of you to speak
for yourself alone,' said I, one day, quite wearied with
the hypocritical conduct of Madame Roland and my
father's blind infatuation. The harshness and unrea-
sonableness of his conduct became at last quite unen-
durable; while Madame Roland, with the honeyed
words of feigned affection, would artfully intercede
for me, because she well knew by so doing she should
only increase the storm she had raised. ' You must
make some allowances for Clemence,' she would say,
' the sorrow she experiences for the excellent parent
we all deplore . is so natural, and even praiseworthy,
that you should respect her just grief, and pity her
for her unfounded suspicions.' ' You hear her ! you
hear her ! ' would my father exclaim, pointing with
mingled triumph and admiration to the accomplished
hypocrite ; ' what angelic goodness ! what enchanting
nobleness and generosity! Instantly entreat her par-
don for the unworthiness of your conduct.' ' Never ! '
I used to reply ; ' the spirit of my angel mother, who
now beholds me, would be pained to witness such a
degradation in her child ; ' and, bursting with grief
and mortification, I would fly to my own chamber,
leaving my father to dry the tears, and calm the
ruffled feelings of the woman I despised and hated.
You will, I hope, excuse me, my lord, for dwelling so
long and so minutely on all my early troubles, but it
is only by so doing I can accurately describe to you
jbhe sort of life I led at that period."
222
CLMENCE D'HARVILLE.
" I can enter fully into the painful subject ; yet how
often have the same scenes been enacted in other fami-
lies, and still, it is much to be feared, will they be
repeated till the end of time. But in what capacity
did your father introduce Madame Roland to the
neighbourhood ? "
" As my instructress and his friend, and she was
estimated accordingly."
" I need scarcely inquire whether he shared in the
solitude to which her questionable character condemned
the lady?"
" With the exception of some few and unavoidable
visits, she saw no one. My father, guided by his pas-
sion, or influenced by Madame Roland, threw off his
mourning for my mother ere he had worn it three
months, under the plea that the sable garb continually
reminded him of his loss, and prevented him from re-
gaining his lost tranquillity. His manners to me daily
became colder and more estranged, while his perfect
indifference concerning me allowed a degi'ee of liberty
almost incredible in a person of my age. I met him
only at breakfast, after which he returned to his study
with Madame Roland, who acted as his secretary, read
and answered all his letters, etc. ; that completed,
they either walked or drove out together, returning
only an hour before dinner, against which, Madame
Roland would array herself in an elegant and well-
chosen evening dress ; while my father would make
a most studiously elaborate toilet, as uncalled for as ill-
adapted to his time of life. Occasionally, after dinner,
he received a few persons he could not avoid asking
to his house, when he would play at tric-trac with
Madame Roland until ten o'clock, at which hour he
would offer his arm to conduct her to my mother's
apartment, and return to his guests. As for myself,
I had unrestrained permission to go where I pleased
throughout the whole day. Attended by a servant, 1
223
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
used to take long rides in the extensive woods surround-
ing the chateau, and when, as occasionally happened, I
felt my spirits unequal to appearing at the dinner-table,
not the slightest inquiry was ever made after me, or my
absence noticed."
" What singular neglect and forgetfulness ! "
" Having accidentally encountered one of our neigh-
bours during several successive days of my excursions
in the woods, I gave up riding there, and confined my-
self entirely to the park."
" And how did this infamous woman conduct herself
towards you when alone ? "
" She shunned all occasions of being with me as
sedulously as I avoided her ; but once that we were
unexpectedly tete-d-tete with each other, and that she
was reproaching me for some severe words I had spoken
the preceding evening, she said, coldly, ' Have a care :
you cannot contend against my power ; any such attempt
will bring down certain ruin on your head.' ' As it did
upon that of my mother,' answered I. ' It is a pity,
madame, you have not M. Polidori by your side, to an-
nounce to you that your vengeance can be satisfied
the day after to-morrow."
" And what reply did she make when you thus re-
called those fearful words ? "
" She changed colour rapidly, her features were al-
most convulsed ; then, by a strong effort conquering her
emotion, she angrily demanded what I meant by the ex-
pression. ' Ask your own heart, madame,' answered I ;
' in the solitude of your chamber inquire of yourself to
what I allude : your conscience will find a ready expla-
nation.' Shortly after that, a scene occurred which for
ever sealed my destiny.
" Among a great number of family portraits, which
graced the walls of the salon in which we usually spent the
evening, was that of my mother. One day I observed it
had been removed from its accustomed place. Two
224
CLEMENCE P'HARVILLE.
neighbours had dined with us. One of them, a M. Dorval,
a country lawyer, had always expressed the utmost ven-
eration and respect for my mother. When we reached
the salon after dinner, I inquired of my father what had
become of my dear mother's picture. ' Cease ! ' cried
my father, significantly pointing to our guests, as though
intimating his desire that they should not hear any dis-
cussion on the subject ; ' the reason of the picture being
taken away is that tlic sight of it continually reminded
me of the heavy loss I have sustained, and so prevented
my regaining my usual calmness and peace of mind.'
' And where is the portrait at present ? ' inquired I.
Turning towards Madame Roland, with an impatient
and uneasy air, he said, ' Where has the picture been
put V 'In the lumber-room,' replied she, casting on
me a glance of defiance, evidently under the impression
that the presence of witnesses would prevent me from
proceeding further in the matter. ' I can easily believe,
madame,' cried I, indignantly, ' that the recollection of
my mother must have been painful to you ; but that
was not a sufficient reason for banishing from the walls
the likeness of her who, when you were in want and
misery, kindly and charitably afforded you the shelter
of her roof.' "
" Excellent ! " exclaimed Rodolph ; " yours was, in-
deed, a stinging and a just reproach."
" ' Mademoiselle,' cried my father, ' you forget that
this lady has watched, and still continues to preside,
with maternal solicitude over your education*; you also
seem to banish from your recollection the very high
esteem and respect you are aware I entertain for her ;
and, since you allow yourself thus to attack her before
strangers, you will permit me to tell you that, in my
opinion, the charge of ingratitude lies at the door of her
who, overlooking the tender cares she has received, pre-
sumes to reproach a person, deserving of the utmost
interest and respect, with misfortunes and calamities sho
225
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
so nobly sustained.' ' I cannot venture to discuss the
subject with you, my dear father,' said I, submissively.
' Perhaps, then, mademoiselle, you will favour me with
your polite arguments in favour of rudeness and un-
merited abuse,' cried Madame Roland, carried away by
rage into a neglect of her usual caution and prudence ;
' perhaps you will permit me to assert that, so far from
owing the slightest obligation to your mother, I have
nothing to remember but the constant coldness and
dislike she invariably manifested towards me, fully ex-
pressive of the disgust and displeasure with which my
residence in the house inspired her.' ' Forbear,
madame ! ' exclaimed I, interrupting her. ' Out of
respect for my father, if not to spare your own
blushes, cease such shameful confessions as the one
you have just made, or you will make even me regret
having exposed you to so humiliating a disclosure.' "
" Better and better ! " cried Rodolph ; " this was, in-
deed, cutting with a two-edged sword. Pray go on.
And what said this woman?"
" By a very hackneyed, though convenient expedient,
Madame Roland contrived to end a scene in which she
felt she was likely to have the worst. With a sudden
cry she threw herself into a chair, and very naturally
imitated a fainting-fit. Thanks to this incident, the two
visitors quitted the room in search of restoratives ; while
I retired to my own apartment, leaving my father hang-
ing in deep anxiety over the wicked cause of all this
confusion."
" Doubtless your next interview with your father
must have been a stormy one."
" He came to me next morning, and, without further
preamble, addressed me as follows : ' In order to prevent
a recurrence of the disgraceful scene of yesterday, I
think proper to inform you, that, immediately that de-
cency permits both you and myself to throw off our
mourning, it is my intention to celebrate my marriage
226
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
with Madame Roland, wliich will compel you to treat
her with the respect and deference due to my wife.
For certain reasons, it is expedient you should marry
hefore me. You will have as a dowry your mother's
fortune, amounting to more than a million francs.
From this very day, I shall take the necessary steps to
form a suitable match for you, and, for that purpose, I
shall accept one of the many offers I have received for
your hand.' After this conversation, I lived more alone
than ever, never meeting my father except at meal-
times, which generally passed off in the utmost silence.
So really dull and lonely was my present existence, that
I only waited for my father to propose any suitor he
might approve of, to accept him with perfect willing-
ness. Madame Roland, having relinquished all further
ill-natured remarks upon the memory of my deceased
parent, indemnified herself by inflicting on me the con-
tinual pain of seeing her appropriate to herself the vari-
ous trifles my dear mother had exclusively made use of.
Her easy chair, embroidery -frame, the books which com-
posed her private library, even a screen I myself had
embroidered for her, and in the centre of which were
our united ciphers : this woman laid her sacrilegious
hands on all the elegant articles with which my
mother's taste and my affection had ornamented her
apartments."
" I can well imagine all the horror these profanations
must have caused you."
" Still, great as were my sufferings, the state of lone-
liness, in which I found myself, rendered them even
greater."
" And you had no one, no person in whom you could
confide ? "
" No one ; but at this time I received a touching
proof of the interest my fate excited, and which might
have opened my eyes to the dangers preparing for me.
One of the two persons present, during the scene with
227
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Madame Roland I so lately described, was a M. Dorval,
a worthy old notary, to whom my mother had rendered
some signal service. By my father's orders, I never
since then entered the salon when strangers were there ;
I had never, therefore, seen M. Dorval after the event-
ful day when I spoke so undisguisedly to Madame
Roland ; great, therefore, was my surprise to see him
coming towards me one day, in the park, while I was
taking my accustomed walk. ' Mademoiselle,' said he
to me, with a mysterious air, ' I am fearful of being
observed by your father ; here is a letter, read it, and
destroy it immediately, its contents are most impor-
tant to you.' So saying, he disappeared as quickly as he
came. In the letter he informed me that it was in agi-
tation to marry me to the Marquis d'Harville, and that
the match appeared in every respect eligible, inasmuch
as every one concurred in bearing testimony to the
many excellent qualities of M. d'Harville, who was
young, rich, good-looking, and highly distinguished for
his talents and mental attainments ; yet that the fami-
lies of two young ladies, with whom he had been on the
point of marriage, had abruptly broken off the matches.
The notary added that, although entirely ignorant of
the cause of these ruptures, he still considered it his
duty to apprise me of them, without in the slightest
degree insinuating that they originated in any circum-
stance prejudicial to the high opinion entertained of M.
d'Harville. The two young ladies alluded to were, one,
the daughter of M. Beauregard, a peer of France ; the
other, of Lord Dudley. M. Dorval concluded by saying
that his motive in making the communication was be-
cause my father, in his extreme desire to conclude the
marriage, did not appear to attach sufficient inportance
to the facts now detailed."
"Now you recall it to my recollection," said Rodolph,
after some minutes spent in deep meditation on what he
had just heard, " I remember that your husband, at in-
228
CLfiMENCE D'HARVILLE.
tervals of nearly twelve months, told me of two mar-
riages which had been broken off just as they were on
the point of takinii^ place, and ascribing their abrii[)t
termination to a difficulty in arranging matters of a
mere pecuniary nature."
Madame d'Harville smiled bitterly as she replied :
" You shall know what those motives really were, my
lord, very shortly. After reading the letter, so kindly
intentioned on the part of the worthy notary, I felt both
my uneasiness and curiosity rapidly increase. Who
was D'Harville ? My father had never mentioned him
to me. In vain I ransacked my memory ; I could not
recollect ever to have heard the name. Soon, however,
the current of my thoughts was directed into another
channel by the abrupt departure of Madame Roland for
Paris. Although the period of her absence was limited
to eight days at the utmost, yet my father expressed the
deepest grief at even this trifling separation from her.
His temper became altogether soured, and his coldness
towards me hourly increased ; he even went so far as to
reply, when one day I inquired after his health, ' I am
ill, and all through you.* 'Through me?' exclaimed
I. ' Assuredly, through you ; you know full well how
indispensable to my happiness is the company of
Madame Roland, yet this incomparable woman, who
has been so grossly insulted by you, has left me to un-
dertake her present journey solely on your account.'
This mark of interest on the part of Madame Roland
filled me with the most lively apprehensions of evil, and
a vague presentiment floated across my mind that my
marriage was in some way or other mixed up with it.
I must leave it to your imagination, my lord, to picture
the delight of my father upon the return of my future
mother-in-law. The next day he sent to desire my
company ; I found him alone with her. ' I have, for
some time,' said he, ' been thinking of establishing you
in the world ; in another month your mourning will
229
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
have expired. To-morrow I expect M. d'Harville, a
young man possessed of every requisite, both as to
fortune and figure, to secure any woman's approbation;
he is well looked upon in society, and is capable of
securing the happiness of any lady he may seek in mar-
riage. Now, having seen you, though accidentally, his
choice has fallen on you. In fact, he is most anxious to
obtain your hand. Every pecuniary arrangement is con-
cluded. It therefore remains solely with yourself to be
married ere the next six weeks have elapsed. If, on the
contrary, from any capricious whim impossible for me to
foresee, you think fit to refuse the unlooked-for good
offer now before you, it will in no respect alter my own
plans, as my marriage will take place, according to my
original intention, directly my mourning expires. And,
in this latter case, 1 am bound to inform you that your
presence in my house will not be agreeable to me, unless
I have your promise to treat my wife with the respect
and tenderness to which she is entitled.' ' I understand
you,' replied I ; ' whether I accept M. d'Harville or no,
you will marry ; and my only resource will then be to
retire to the Convent of the Holy Heart?' 'It will,'
answered he, coldlj."
" His conduct now ceases to be classed under the
term weakness," said Rodolph ; "it assumes the form
of positive cruelty."
" Shall I tell you, my lord, what has always prevented
me from feeling the least resentment at my father's con-
duct? It is because I have always had a strong pre-
sentiment that he would one day pay dearly too
dearly, ^as ! for his blind passion for Madame
Roland. Thank Heaven, that evil day has not yet
arrived ! "
"And did you not mention to your father what the
old notary had informed you of, the abrupt breaking
off of the two marriages M. d'Harville had been on the
point of contracting ? "
230
CL:fiMENCE D'HARVILLE.
" Indeed, I did, my lord. I signified to iny fatlier,
upon the occasion of the conversation 1 was relating
to you, a wish to speak with him alone, u{)on which
Madame Roland abruptly rose and quitted the apart-
ment. ' 1 have no objection to the union you i)rop()se
with M. d'Harville,' said 1 ; ' only, as I understand, he
has twice been upon the point of marriage, and '
' Enough enough ! ' interrupted he, hastily. ' I know
all about those two afiairs, which were so abruptly
broken off merely because matters of a pecuniary
nature were not satisfactorily arranged ; although, I
am bound to assure you, that not the slightest shadow
of blame was attributable to M. d'Harville. If that
be your only objection, you may consider the match
as concluded on, and yourself as married, ay, and
happily, too, for, spite of your conduct, my first
wish is for your happiness.'"
" No doubt Madame Roland was delighted with your
marriage ? "
"Delighted? Yes, my lord," said Clemence, with
bitterness. " She was, and well might be, delighted
with this union, which was, in fact, of her effecting.
She it was who had first suggested it to my father ; she
knew full well the real occasion of breaking off the
marriages so nearly completed by M. d'Harville, and
hence arose her exceeding anxiety for him to become
my husband."
" What motive could she possibly have had ? "
" She sought to avenge herself on me by condemning
me to a life of wretchedness."
" But your father "
" Deceived by Madame Roland, he fully and implicitly
believed that interested motives alone had set aside the
two former marriages of M. d'Harville."
^' What a horrible scheme ! But what was this mys-
terious reason ? "
"You shall know shortly. Well, M. d'Harville ar-
231
THE MYSTPmiES OF PARIS.
rived at Aubiers, and, I confess, I was much pleased
with his appearance, manners, and cultivated mind.
He seemed very amiable and kind, though somewhat
melancholy. I remarked in him a contradiction which
charmed and astonished me at the same time. His
personal and mental advantages were considerable, his
fortune princely, and his birth illustrious ; yet, at times,
the expression of his countenance would change, from a
firm and manly energy and decision of purpose, to an al-
most timid, shrinking look, as though he feared even his
own self ; then an utter dejection of spirits and exhaus-
tion would ensue. There was, at these strangely con-
trasted periods, such a look of deprecating humihty, such
an appearance of conscious wrong, as touched me deeply,
and won my pity to a great extent. I admired greatly
the kindness of manner he ever evinced to an old ser-
vant, a valet de cJiamhre who had been about him
from his birth, and who alone was suffered to attend
upon his master now he had reached man's estate-
Shortly after M. d'llarville's arrival he remained for
two days secluded in his apartment. My father wished
to visit him ; but the old servant alluded to objected,
stating that his master had so violent a headache, he
could receive no one. When M. d'Harville emerged
from his chamber, he was excessively pale, and looked
extremely ill. He afterwards appeared to experience a
sort of impatience and uneasiness when any reference
was made to his temporary indisposition. In proportion
as I became better acquainted with M. d'Harville, I dis-
covered that, on many points, a singular similarity of
taste existed between us. He had so much to be proud
of, and so many reasons for being happy, that his ex-
cessive and shrinking modesty struck me as something
more than admirable. The day for our marriage being
fixed, he seemed to delight in anticipating every wish
I could form for the future, and, when sometimes I al-
luded to the deep melancholy which at times possessed
232
CLExMENCE DIIARVILLE.
him, and begged to know the cause, he would speak of
his deceased parents, and of the delight it would have
afforded them to see him married, to their hearts' dear-
est wish, to one so justly approved both by his own judg-
ment and affections, 1 could not well lind fault with
reasons so complimentary to myself. M. d'Harville
easily guessed the terms on which 1 must have been
living with my father and Madame Roland, although
the former, delighted at my marriage, which would
serve as a plea for accelerating his own, had latterly
treated me with excessive tenderness. In some of our
conversations, M. d'Harville, with infinite tact and good
feeling, explained to me that his regard was considerably
heightened by the knowledge of all I had suffered since
my dear mother's death. I thought it my duty to hint
to him, at such a time, that, as my father was about to
marry again, it might very possibly affect the property I
might be expected to inherit. He would not even per-
mit me to proceed, but most effectually convinced me of
his own utterly disinterested motives in seeking my hand.
I could not but think that the families, who had so
abruptly broken off his former projected alliances, must
have been very unreasonable or avaricious people if they
made pecuniary matters a stumbling-block with one so
generous, easy, and liberal as M. d'Harville."
" And such as you describe him, so have I always
found him," cried Rodolph ; " all heart, disinterested-
ness, and delicacy ! But did you never speak to him of
the marriages so hastily broken off ? "
" I will confess to you, my lord, that the question was
several times on my lips ; but, when I recollected the
sensitiveness of his nature, I feared to pain him by ques-
tions which might, at any rate, have wounded his self-
love, or taxed his honour to reply to truly. The nearer
the day fixed for our marriage approached, the more de-
lighted did M. d'Harville appear. Yet I several times
detected him absorbed in the most perfect dejection, the
233
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
deepest melancholy. One day, in particular, I caught
his eyes fixed on me with a settled gaze, as though
resolving to confide to me some important secret he yet
could not bring himself to reveal. I perceived a large tear
trickle slowly down his cheek, as though wrung from his
very heart. The recollection of his two former prospects
of marriage, so suddenly destroyed, rose to my mind ;
and, I confess, I almost felt afraid to proceed. A vague
presentiment whispered within me that the happiness of
my whole life was at stake, perhaps perilled for ever.
But then, on the other hand, such was my eager desire
to quit my father's house, that I turned a deaf ear to
every suggestion of evil arising from my union with
M. d'Harville."
" And did M. d'Harville make you no voluntary con-
fession ? "
" Not any. When I inquired the cause of his continual
fits of melancholy, he would answer, ' Pray, do not heed
it ! But I am always most sad when most happy.' These
words, pronounced in the kindest and most touching man-
ner, reassured me a little. And how, indeed, was it pos-
sible, when his voice would quiver with emotion, and his
eyes fill with tears, to manifest any further suspicion, by
repeating my questions as to the past, when it was with
the future only I had any business ? The persons ap-
pointed to witness the contract on the part of M. d'Har-
ville, M. de Lucenay and M. de Saint-Remy, arrived at
Aubiers some days previous to the marriage ; my nearest
relations alone were invited. Immediately after the con-
clusion of the ceremony, we were to depart for Paris ;
and it is true I felt for M. d'Harville none of that love
with which a young wife ought to regard the man she
vows her future life to, but I admired and respected his
character and disposition, and, but for the disastrous
events which followed this fatal union, a more tender
feeling could doubtless soon have attached me to him.
Well, we were married."
234
CLfiMENCE D'HARVILLE.
At these words, Madame d'llarville turned rather pale,
and her resolution appeared to forsake her. After a
pause, she resumed :
" Immediately after the ceremony, my father embraced
me tenderly, as did Madame Roland also. Before so many
persons I could not avoid the display of this fresh exhibi-
tion of hy[)ocrisy. With her dry and white hand she
squeezed mine so hard as to pam me, and said, in a
whisper, and in a tone as gentle as it was perfidious,
these words, which I never can forget : ' Think of me
sometimes in the midst of your bliss, for it was 1 w^ho
arranged your marriage.' Alas, 1 was far from compre-
hending at that moment the full force of those words !
Our marriage took place at eleven o'clock, and we imme-'
diately entered our carriage, followed by my waiting-
woman and the old valet de chamhre of M. d'Harville's,
and we travelled so rapidly that we reached Paris before
ten o'clock in the evening. I should have been surprised
at the silence and melancholy of M. d'Harville had I not
known that he had what he termed his happy sadness.
I was myself painfully disturbed ; I was returning to
Paris for the first time since my mother's death ; I
arrived there alone with my husband, whom I had
hardly known more than six weeks, and who, up to
the evening before, had not addressed a word to me
but what was marked by respectful formality. Men,
however well bred, do not think sufHciently of the fear
which the sudden change in their tone and manners
occasions to a j'Oung female as soon as she belongs to
them ; they do not reflect that a youthful maiden cannot
in a few hours forget all her timidity and virgin scruples."
" Nothing is to me more barbarous than this system
of carrying off a young female as soon as the wedding
ceremony is over, a ceremony which ought to conse-
crate the right and duty to employ still more every ten-
derness of love and effort to render mutual affection still
stronger and more endearing."
235
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" You will imagine, monseigneur, the indefinable alarm
with which I found myself in Paris, in the city in which
my mother had died hardly a year before. We reached
the Hotel d'Haj^ville "
The emotion of the young lady redoubled, her cheeks
were flushed with scarlet, and she added, in a voice
scarcely intelligible :
" You must know all ; if not, I shall appear too con-
temptible in your eyes. Well, then," she resumed, with
desperate resolution, " I was led to my apartment and
left there alone ; after an hour M. d'Harville joined me
there. I was weeping bitterly. My husband came towards
me, and w^as about to take my arm, when he fell at my
feet in agony. He could not hear my voice, his coun-
tenance was spasmodic with fearful convulsions, his eyes
rolled in their orbits with a rapidity that appalled me,
his contorted mouth was filled with lilood and foam, and
his hand grasped me with inconceivable force. I made
a desperate effort, and his stiffened fingers at length un-
clasped from my wrist, and I fainted at the moment
when M. d'Harville was struggling in the paroxysm of
this horrible attack. This was my wedding night, my
lord, this was the vengeance of Madame Roland ! "
" Unhappy woman ! " said Rodolph, overwhelmed. " I
understand, an epileptic. Ah, 'tis horrible ! "
" And that is not all," added Clemence, in a voice
almost choked by emotion ; " my child, my angel girl,
she has inherited this frightful malady."
" Your daughter ! She ! What ? Her paleness
her weakness "
" Is, I dread to believe, hereditary ; and the physi-
cians think, therefore, that it is incurable."
Madame d'Harville hid her face in her hands ; over-
come by this painful disclosure, she had not courage to
add another word. Rodolph also remained silent. His
mind recoiled affrighted from the terrible mysteries of
this night. He pictured to himself the young maiden,
236
CLl^.MENCE D'HAKYTLLE.
already sad, in consequence of her return to the city in
which her mother had died, arriving at a strange liouse,
alone with a man for whom she felt an interest and
esteem, but not love, nor any of those sentiments which
enchant the mind, none of the engrossing feeling which
removes the chaste alarms of a woman in the participa-
tion of a lawful and reciprocal affection. No, no ; on
the contrary, Clemoncc arrived agitated and distressed,
with depressed spirits and tearful eyes. She was, how-
ever, resolved on resignation and the fulfilment of duty,
when, instead of listening to language full of devotion,
love, and tenderness, which would compensate for the
sorrowful feelings which were uppermost in her mind,
she sees convulsed at her feet a stricken man, who
twists, and foams, and shrieks, in the hideous convul-
sions of one of the most fearful infirmities with wliich
a man can be incurably smitten ! This is not all : his
child, poor little innocent angel ! is also withered from
her birth. These sad and painful avowals excited bitter
reflections in Rodolph's mind. " Such," said he, " is the
law of the land. A young, handsome, and pure girl,
the confiding and gentle victim of a shameful dissimu-
lation, unites her destiny to that of a man tainted with
an incurable malady, a fatal inheritance which he will
assuredly transmit to his children. The unhappy wife
discovers this horrid mystery. What can she do ?
Nothing, nothing but sulTer and weep ; nothing but
endeavour to overcome her disgust and fright ; nothing
but pass her days in anguish, in indefinable and endless
terror ; nothing but seek, perhaps, culpable consolation
without the desolate existence which has been created
around her. Again," said Rodolph, " these strange
laws sometimes produce horrible unions : fearful for
humanity. In these laws, animals always appear supe-
rior to man in the care bestowed upon them ; in the
improvements that are studied for them ; in the protec-
tion which encircles, the guarantees which attend them.
2'67
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Buy an animal, and, if an infirmity decried by the law
is detected after the purchase, the sale is null and void.
Indeed, what a shame, what a case of public injury
would it be to compel a man to keep an animal which
has a cough, is lame, or has lost an eye ! Why, it
would be scandalous, criminal, unheard-of infamy ! Only
imagine being compelled to keep, and keep for ever, a
mule with a cough, a horse that was blind, or an ass
that was lame ! What frightful consequences might not
such injustice entail on the communit}^ ! Therefore, no
such bargains hold good, no words bind, no contract is
valid : the omnipotent law unlooses all that was thus
bound. But if it relates to a creature made after God's
own image, if it respects a young girl who, in the full
and innocent reliance on the good faith of a man, unites
her lot with his, and wakes up in the company of an
epileptic, an unhappy wretch stricken with a fearful
malady, whose moral and physical consequences are
immeasurably distressing, a malady which may throw
disorder and aversion into a family, perpetuate a horrible
disease, vitiate whole generations, yes, this law, so
inexorable when lame, blind, or coughing animals are
the consideration this law, so singularly clear-sighted,
which will not allow an unsound horse to increase the
species this law will not loosen the victim of a union
such as we have described. These bonds are sacred,
indissoluble : it is to offend God and man to break
them. In truth," continued Rodolph, '' men sometimes
display a humility most shameful and an egotistical
pride which is only execrable. He values himself at
less than the beast which he protects by warranties
which he refuses for himself ; and he imposes on him-
self, makes sacred, and perpetuates his most distressing
infirmities by putting them under the protection of the
immutability of laws, human and divine." Rodolph
greatly blamed M. d'Harville, but he promised to him-
self to excuse him in the eyes of Cl^mence, although
238
CLEMENCE DTTARVILLB.
fully persuaded, after her sad disclosure, that the marquis
was for ever alienated from her heart. One thought led
to another, and Rodolph said to himself, " 1 have kept
aloof from a woman I love, and who, perhaps, already
feels a secret inclination for me. Either from an
attachment of heart or friendship, she has bestowed
her honour her life for the sake of a fool whom
she thought unhappy. If, instead of leaving her, I had
paid her all sorts of attentions, love, and consideration,
my name would have been such that her reputation
would not have received the slightest staih, the sus-
picions of her husband would never have been excited :
whilst, now, she is all but at the mercy of such an ass
as M. Charles Robert, who, I fear, will become the more
indiscreet in proportion as he has the less right to be so.
And then, too, who knows if, in spite of the dangers she
has risked, the heart of Madame d'Harville will always
remain free ? Any return to her husband is hencefor-
ward impossible. Young, handsome, courted, with a
disposition sympathising with all who suffer, what
dangers, what shoals and quicksands, lie before her !
For M. d'Harville, what anguish and what deep chagrin I
At the same time jealous of and in love with his wife,
who cannot subdue the disgust and fright which he
excited in her on their nuptials, what a lot is his ! "
Clemence, with her forehead hidden by her hands, her
eyes brimful of tears, and her cheek reddened by embar-
rassment, avoided Rodolph's look, such pain had the
disclosure cost her.
" Ah, now," said Rodolph, after a long silence, " I can
understand the cause of M. d'Harville's sadness, which
I could not before account for. I can imagine his
regrets "
" His regrets ! " exclaimed Clemence ; " say his re-
morse, monseigneur, if he have any, for never was such,
a crime more coolly meditated."
" A crime, madame ? "
289
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
"What else is it, my lord, to bind to yourself in
indissoluble bonds a young girl, who confides in your
honour, when you are fatally stricken with a malady
which inspires fear and horror ? What else is it, to
devote with certainty an unhappy child to similar
misery ? What forced M. d'Harville to make two vic-
tims ? A blind, insensate passion ? No ; he found my
birth, my fortune, and my person, to his taste. He
wished to make a convenient marriage, because, doubt-
less, a bachelor's life wearied him."
" Madame, at least pity him."
" Pity him ? If you wish pity, pray let it be bestowed
on my child. Poor victim of this odious union, what
nights and days have I passed near her ! What tears
have not her misfortunes wrung from me ! "
" But her father suffers from the same unmerited
afflictions."
" Yet it is that father who has condemned her to a
sickly infancy, a withering youth, and, if she should
survive, to a life of isolation and misery, for she will
never marry. Ah, no ! I love her too well to expose
her to the chance of one day's weeping over her own
offspring, similarly smitten, as I weep over her. I have
suffered too much from treachery, to render myself
guilty of, or an accomplice in, such wickedness ! "
" You are right ; the vengeance of your mother-in-law
was really atrocious. But patience, and perhaps in your
turn you will be avenged," said Rodolph, after a moment's
reflection.
" What do you mean, my lord ? " inquired Clemence,
astonished at the change in his voice.
" I have generally had the satisfaction of seeing those
whom I have known to be wicked most severely pun-
ished," he replied, in a voice that made Clemence shud-
der. "But the day after this unhappy event what did
your husband say ? "
" He confessed, with singular candour, that his two
240
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
former marriages had been broken off in consequence of
the families becoming acquainted with the secret of his'
fearful malady. Thus, then, after having been twice
rejected, he had the shameful, the unmanly courage, to
drag a third poor victim into the abyss of misery the
kind intervention of friends had preserved the others
from. And this is what the world calls a gentleman
and a man of honour ! "
" For one so good, so full of pity to others, yours are
harsh words."
'' Because I feel I have been unworthily treated. M.
d'Harville easily penetrated the girlish openness of my
character; why, then, did he not trust to my sympathy
and generosity of feeling, and tell me the whole truth ? "
" Because you would have refused him."
" This very expression proves how guilty he was, and
how treacherous was his conduct, if he really enter-
tained the idea of my rejecting his hand if informed of
the truth ! "
" He loved you too well to incur the risk of losing
you."
" No, no, my lord ; had he really loved me, he would
never have sacrificed me to his selfish passion. Nay, so
wretched was my position at that time, and such was
my desire to quit my father's roof, that, had he been
candid and explicit with me, it is more than probable
he would have moved me to pity the species of misery he
was condemned to endure, and to sympathise with one
so cut off from the tender ties which sweeten life. I
really believe, at this moment, that, touched by his open,
manly confession, as well as interested for one labouring
under so severe an infliction of the Almighty's hand, I
should scarcely have had the courage to refuse him my
hand ; and, once aware of all I had undertaken, nothing
should have deterred me from the full and conscientious
discharge of every solemn duty towards him. But to
compel this pity and interest, merely because he had me
241
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
in his power, and to exact my consideration and sympa-
thy, because, unhappily, I was his wife, and had sworn to
obligations, the full force of which had been concealed
from me, was at once the act of a coward and a wrong-
judging mind. How could I hold myself bound to en-
dure the heavy penalties of my unfortunate marriage,
when my husband had trampled on every tie which binds
an honourable mind ? And now, my lord, you may form
some little idea of my wedded life ; you are now aware
how shamefully I was deceived, and that, too, by the
person in whose hands I unsuspectingly placed the future
happiness of my whole existence. I had implicitly
trusted in M. d'Harville, and he had most dishonourably
and treacherously repaid my trustfulness with bitter and
irremediable wrongs. The gentle, timid melancholy
which had so greatly interested me in his favour, and
which he attributed to pious recollections, was, in truth,
only the workings of a conscience ill at ease, and the
knowledge of his own incurable infirmity."
" Still, were he a stranger or an enemy, a heart so
noble and generous as yours would pity such sufferings
as he endures ?"
" But can I calm those sufferings ? If he could
distinguish my voice, or if only a look of recognition
answered my sorrowing glance ! But no. Oh, my
lord, it is impossible for such as have never seen them
to form an idea of those friglitful paroxysms, in which
every sense is suspended, and the unfortunate sufferer
merely recovers from his frenzy to fall into a sort of
sullen dejection ! When my dear child experiences one
of these attacks, it almost breaks my heart to see her
tender frame twisted, stiffened, and distorted, by the
dreadful convulsions which accompany it. Still, she is
my own, my beloved infant, and, when I see her bitter
agonies, my hatred and aversion to her father are in-
creased an hundredfold. But, when my poor child
becomes calmer, so does my irritation against my hus-
242
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
band subside also ; and tben ah, then the natural
tenderness of my heart makes my angry feelings give
plaee to a species of sorrow and pity for him. Yet
surely I did not marry at only seventeen years of age
merely to experience the alternations of hatred and pain-
ful commiseration, and to weep over a frail and sickly
infant, whom, after all, 1 may not be permitted to rear.
And, as regards this beloved object of my incessant
prayers, permit me, my lord, to anticipate a reproach I
doubtless deserve, and which you would be unwilling to
make. My daughter, young as she is, is capable of
interesting my affections and fully occupying my heart ;
but the love she inspires is so cruelly mixed with present
anguish and future ap})rehensions, that my tenderness
for my child invariably ends in tears and bitter grief.
When I am with her, my heart is torn with agony,
a heavy, crushing weight presses on my heart at the
thoughts of her hopeless, suffering state. Not all the
fondest devices of a mother's love can overcome a malady
pronounced by all our faculty as incurable. Thus, then,
by way of relief and refuge from the atmosphere of
wretchedness which surrounded me, I had pictured to
myself the possibility of finding calm and repose for my
troubled spirit in an attachment, so vain, so empty,
that But I have been deceived a second time, most
unworthily deceived ; and there is now nothing left for
me but to resign myself to the gloom and misery of the
life my husband's want of candour has entailed upon me.
But tell me, my lord, is it such an existence as I was
justified in expecting when I bestowed my hand on M.
d'Harville ? And am I alone to blame for those injuries,
to avenge which my husband had this day determined
to take my life ? My fault was great, very great ; and
the more so, because the object I had selected was every
way so unworthy, and leaves me the additional shame
of having to blush for my choice. Happily for me, my
lord, the conversation you overheard between the Count-
24S
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
ess Sarah and her brother on the subject of M.
Charles Robert spares me much of the humiliation
I should otherwise have experienced in making this
confession. I only venture to hope that, since listen-
ing to my relation, you may be induced to consider
me as much an object of pity as I admit I am of
blame."
" I cannot express to you, madame, how deeply your
narrative has touched me. What gnawing grief, what
hidden sorrows have you not been called upon to endure,
from the death of your mother to the birth of your child I
Who would ever believe such ills could reach one so
envied, so admired, and so calculated to enjoy and im-
part happiness to others ? "
" Oh, my lord, there are some sorrows so deep, so
unapproachable, that for worlds we would not even have
them suspected ; and the severest increase of suffering
would arise from the very doubt of our being the envi-
able creatures we are believed to be."
" You are right ; nothing would be more painful than
the question, openly expressed, ' Is she or he as happy as
they seem to be ? ' Still, if there is any happiness in the
knowledge, be assured you are not the only one who has
to struggle with the fearful contrast between reality and
that which the world believes."
*' How so, my lord ? "
" Because, in the eyes of all who know you, your hus-
band is esteemed even happier than yourself, since he
possesses one so rich in every good gift ; and yet is not he
also much to be pitied ? Can there be a more miserable
existence than the one he leads ? He has acted unfairly
and selfishly towards you, but has he not been bitterly
punished ? He loves you with a passion, deep and sin-
cere, worthy of you to have inspired, yet he knows that
your only feeling towards him is insurmountable aver-
sion and contempt. In his feeble, suffering child he
beholds a constant reproach ; nor is that all he is called
2^4
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
upon to endure ; jealousy also assails him with her name-
less tortures.'*
" And how can 1 help that, my lord ? By giving him
no occasion for jealousy, you reply. And certainly you
are right. But, think you, because no other person
would possess my love, it would any the more be his ?
He knows full well it would not. Since the fearful scene
I related to you, we have lived entirely apart, while in
the eyes of the world I have kept up every necessary
appearance of married happiness. With the exception
of yourself, my lord, I have never breathed a syllable of
this fatal secret to mortal ears : thus, therefore, I ven-
ture to ask advice of you I could not solicit from any
human being."
" And I, madame, can with truth assure you that, if
the trifling service I have rendered you be deemed worthy
of notice, I hold myself a thousand times overpaid by
the confidence you have reposed in me. But, since
you deign to ask my advice, and permit me to speak
candidly "
" Oh, yes, my lord, I beseech you to use the frankness
and sincerity you would show to a sister ! ''
" Then allow me to tell you that, for want of employ-
ing one of your most precious qualities, you lose vast
enjoyments, which would not only fill up that void in
your heart, but would distract you from your domestic
sorrows and supply that need of stirring emotions, excite-
ment, and," added the prince, smiling, " I dare almost to
venture to add, pray forgive me for having so bad an
opinion of your sex, that natural love for mystery and
intrigue which exercises so powerful an empire over
many, if not all, females."
" What do you mean, my lord ? "
" I mean that, if you would play at the game of doing
good, nothing would please or interest you more."
Madame d'Harville surveyed Rodolph with astonish
ment.
245
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" And understand," resumed he, " I speak not of send-
ing large sums carelessly, almost disdainfully, to unfor-
tunate creatures, of whom you know nothing, and who
are frequently undeserving of your favour. But if you
would amuse yourself, as I do, at playing, from time to
time, at the game of Providence, you would acknowledge
that occasionally our good deeds put on all the piquancy
and charms of a romance."
" I must confess, my lord," said Cl^mence, with a
smile, " it never occurred to me to class charity under
the head of amusements."
" It is a discovery I owe to my horror of all tediums,
all wearisome, long-protracted affairs, a sort of horror
which has been principally inspired by long political con-
ferences and ministerial discussions. But to return to
our game of amusing beneficence : I cannot, alas, aspire
to possess that disinterested virtue which makes some
people content to entrust others with the office of either
ill or well distributing their bounty, and, if it merely
required me to send one of my chamberlains to carry a
few hundred louis to each of the divisions in and around
Paris, I confess, to my shame, that the scheme would
not interest me iiearly as much as it does at present,
while doing good, after my notions on the subject, is
one of the most entertaining and exciting amusements
you can imagine. I prefer the word ' amusing,' because
to me it conveys the idea of all that pleases, charms, and
allures us. And, really, madame, if you would only be-
come my accomplice in a few dark intrigues of this sort,
you would see that, apart from the praiseworthiness of
the action, nothing is really more curious, inviting, at-
tractive, or diverting, than these charitable advcntyres.
And then, what mystery is requisite to conceal the bene
fits we render! what precautions to prevent ourselves
from being discovered ! what varied, yet powerful, emo-
tions are excited at the aspect of poor but worthy people
sheddmg tears of joy and calling down Heaven's blessing
246
CLEMENCE D'HARVTLLE.
on your head ! Depend upon it, such a group is, after
all, more gratifying than the pale, angry countenance of
either a jealous or an unfaithful lover, and there are very
few who do not class either under one head or the other.
The emotions I describe are closely allied to those you
experienced this morning while going to the Rue du
Temple. Simply dressed, that you may escape observa-
tion, you go forth with a palpitating heart ; you also
ascend with a throbbing breast some modest fiacre^ care-
fully drawing down the blinds to prevent yourself from
being seen ; then, looking cautiously from side to side
that you are not observed, you quickly enter a mean-
looking dwelling, just like this morning, you see, the
only difference being that, whereas to-day you said, ' If
I am discovered I am lost ! ' then you would only smile
as you mentally uttered, ' If I am discovered, they will
overwhelm me with praises and blessings ! ' Now,
since you possess your many adorable qualities in all
their pure modesty, you would employ the most artful
schemes, the most complicated manoeuvres, to prevent
yourself from being known, and, consequently, wept over
and blessed as an angel of goodness."
"Ah, my lord," cried Madame d'Harville, deeply
moved, " you are indeed my preserver ! I cannot
express the new ideas, the consoling hopes, awakened
within me by your words. You are quite right ; to en-
deavour to gain the blessing and gratitude of such as are
poor and in misery is almost equal to being loved even
as I would wish to be ; nay, it is even superior in its
purity and absence of self. When I compare the exist-
ence I now venture to anticipate with the shameful and
degraded lot I was preparing for myself, my own re-
proaches become more bitter and severe."
" I should, indeed, be grieved," said Rodolph, smiling,
" were that to be the case, since all my desire is to make
yoQ forget the past, and to prove to you that there are
various modes of recreating and distracting our minds ;
247
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
the means of good and evil are very frequently nearly
the same : it is the end, only, which differs. In a word,
if good is as attractive, as amusing, as evil, why should
we prefer the latter ? I am going to use a very com-
monplace and hackneyed simile. Why do many women
take as lovers men not nearly as worthy of that distinc-
tion as their own husbands ? Because the greatest charm
of love consists in the difficulties which surround it ; for
once deprived of the hopes, the fears, the anxieties, diffi-
culties, mysteries, and dangers, and little or nothing
would remain, merely the lover, stripped of all the pres-
tige derivable from these causes, and a very every-day
object he would appear ; very much after the fashion
of the individual who, when asked by a friend why he
did not marry his mistress, replied, ' Why, I was think-
ing of it ; but, if I did, where should I go t(5 pass my
evenings ? ' "
" Your picture is coloured after nature, my lord," said
Madame d'Harville, smiling.
" Well, then, if I can find the means of enabling you
to experience the fears, the anxieties, the excitement,
which seem to have such charms for you, if I can render
useful your natural love for mystery and romance, your
inclination for dissimulation and artifice, you see my
bad opinion of your sex will peep out in spite of me,"
added Rodolph, gaily, "shall I not change into fine
and generous qualities instincts which otherwise are
mere ungovernable and unmanageable impulses, excel-
lent, if well employed, most fatal, if directed badly ?
Now, then, what do you say ? Shall we get up all
manner of benevolent plots and charitable dissipations ?
We will have our rendezvous, our correspondence, our
secrets, and, above all, we will carefully conceal all our
doings from the marquis, for your visit of to-day to the
Morels has, in all probability, excited his suspicions.
There, you see, it only requires your consent to com-
mence a regular intrigue."
248
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
" I accept with joy and gratitude the mysterious asso-
ciations you propose, my lord," said Cl^mence ; " and, hy
way of beginning our romance, I will return to-morrow
to visit those poor creatures to whom, unfortunately, this
morning I could only utter a few words of consolation ;
for, taking advantage of my terror and alarm, the purse
you so thoughtfully supplied me with was stolen from
me by a lame boy as I ascended the stairs. Ah, my
lord," added Cl^mence (and her countenance lost the
expression of gentle gaiety by which a few minutes
before it was animated), " if you only knew what mis-
ery, what a picture of wretchedness no ! oh, no ! I
never could have believed so horrid a scene, or that such
want existed ; and yet I bewail my condition and com-
plain of my severe destiny."
Rodolph, wishing to conceal from Madame d'Harville
how deeply he was touched at this application of the
woes of others, as teaching patience and resignation, yet
fully recognising in the meek and subdued spirit the fine
and noble qualities of her mind, said, gaily :
" With your permission, I shall except the Morels
from your jurisdiction ; you shall resign them to my
care, and, above all things, promise me not again to
enter that miserable place, for, to tell you the truth,
I live there."
" You, my lord ? What an idea ! "
" Nay, but you really must believe me when I say
I Hve there, for it is actually true. I confess mine is
somewhat a humble lodging, a mere matter of eight
pounds a year, in addition to which I pay the large
and liberal sum of six francs a month to the porteress,
Madame Pipelet, that ugly old woman you saw ; but, to
make up for all this, I have as my next neighbour. Mile.
Rigolette, the prettiest grisette in the Quartier du Tem-
ple. And you must allow that, for a merchant's clerk,
with a salary of only seventy-two pounds a year (I pass
as a clerk), such a domicile is well suited to my means."
249
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Your unhoped-for presence in that fatal house proves
to me that you are speaking seriously, my lord ; some
generous action leads you there, no doubt ! But what
good action du you reserve for me ? What part do you
propose for me to sustain ? "
" That of an angel of consolation, and pray excuse
and allow me the word a very demon of cunning and
manoeuvres ! For there are some wounds so painful, as
well as delicate, that the hand of a woman only can
watch over and heal them. There are, also, unfortu-
nate beings so proud, so reserved, and so hidden from
observation, that it requires uncommon penetration to
discover them, and an irresistible charm to win their
confidence."
" And when shall I have an opportunity of displaying
the penetration and skill for which you give me credit ? "
asked Madame d'Harville, impatiently.
" Soon, I hope, you will have to make a conquest
worthy of you; but, to succeed, you must employ all
your most ingenious resources."
" And when, my lord, will you confide this great secret
tome?"
" Let me see ! You perceive, we have already got
as far as arranging our rendezvous. Could you do
me the favour to grant me an audience in four days'
time ? "
" Dear me ! so long first ? " said Clemence, innocently.
" But what would become of the mystery of the affair,
and all the strict forms and appearances necessary to be
kept up, if we were to meet sooner ? Just imagine ! If
our partnership were suspected, people would be on their
guard, and we should seldom achieve our purpose. I may
very probably have to write to you. Who was that aged
female who brought me your note ? "
'* An old servant of my mother's, the very personifica-
tion of prudence and discretion."
" I will then address my letters under cover to her,
250
CLfiMENCE D'HARVILLE.
and she will deliver them into your hands. If you are
kind enough to return any answer, address ' To M.
Rodolph, Rue Plumet,' and let your maid put your
letters in the post."
" I will do that myself, my lord, when taking my
usual morning's walk."
" Do you often walk out alone ? "
" In fine weather nearly every day."
"That's right! It is a custom all young women
should observe from the very earliest period of their
marriage, either from a good or an improper pro-
vision against future evil. The habit once established,
it becomes what the lawyers style a precedent ; and, in
subsequent days, these habitual promenades excite no
dangerous interpretations. If I had been a woman, and,
between ourselves, I fear I should have been very chari-
table, but equally flighty, the very day after my mar-
riage I should, in all possible innocence, have taken
the most mysterious steps, and, with perfect simplicity,
have involved myself in all manner of suspicious and
compromising proceedings, for the purpose of establish-
ing the precedent I spoke of, in order to be at liberty
either to visit my poor pensioners or to meet my
lover."
" But that would be downright perfidy to one's hus-
band, would it not, my lord?" said Madame d'Harville,
smiling.
" Fortunately for you, madame, you have never been
driven to the necessity of admitting the utility of such
provisionary measures."
Madame d'Harville's smile left her lips. She cast
down her eyes, and, blushing deeply, said, in a low and
sad voice, " This is not generous, my lord ! "
At first Rodolph regarded the marquise witli astonish-
ment, then added, " I understand you, madame. But,
once for all, let us weigh well your position as regards
M. Charles Robert. I will just imagine that one of
251
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
your acquaintances may one day have pointed out to
you one of those pitiable-looking mendicants who roll
their eyes most sentimentally, and play on the clarionet
with desperate energy, to awaken the sympathy of the
passers-by. ' That is really and truly a genuine case of
distress,' observes your friend. ' That interesting musi-
cian has at least seven children, and a wife deaf, dumb,
blind,' etc. ' Ah, poor fellow ! ' you reply, charitably
aiding him with your purse. And so, each time you
meet this case of genuine distress, the clarionet-player,
the moment he discerns you from afar, fixes his implor-
ing eyes upon you, while the most touching strains of his
instrument are directed to touch your charitable sympa-
thies, and that, too, so successfully, that again your purse
opens at this fresh appeal. One day, more than usually
disposed to pity this very unfortunate object by the im-
portunities of the friend who first pointed him out to
you, and who is most wickedly abusing your generous
heart, you resolve to visit this case of genuine distress,
as your false friend terms it, and to behold the poor
object of your solicitude in the midst of his misery.
Well, you go. But, lo ! the grief-stricken musician has
vanished ; and in his place you find a lively, rollicking
fellow, enjoying himself over some of the good things of
this world, and mirthfully carolling forth the last new
alehouse catch. Then disgust succeeds to pity ; for you
have bestowed your sympathy and charity alike upon an
impostor, neither more nor less. Is it not so ? "
Madame d'Harville could not restrain a smile at this
singular apologue. She, however, soon checked it, as
she added :
" However grateful I may feel for this mode of justify-
ing my great imprudence, my lord, I can but confess I
dare not avail myself of so favourable a pretext as that
of mistaken charity."
" Yet, after all, yours was an error based upon motives
of noble and generous pity for the wounded feelings of
252
CLl^MENCE D'HARVILLE.
one you believed a genuine object for commiseration.
Fortunately, tbere are so many ways left you of aloiiin;:,'
for one indiscretion, that your regret need be but smal].
Shall I not have the pleasure of seeing M. d'Harvillc
this evening ? "
'' No, my lord. The scene of this morning has so
much affected him that he is ill," said the marquise,
in a low, tremulous tone.
" Ah,*' replied Rodolph, sadly, " 1 understand ! Come,
courage ! you were saying that you required an aim, a
motive, a means of directing your thoughts. Permit me
to hope that all this will be accomplished by following
out the plan I have proposed. Your heart will be then
so filled with the delightful recollection of all the happi-
ness you have caused, and all the good you have effected,
that, in all probability, you will find no room for resent-
ment against your husband. In place of angry feelings,
you will regard him with the same sorrowing pity you
look on your dear child. And as for the interesting
little creature herself, now you have confided to me the
cause of her delicate health, I almost think myself war-
ranted in bidding you yet to entertain hopes of over-
coming the fearful complaint which has hitherto affected
her tender frame."
" Oh, my lord ! " exclaimed Clemence, clasping her
hands with eagerness, " can it be possible ? How ? In
what manner can my child be saved ? "
" I have, as physician to myself and household, a man
almost unknown, though possessed of a first-rate science.
Great part of his life was passed in America ; and I re-
member his speaking to me of some marvellous cures
performed by him on slaves attacked by this distressing
complaint."
" And do you really think, my lord "
" Nay, you must not allow yourself to dwell too con-
fidently upon success ; the disappointment would be so
very severe. Only, do not let us wholly despair."
253
THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS.
Cl^mence d'Harville cast a hasty glance of unutter-
able gratitude over the noble features of Rodolph, the
firm, unflinching friend, who reconciled her to herself
with so much good sense, intelligence, and delicacy of
feeling. Then she asked herself how, for one instant, she
could ever have been interested in the fate of such a being
as M. Charles Robert, the very idea was hateful to her.
" What do I not owe you, my lord ?" cried she, in a
voice of thrilling emotion ; " you console me for the past ;
you open to me a glimpse of hope for my child ; and you
place before me a plan of future occupation which shall
afford me both consolation and the delight of doing my
duty. Ah, was I not right when I said that, if you would
come here to-night, you would finish the day as you had
begun it, by performing a good action ? "
" And pray, madame, do not omit to add, an action
after my own heart, where all is pleasure and unmixed
enjoyment in its performance. And now, adieu ! " said
Rodolph, rising as the clock struck half-past eleven.
" Adieu, my lord, and pray do not forget to send me
news ere long of those poor people in tlie Rue du Temple."
' I will see them to-morrow, for, unfortunately, I knew
not of that little limping rascal having stoleh your purse ;
and I fear that the unhappy creatures are in the most
deplorable want. Have the kindness to bear in mind
that, in the course of four days, I shall come to explain
to you the nature of the part you will be required to
undertake. One thing I anust prepare you for ; and that
is, the probability of its being requisite for you to assume
a disguise on the occasion."
" A disguise ? Oh, how charming ! What sort of
one, my lord ? "
" I cannot tell you at present. I will leave the choice
to you."
" All that is requisite," said the prince, on his return
home, " to save this excellent woman from the perils of
254
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
another attachment, is to fill her mind with generous
thoughts ; and, since an invincible repugnance separates
her from her husband, to employ her love for the
romantic in such charitable actions as shall require
being enshrouded in mystery."
256
CHAPTER XII.
MISERY.
The reader has probably not forgotten that the garret
in the Rue du Temple was occupied by an unfortunate
family, the father of whom was a working lapidary,
named Morel. We shall now endeavour to describe the
wretched abode of Morel and his children.
It was six o'clock in the morning ; a deep silence
dwelt around. The streets were still deserted, for the
snow fell fast, and the cold, biting wind froze as it blew.
A miserable candle, stuck upon a small block of wood,
and supported by two slips of the same material,
scarcely penetrated with its yellow, flickering light the
misty darkness of the garret, a narrow, low-built
place, tw^-thirds of which was formed by the sloping
roof, which communicated by a sharp angle with the
wretched flooring, and freely exposed the moss-covered
tiles of the outer roof. Walls covered with plaster,
blackened by time, and split into countless crevices, dis-
played the rotten, worm-eaten laths, which formed the
frail division from other chambers, while in one corner
of this deplorable habitation a door off the hinges opened
upon a narrow staircase. The ground, of a nameless
colour, but foul, fetid, and slippery, was partly strewed
with bits of dirty straw, old rags, and bones, the residue
of that unwholesome and vitiated food sold by the
dealers in condemned meat, and frequently bought by
256
MISERY.
starving wretches, for the purpose of gnawing the few
cartilages tliat may adhere.^
So wretched a condition either arises from improvi-
dence and vice, or from unavoidable misery, misery so
great, so overwhehning and paralysing, as to enfeeble
every energy, and to render the unhappy object of it too
hopeless, too despairing, even to attempt to extricate
himself from the squalor of his utter destitution, and he
crouches in his dirt and desolation like an animal in its
den.
During the day. Morel's garret was lighted by a ^
species of long, narrow skylight formed in the descend-
ing roof, framed and glazed, and made to open and shut
by means of a pulley and string ; but, at the hour which
we are describing, a heavy fall of snow encumbered the
window, and effectually prevented its affording any light.
The candle placed on Morel's working-table, which stood
in the centre of the chamber, diffused a kind of halo of
pale, sickly beams, which, gradually diminishing, was at
last lost in the dim shadow which overspread the place,
in whose murky duskiness might be seen the faint out-
line of several white-looking masses. On the work-table,
which was merely a heavy and roughly cut wooden
block of unpolished oak, covered with grease and soot,
lay, loosely scattered about, a handful of rubies and
diamonds, of more than ordinary size and brilliancy,
while, as the mean rays of the small candle were
reflected on them, they glittered and sparkled like so
many coruscating fires.
Morel was a worker of real stones, and not false ones,
as he had given out, and as was universally believed, in
the Rue du Temple. Thanks to this innocent deception,
the costly jewels entrusted to him were merely supposed
to be so many pieces of glass, too valueless to tempt the
cupidity of any one. Such riches, confided to the care
1 It is no uncommon thine to meet, in densely crowded parts of Paris,
with persons who openly selfthe flesh of animals born dead, as well as of
others who have died of disease, etc.
257
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
of one as poor and miserably destitute as Morel, will
render any reference to the honesty of his character
quite unnecessary.
Seated on a high stool, and wholly overcome by
fatigue, cold, and weariness, after a long winter's night,
passed in unceasing labour, the poor lapidary had fallen
asleep on his block, with his head upon his half-frozen
arms, and his forehead resting against a small grind-
stone, placed horizontally on the table, and generally put
in motion by a little hand-wheel, while a fine steel saw,
and various other tools belonging to his trade, were
lying beside him. The man himself, of whom nothing
but the skuir, surrounded by a fringe of gray hairs, was
visible, was dressed in a shabby fustian jacket, without
any species of linen or garment beneath it, and an old
pair of cloth trousers, while his worn-out slippers scarcely
concealed the blue, cold feet they partially covered, from
resting solely on the damp, shiny floor ; and so bitter,
so freezing, was the sharp winter wind which freely
entered into this scarcely human dwelling, that, spite of
the weariness and exhaustion of the overworked artisan,
his frame shuddered and shivered with involuntary fre-
quency. The length of the wick of the unsnuffed candle
bespoke the length of time even this uneasy slumber
must have lasted, and no sound save his troubled and
irregular breathing broke the deathlike silence that
prevailed ; for, alas ! the other occupants of this mean
abode were not so fortunate as to be able to forget their
sufferings in sleep. Yet this narrow, pent-up, unwhole-
some spot contained no less than seven other persons,
five children, the youngest of whom was four years
of age, the eldest twelve, a sick and declining wife, with
an aged grandmother, the parent of Morel's wife, now in
her eightieth year, and an idiot !
The cold must have been intense, indeed, when the
natural warmth of so many persons, so closely packed
together in so small a place, could not in any way affect
258
MISERY.
the freezing atnaospherc ; it was evident, therefore, to
speak scientifically, that but little caloric was given out
by the poor, weak, emaciated, shivering creatures, all
suffering and almost expiring with cold and hunger,
from the puny infant to the idiotic old grandmother.
With the exception of the father of the family, who
had temporarily yielded to the aching of his heavy eye-
lids, no other creature slept, no other ; because cold,
starvation, and sickness will not allow so sweet an
enjoyment as the closing the eyes in peaceful rest.
Little does the world believe how rarely comes that
sound, healthful, and refreshing slumber to the poor
man's pillow, which at once invigorates the mind and
body, and sends the willing labourer back to his toil
refreshed and recruited by the blessing of a beneficent
Creator. To taste of nature's sweet, refreshing, balmy
sleep, sickness, sorrow, poverty, and mental disquietude
must not share the humble pallet.
In contrasting the deep misery of the poor artisan, with
whose woes we are now occupying the reader, with the
immense value of the jewelry confided to him, we are
struck by one of those comparisons which afflict while
they elevate the mind. With the distracting spectacle
of his family's want and wretchedness, embracing a wide
field from cold and hunger to drivelling idiocy, con-
stantly before his eyes, this man, in the pursuance of his
daily labour, is compelled to touch and handle and gaze
upon bright and sparkling gems, the smallest of which
would be a mine of wealth to him, and save those dear-
est to him from sufferings and privations which wring
his very heart; would snatch them from the slow and
lingering death which is consuming them before his
eyes. Yet, amid all these trials and temptations, the
artisan remains firmly, truly, and unflinchingly honest,
and would no more appropriate one of the glittering
stones entrusted to him than he would satisfy his hunger
at the expense of his starving babes. Doubtless the man
259
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
but performed his duty to his employer, his simple
duty ; but because it is enjoined to all to be honest and
faithful in that which is committed to them, does that
render the acoion itself less noble, magnanimous, or
praiseworthy ? Is not this unfortunate artisan, so cour-
ageously, so bravely upright and honest while entrusted
with the property of another, the type and model of an
immense class of working people, who, doomed to a life
of continual poverty and privation, see, with calm, patient
looks, thousands of their brethren rolling in splendour
and abounding in riches, yet they toil on, resigned and
unen vying, but still industriously striving for bread their
hardest efforts cannot always procure ? And is there
not something consolatory, as well as gratifying to our
feelings, to consider that it is neither force nor terror,
but good natural sense and a right mind which alone re-
strain this formidable ocean, this heaving mass, whose
bounds once broken, a moral inundation would ensue, in
which society itself would be swallowed up ? Shall we,
then, refuse to cooperate with all the powers of our mind
and body with those generous and enlightened spirits,
who ask but a little sunshine for so much misfortune.,
courage, and resignation ?
Let us now return to the, alas ! too true specimen of
distressing want we shall endeavour to describe in all its
fearful and startling reality.
The lapidary possessed only a thin mattress and a por-
tion of a blanket appropriated to the old grandmother,
who, in her stupid and ferocious selfishness, would not
allow any person to share them with her. In the be-
ginning of the winter she had become quite violent, and
had even attempted to strangle the youngest child, who
had been put to sleep with her. This poor infant was a
sickly little creature, of about four years old, now far
gone in consumption, and who found it too cold inside
the mattress, where she slept with her brothers and sis-
260
MISERY.
ters. Hereafter we shall explain this mode of sleeping
so frequently employed by the very poor, in comf)arison
with whom the very animals are treated luxuriously, for
their litter is changed. Such was the picture presented
in the humble garret of the poor lapidary, when the eye
was enabled to pierce the gloomy penumbra caused by the
flickering rays of the candle. By the side of the parti-
tion wall, not less damp and cracked than the others,
was placed on the floor the mattress on which the idiot
grandmother reposed ; as she could not bear anything on
her head, her white hair was cut very short, and revealed
the shape of her head and flat forehead ; while her shaggy,
gray eyebrows shaded the deep orbits, from which glared
a wild, savage, yet crafty look ; her pale, hollow, wrinkled
cheeks hung upon the bones of the face and the sharp
angles of her jaws. Lying upon her side, and almost
doubled up, her chin nearly touching her knees, she lay,
shivering with cold, beneath the gray rug, too small to
cover her all over, and which, as she drew it over her
shoulders, exposed her thip, emaciated legs, as well as
the wretched old petticoat in which she was clad. An
odour most fetid and repulsive issued from this bed.
At a little distance from the mattress of the grand-
mother, and still extending along the side of the wall,
was placed the paillasse which served as a sleeping-place
for the five children, who were accommodated af^er the
following manner :
An opening was made at each side of the cloth which
covered the straw, and the children were inserted into
this bed, or, rather, foul and noisome dunghill, the outer
case serving both for sheet and counterpane. Two little
girls, one of whom was extremely ill, shivered on one
side, and three young boys on the other, all going to bed
without undressing, if, indeed, the miserable rags they
wore could be termed clothes. Masses of thick, dry,
light hair, tangled, ragged, and uncombed, left uncut be-
cause their poor mother fancied it helped to keep them
261
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
warm, half covered their pale, thin, pinched features.
One of the boys drew, with his cold, benumbed fingers,
the covering over their straw bed up to his chin, in order
to defend himself from the cold ; while another, fearful
of exposing his hands to the influence of the frost, tried
to grasp the bed-covering with his teeth, which rattled
and shook in his head ; while a third strove to huddle
up to his brothers in the hopes of gaining a little warmth.
The youngest of the two girls, fatally attacked by con-
sumption, leaned her poor little face, which already bore
the hue of death, languidly against the chilly bosom of
her sister, a girl just one year older, who vainly sought,
by pressing her in her arms, to impart comfort and ease
to the little sufferer, over whom she watched with the
anxious solicitude of a parent.
On another paillasse^ also placed on the ground, at the
foot of that of the children, the wife of the artisan
was extended, groaning in helpless exhaustion from
the effects of a slow fever and an internal complaint,
which had not permitted her. to quit her bed for several
months. Madeleine Morel was in her thirty-sixth year ;
a blue cotton handkerchief, tied round her low forehead,
made the bilious pallor of her countenance and sharp,
emaciated features still more conspicuous. A dark halo
encircled her hollow, sunken eyes, while her lips were
split and bleeding from the effects of the fever which
consumed her; her dejected, grief-worn physiognomy,
and small, insignificant features, indicated one of those
gentle but weak natures, without resource or energy,
which unable to struggle with misfortunes, yield at once,
and know no remedy but vain and ceaseless lamentations
and regrets. Weak, spiritless, and of limited capacity,
she had remained honest because her husband was so ;
had she been left to herself, it is probable that ignorance
and misfortune might have depraved her mind and driven
her to any lengths. She loved her husband and her chil-
dren, but she had neither the courage nor resolution to
262
MISERY.
restrain giving vent to loud and open complaints respect-
ing their mutual misery ; and frequently was the lapidary,
whose unflinching labour alone maintained the family,
obliged to quit his work to console and pacify the poor
valetudinarian. Over and above an old ragged sheet of
coarse brown cloth, which partially covered his wife,
Morel had, in order to impart a little warmth, laid a few
old clothes, so worn out, and patched and pieced, that the
pawnbroker had refused to have anything to do with them.
A stove, a saucepan, a damaged earthen stewpan, two
or three cracked cups, scattered about on the floor, a
bucket, a board to wash on, and a Targe stone pitcher,
placed beneath the angle of the roof near the broken
door, which the wind kept continually blowing to and
fro, completed the whole of the family possessions.
This picture of squalid misery and desolation was
lighted up by the candle, whose flame, agitated by the
cold northeasterly wind which found its way through
the tiles on the roof, sometimes imparted a pale, un-
earthly light on the wretched scene, and then, playing on
the heaps of diamonds and rubies lying beside the sleep-
ing artisan, caused a thousand scintillating sparks to
spring forth and dazzle the eye with their prismatic rays
of brightness.
Although the profoundest silence reigned around,
seven out of the eight unfortunate dwellers in this attic
were awake ; and each, from the grandmother to the
youngest child, watched the sleeping lapidary with in-
tense emotion, as their only hope, their only resource,
and, in their childlike selfishness, they murmured at see-
ing him thus inactive and relinquishing that labour which
they well knew was all they had to depend on ; but with
different feelings of regret and uneasiness did the look-
ers-on observe the slumber of the toil-worn man. The
mother trembled for her children's meal ; the children
thought but of themselves ; while the idiot neither thought
of nor cared for any one. All at once she sat upright
263
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
in her wretched bed, crossed her long, bony arms, yellow
and dry as box- wood, on her shrivelled bosom, and kept
watching the candle with twinkling eyes ; then, rising
slowly and stealthily, she crept along, trailing after her
her old ragged coverlet, which clung around her as
though it had been her winding-sheet. She was above
the middle height, and her hair being so closely shaven
made her head appear disproportionately small ; a sort
of spasmodic movement kept up a constant trembling in
her thick, pendulous under-lip, while her whole counte-
nance offered the hideous model of ferocious stupidity.
Slowly and cautiously the idiot approached the lapidary's
work-table, like a child about to commit some forbidden
act. When she reached the candle, she held her two
trembling hands over the flame ; and such was their
skeleton-like condition, that the flickering light shone
through them, imparting a pale, livid hue to her features.
From her pallet Madeleine Morel watched every move-
ment of the old woman, who, still warming herself over
the candle, stooped her head, and with a silly kind of
delight watched the sparkling of the diamonds and
rubies, which lay glittering on the table. Wholly ab-
sorbed in the wondrous contemplation of such bright and
beautiful things, the idiot allowed her hands to fall into
the flame of the candle, nor did she seem to recollect
where they were till the sense of burning recalled her
attention, when she manifested her pain and anger by a
harsh, screaming cry.
At this sound Morel started, and quickly raised his
head. He was about forty years of age, with an open,
intelligent, and mild expression of countenance, but yet
wearing the sad, dejected look of one who had been the
sport of misery and misfortune till they had planted
furrows in his cheeks and crushed and broken his spirit.
A gray beard of many weeks' growth covered the lower
part of his face, which was deeply marked by the small-
pox ; premature wrinkles furrowed his already bald
264
MISERY.
forehead ; while his red and inflamed eyelids showed the
overtaxed and sleepless days and nights of toil he so
courageously endured. A circumstance, but too common
with such of the working class as are doomed by their
occupation to remain nearly all day in one position, had
warped his figure, and, acting upon a naturally feeble
constitution, had produced a contraction of his whole
frame. Continually obliged to stoop over his work-table
and to lean to the left, in order to keep his grindstone
going, the lapidary, in a manner petrified, ossified in the
attitude he was frequently obliged to preserve from
twelve to fifteen hours a day, had acquired an habitual
stoop of the shoulders, and was completely drawn on one
side. So his left arm, incessantly exercised by the diffi-
cult management of the grindstone, had acquired a con-
siderable muscular development ; whilst the right arm,
always inert and leaning on the table, the better to pre-
sent the faces of the diamonds to the action of the grind-
stone, had wasted to the most extreme attenuation ; his
wasted limbs, almost paralysed by complete want of exer-
cise, could scarcely support the weary, worn-out body, as
though all strength, substance, and vitality had concen-
trated themselves in the only part called into play when
toiling for the subsistence of, with himself, eight human
creatures.
And often would poor Morel touchingly observe : " It
is not for myself that I care to eat, but to give strength
to the arm which turns the mill."
Awaking with a sudden start, the lapidary found him-
self directly opposite to the poor idiot.
" What ails you ? what is the matter, mother ?" said
Morel ; and then added, in a lower tone, for fear of
awaking the family, whom he hoped and believed were
asleep, '* Go back to bed, mother ; Madeleine and the
children are asleep ! "
" No, father," cried the eldest of the little girls, " I
am awake ; I am trying to warm poor little Adele."
265
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" And I am too hungry to go to sleep," added one of
the boys ; " it was not my turn to-night to have supper
with Mile. Rigolette."
" Poor things ! " said Morel, sorrowfully ; " I thought
you were asleep at least '^
" I was afraid of awaking you. Morel," said the wife,
" or I should have begged of you to give me a drink of
water ; I am devoured with thirst ! My feverish fit has
come on again 1 "
" I will directly," said the lapidary ; " only let me first
get mother back to bed. Come ! come ! what are you
meddling with those stones for ? Let them alone, I say ! "
cried he to the old woman, whose whole attention seemed
riveted upon a splendid ruby, the bright scintillations of
which had so charmed the poor idiot that she was try-
ing by every possible means to gain possession of it.
" There's a pretty thing ! there, there ! " replied the
woman, pointing with vehement gestures to the prize she
so ardently coveted.
" 1 shall be angry in a few minutes," exclaimed Morel,
speaking in a loud voice to terrify his mother-in-law into
submission, and gently pushing back the hand she
advanced to seizo her desired treasure.
" Oh, Morel ! Morel ! " murmured Madeleine, " I am
parching, dying with thirst. How can you be so cruel
as to refuse me a little water ? "
" But how can I at present ? I must not allow mother
to meddle with these stones, perhaps to lose me a
diamond, as she did a year ago ; and God alone knows
the wretchedness and misery it cost us, ay, may still
occasion us. Ah, that unfortunate loss of the diamond,
what have we not suffered by it ! "
As the poor lapidary uttered these words, he passed
his hand over his aching brow with a desponding air,
and said to one of the children :
" Felix, give your mother something to drink. You
are awake, and can attend to her."
266
MISERY
" No, no," exclaimed Madeleine ; " he will take cold.
I will wait."
" Oh, mother," said the hoy, rising, " never mind me.
I shall he quite as warm up as I am in this paillasse.''^
"Come, will you let the things alone ?" cried Morel,
in a threatening tone, to the idiot woman, who kept
bending over the precious stones and trying to seize
them, spite of all his efforts to move her from the
table.
" Mother," called out Felix, " what shall I do ? The
water in the pitcher is frozen quite hard."
" Then break the ice," murmured Madeleine.
" It is so thick, I can't," answered the boy.
" Morel ! " exclaimed Madeleine, in a querulous and
impatient tone, " since there is nothing but water for me
to drink, let me at least have a draught of that! You
are letting me die with thirst ! "
" God of heaven grant me patience ! " cried the unfor-
tunate man. " How can I leave your mother to lose
and destroy these stones ? Pray let me manage her
first."
But the lapidary found it no easy matter to get rid
of the idiot, who, beginning to feel irritated at the con-
stant opposition she met with, gave utterance to her
displeasure in a sort of hideous growl.
" Call her, wife ! " said Morel. " She will attend to
you sometimes."
" Mother ! mother ! " called Madeleine, " go to bed,
and be good, and then you shall have some of that nice
coffee you are so fond of ! "
" I want that ! and that ! There ! there ! " replied the
idiot, making a desperate effort this time to possess her-
self of a heap of rubies she particularly coveted. Morel
firmly, but gently, repulsed her, all in vain ; with
pertinacious obstinacy the old woman kept struggling to
break from his grasp, and snatch the bright gems, on
which she kept her eyes fixed with eager fondness.
267
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" You will never manage her," said Madeleine, " unless
you frighten her with the whip ; there is no other means
of making her quiet."
" I am afraid not," returned Morel ; " but, though she
has no sense, it yet goes to my heart to be obliged to
threaten an old woman, like her, with the whip."
Then, addressing the old woman, who was trying to
bite him, and whom he was holding back with one
hand, he said, in a loud and terrible voice : " Take care ;
you'll have the whip on your shoulders if you don't
make haste to bed this very instant ! "
These menaces were equally vain with his former
efforts to subdue her. Morel then took a whip which
lay beside his work-table, and, cracking it violently, said :
" Get to bed with you directly ! Get to bed ! "
As the loud noise of the whip saluted the ear of the
idiot, she hurried away from the lapidary's work-table,
then, suddenly turning around, she uttered low, grumbling
sounds between her clenched teeth ; while she surveyed
her son-in-law with looks of the deepest hatred.
" To bed I to bed, I say ! " continued he, still ad-
vancing, and feigning to raise his whip with the inten-
tion of striking ; while the idiot, holding her fist towards
her son-in-law, retreated backwards to her wretched
couch.
The lapidary, anxious to terminate this painful scene,
that he might be at liberty to attend to his sick wife, kept
still advancing towards the idiot woman, brandishing and
cracking his whip, though without allowing it to touch
the unhappy creature, repeatedly exclaiming, " To bed !
to bed, directly ! Do you hear ? "
The old woman, now thoroughly conquered, and fully
believing in the reality of the threats held out, began to
howl most hideously ; and crawling into her bed, like a
dog to his kennel, she kept up a continued series of
cries, screams, and yells, while the frightened children,
believing their poor old grandmother had actually been
268
MISERY.
beaten, began crying piteously, exclaiming, " Don't beat
poor granny, father ! Pray don't flog granny ! "
It is wholly impossible to describe the fearful effect
of these nocturnal horrors, in which were mingled, in
one turmoil of sounds, the supplicating cries of the chil-
dren, the furious yellings of the idiot, and the wailing
complaints of the lapidary's sick wife.
To poor Morel such scenes as this were but too
frequent. Still, upon the present occasion, his patience
and courage seemed utterly to forsake him ; and, throw-
ing down the whip upon his work-table, he exclaimed,
in bitter despair, " Oh, what a life ! what a life ! "
"Is it my fault if my mother is an idiot?" asked
Madeleine, weeping.
" Is it mine, then ? " replied Morel. " All I ask for is
peace and quiet enough to allow me to work myself to
de*ath for you all. God knows I labour alike night and
day ! Yet I complain not. And, as long as my strength
holds out, I will exert myself to the utmost ; but it is
quite impossible for me to attend to my business, and be
at once a keeper to a mad woman and a nurse to sick
people and young children. And Heaven is unjust to
put it upon me, yes, I say unjust ! It is too much
misery to heap on one man," added Morel, in a tone
bordering on distraction. So saying, the heart-broken
lapidary threw himself on his stool, and covered his face
with his hands.
" Can I help the people at the hospital having refused
to receive my mother, because she was not raving mad ? "
asked Madeleine, in a low, peevish, and complaining
voice. " What can I do to alter it ? What is the use
of your grumbling to me about my mother ? and, if you
fret ever so much about what neither you nor I can
alter, what good will that do ? "
" None at all," rejoined the artisan, hastily brushing
the large bitter drops despair had driven to his eyes ;
" none whatever, you are right ; but when everything
269
THE MYSTERIES OF PARTS.
goes against you, it is difficult to know what to do
or say.'*
" Gracious Father ! '' cried Madeleine ; " what an agony
of thirst I am enduring! My lips are parched with the
fever which is consuming me, and yet I shiver as though
death were on me I "
" Wait one instant, and I will give you some drink ! "
So saying, Morel took the pitcher which stood beneath
the roof, and, after having with difficulty broken the ice
which covered the water, he filled a cup with the frozen
liquid, and brought it to the bedside of his wife, who
stretched forth her impatient hands to receive it ; but,
after a moment's reflection, he said, " No, no, I must
not let you have it cold as this ; in your present state of
fever it would be dangerous."
" So much the better if it he dangerous ! Quicj^,
quick give it me ! " cried Madeleine, with bitterness ;
" it will the sooner end my misery, and free you from
such an incumbrance as I am ; then you will only have
to look after mad folks and young children, there will
be no sick-nurse to take up your time."
" Why do you say such hard words to me, Made-
leine ? " asked Morel, mournfully ; " you know I do not
deserve them. Pray do not add to my vexations, for I
have scarcely strength or reason enough left to go on
with my work ; my head feels as though something were
amiss with it, and I fear much my brain will give way,
and then what would become of you all ? 'Tis for you I
speak ; were there only myself, I should trouble very
little about to-morrow, thank Heaven, the river flows
for every one ! "
" Poor Morel ! " said Madeleine, deeply affected. " I
was very wrong to speak so angrily to you, and to say
I knew you would be glad to get rid of me. Pray for-
give me, for indeed I did not mean any harm ; for, after
all, what use am I either to you or the children ? For
the last sixteen months I have kept my bed ! Gracious
270
MISERY.
God ! what T do suffer with thirst ! For pity's sake,
husband, give me something to moisten my burning lips!"
" You shall have it directly ; I was trying to warm
the cup between my hands."
" How good you are ! and yet I could say such wicked
things to you ! "
" My poor wife, you are ill and in pain, and that
makes you impatient ; say anything you like to me, but
pray never tell me again I wish to get rid of you ! "
" But what good am I to any one ? what good are our
children ? None whatever ; on the contrary, they heap
more toil upon you than you can bear."
" True ; yet you see that my love for them and you
has endued me with strength and resolution to work
frequently twenty hours out of the twenty-four, till my
body is bent and deformed by such incessant labour.
Do you believe for one instant that I would thus toil
and struggle on my own account? Oh, no! life has no
such charms for me ; and if I were the only sufferer, I
would quickly put an end to it."
" And so would I," said Madeleine. " God knows,
but for the children I should have said to you, long ago,
' Morel, we have had more than enough to weary us of
our lives ; there is nothing left but to finish our misery
by the help of a pan of charcoal ! ' But then I recol-
lected the poor, dear, helpless children, and my heart
would not let me leave them, alone and unprotected, to
starve by themselves."
" Well, then, you see, wife, that the children are,
after all, of real good to us, since they prevent us giv-
ing way to despair, and serve as a motive for exerting
ourselves," replied Morel, with ready ingenuity, yet perfect
simplicity of tone and manner. " Now, then, take your
drink, but only swallow a little at a time, for it is very
cold still."
" Oh, thank you. Morel!" cried Madeleine, snatching
the cup, and drinking it eagerly.
271
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" Enough ! enough ! no more ! you shall not have any
more just now, Madeleine."
" Gracious Heaven ! " exclaimed Madeleine, giving back
the cup, " how cold it seems now I have swallowed it,
it has brought back those dreadful shiverings ! "
" Alas ! " ejaculated Morel, " I told you so, ah, now
you are quite ill again ! "
" I have not strength even to tremble, I seem as
though I were covered over with ice."
Morel took off his jacket, and laid it over his wife's
feet, remaining quite naked down to his waist, the
unhappy man did not possess a shirt.
" But you will be frozen to death, Morel ! "
" Never mind me ; if I find it cold by and by, I will
put my jacket on for a few minutes."
" Poor fellow ! " sighed Madeleine. " Ah, as you
say. Heaven is not just! What have we done to be so
wretched, while so many others "
" Every one has their troubles, some more, some
less, the great as well as the small."
" Yes ; but great people know nothing of the gnaw-
ings of hunger, or the bitter pinching of the cold. Why,
when I look on those diamonds, and remember that the
smallest amongst them would place us and the poor
children in ease and comfort, my heart sickens, and I
ask myself why it is some should have so much, and
others nothing? And what good are these diamonds,
after all, to their owners ? "
" Why, if we were to go to the question of what half
the luxuries of life are really good for, we might go
a great way ; for instance, what is the good of tHat
grand gentleman Madame Pipelet calls the command-
ant having engaged and furnished the first floor of this
house, when he seldom enters it? What use is it his
having there good beds, and warm covering to them,
since he never sleeps in them ? "
" Yerj true ; there is more furniture lying idle there
272
MISERY.
than would supply two or three poor families like ours.
And then Madame Pipelet lights a fire every day, to pre-
serve the things from the damp. Only think of so much
comfortable warmth being lost, while we and the chil-
dren are almost frozen to death ! But then, you will
say, we are not articles of value ; no, indeed, we are
not. Oh, these rich folks, what hard hearts they have ! "
" Not harder than other people's, Madeleine ; but then,
you see, they do not know what miseiy or want are.
They are born rich and happy, they live and die so.
How, then, do you expect they can ever think such poor
distressed beings exist in a world which to them is all
happiness ? No ! I tell you, they have no idea of such
things as fellow creatures toiling beyond their strength
for food, and perishing at last with hunger ! How is it
possible for them to imagine privations like ours ? The
greater their hunger, the greater enjoyment of their
abundant meal. Is the weather severe, or the cold
intense, they call it a fine frost, a healthful, bracing sea-
son. If they walk out, they return to a glowing, cheer-
ful fire, which the cold only makes them relish the
more ; so that they can scarcely be expected to sympa-
thise with such as are said to suffer from cold and hun-
ger, when those two things rather add to than diminish
their pleasure."
" Ah, poor folks are better than rich, since they can
feel for each other, and are always ready and willing to
assist each other as much as lies in their power. Look
at that kind, good Mile. Rigolette, who has so often sat
up all night, either with me or the children, during our
illness. Why, last night she took Jdrome and Pierre
into her room, to share her supper, and it was not
much, either, she had for herself, only a cup of milk
and some bread ; at her age, all young people have good
appetites, and she must have deprived herself to give to
the children."
" Poor girl ! she is indeed most kind, and why is
273
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
she so? Because she knows what poverty is. As I
said to you just now, if the rich only knew "
"And then that nice-looking lady who came, seem-
ing so frightened all the while, to ask us if we wanted
anything. Well, now she knows that we do want
everything, will she ever come again, think you ? "
" I dare say she will ; for, spite of her uneasy and
terrified looks, she seemed very good and kind."
"Oh, yes; if a person be but rich, they are always
right in your opinion. One might almost suppose that
rich folks are made of different materials to poor
creatures like us."
" Stop, wife ! " said Morel, gently ; " you are getting
on too fast. I did not say that ; on the contrary, I
agree that rich people have as many faults as poor ones ;
all I mean is, that, unfortunately, they are not awg-re of
the wretchedness of one-half of the world. Agents in
plenty are employed to hunt out poor wretches who
have committed any crime, but there are no paid agents
to find out half-starving families and honest artisans,
worn-out with toil and privations, who, driven to the
last extremity of distress, are, for want of a little timely
succour, led into 3ore temptation. It is quite right to
punish evil-doers ; it would, perhaps, be better still to
prevent ill deeds. A man may have striven hard
to remain honest for fifty years ; but want, misery,
and utter destitution put bad thoughts in his head,
and one rascal more is let loose on the world ; whilst
there are many who, if they had but known of his dis-
tressed condition However, it is no use talking of
that, the world is as it is : I am poor and wretched,
and therefore I speak as I do ; were I rich, my talk
would be of fetes, and happy days, and worldly en-
gagements And how do you find yourself now,
wife?"
" Much the same ; I seem to have lost all feeling in
my limbs. But how you shiver I Here, take your
874
MISERY.
jacket, and pray put it on. Blow out that candle,
which is burning uselessly, see, it is nearly day ! "
And, true enough, a faint, glimmering light began to
struggle through the snow with which the skylight was
encumbered, and cast a dismal ray on the interior of
this deplorable human abode, rendering its squalidness
still more apparent; the shade of night had at least
concealed a part of its horrors.
" I shall wait now for the daylight before I go back
to work," said the lapidary, seating himself beside his
wife's paillasse^ and leaning his forehead upon his two
hands.
After a short interval of silence, Madeleine said :
" When is Madame Mathieu to come for the stones
you are at work upon ? "
" This morning. I have only the side of one false
diamond to polish."
" A false diamond ! How is that ? you who only
make up real stones, whatever the people in the house
may believe."
" Don't you know ? But I forgot, you were asleep the
other day when Madame Mathieu came about them.
Well, then, she brought me ten false diamonds Rhine
crystals to cut exactly to the same size and form as
the like number of real diamonds she also brought.
There, those are them mixed with the rubies on my
table. I think I never saw more splendid stones, or of
purer water, than those ten diamonds, which must, at
least, be worth 60,000 francs."
" And why did she wish them imitated ? "
" Because a great lady to whom they belonged a
duchess, I think she said had given directions to M.
Baudoin, the jeweller, to dispose of her set of diamonds,
and to make her one of false stones to replace it.
Madame Mathieu, who matches stones for M. Baudoin,
explained this to me, when she gave me the real dia-
monds, in order that I might be quite sure to cut the
275
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
false ones to precisely the same size and form. Madame
Mathieu gave a similar job to four other lapidaries, for
there are from forty to fifty stones to cut ; and I could
not do them ail, as they were required by this morning,
because M. Baudoin must have time to set the false
gems. Madame Mathieu says that grand ladies, very
frequently unknown to anybody but the jeweller, sell
their valuable diamonds, and replace them with Rhenish
crystals."
u Why, don't you see, the mock stones look every bit
as well as the real stones ? Yet great ladies, who only
use such things as ornaments, would never think of
sacrificing one of their diamonds to relieve the distress
of such unfortunate beings as we are."
" Come, come, wife ! Be more reasonable than this ;
sorrow makes you unjust. Who do you think knows
that such people as Morel and his family are in exist-
ence, still less that they are in want ? "
" Oh, what a man you are, Morel ! I really believe, if
any one were to cut you in pieces, that, while they were
doing it, you would try to say, ' Thank you ! ' "
Morel compassionately shrugged his shoulders.
" And how much will Madame Mathieu owe you this
morning ? " asked Madeleine.
" Nothing ; because you know I have already had an
advance of 120 francs."
" Nothing ! Why, our last sou went the day before
yesterday. We have not a single farthing belonging
to us!"
" Alas, no ! " cried Morel, with a dejected air.
" Well, then, what are we to do ? "
" I know not."
" The baker refuses to let us have anything more on
credit, will he ? "
" No ; and I was obliged yesterday to beg Madame
Pipelet to lend me part of a loaf."
" Can we borrow anything more of Mother Burette ? "
276
MISERY.
"She has already every article helonging to us in
pledge. What have we to offer her to lend more
money on, our children?" asked Morel, with a smile
of bitterness.
" But yourself, my mother, and all the children had
but part of a loaf among you all yesterday. You cannot
go on in this way ; you will be starved to death. It is
all your fault that we are not on the books of the chari-
table institution this year."
" They will not admit any persons without they pos-
sess furniture, or some such property ; and you know
we have nothing in the world. We are looked upon as
though we lived in furnished apartments, and, conse-
quently, ineligible. Just the same if we tried to get
into any asylum, the children are required to have at
least a blouse, while our poor things have only rags.
Then, as to the charitable societies, one must go back-
wards and forwards twenty times before we should
obtain relief ; and then what would it be ? Why, a loaf
once a month, and half a pound of meat once a fort-
night.^ I should lose more time than it would be
worth."
" But, still, what are we to do ? "
" Perhaps the lady who came yesterday will not forget
us!"
" Perhaps not. But don't you think Madame Mathieu
would lend us four or five francs, just to keep us from
starving ? You have worked for her upwards of ten
years ; and surely she will not see an honest workman
like you, burthened with a large and sickly family, perish
for want of a little assistance like that ?"
" I do not think it is in her power to aid us. She did
all in her power when she advanced me little by little
120 francs. That is a large sum for her. Because she
buys diamonds, and has sometimes 50,000 francs in her
Such is the ordinary aHowance made at charitable societies, In conae-
quence of the vast number of applioanta for relief.
277
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
reticule, she is not the more rich for that. If she gains
100 francs a month, she is well content, for she has
heavy expenses, two nieces to bring up ; and five
francs is as much to her as it would be to me. There
are times when one does not possess that sum, you know ;
and being already so deeply in her debt, 1 could not ask
her to take bread from her own mouth and that of her
family to give it to me."
" This comes of working for mere agents in jewelry,
instead of procuring employment from first-hand master
jewellers. They are sometimes less particular. But you
are such a poor, easy creature, you would almost let any
one take the eyes out of your head. It is all your fault
that "
" My fault ! " exclaimed the unhappy man, exasperated
by this absurd reproach. " Was it or was it not your
mother who occasioned all our misfortunes, by compel-
ling me to make good the price of the diamond she lost ?
But for that we should be beforehand with the world ,
we should receive the amount of my daily earnings ; we
should have the 1,100 francs in our possession we were
obliged to draw out of the savings-bank to put to the
1,300 francs lent us by M. Jacques Ferrand. May every
curse light on him ! "
" And you still persist in not asking him to help you ?
Certainly he is so stingy that I daresay he would do
nothing for you ; but then it is right to try. You can-
not know without you do try."
" Ask him to help me ! " cried Morel. " Ask him ! I
had rather be burnt before a slow fire. Hark ye, Made-
leine ! Unless you wish to drive me mad, mention that
man's name no more to me."
As he uttered these words, the usually mild, resigned
expression of the lapidary's countenance was exchanged
for a look of gloomy energy, while a slight suffusion col-
oured the ordinarily pale features of the agitated man, as,
rising abruptly from the pallet beside which he had been
278
MISERY.
sitting, he began to pace the miserable apartment with
hurried steps ; and, spite of the deformed and attenuated
appearance of poor Morel, his attitude and action bespoke
the noblest, purest indignation.
" 1 am not ill-disposed towards any man," cried he, at
length, pausing of a sudden ; " and never, to my knowl-
edge, harmed a human being. But, I tell you, when I
think of this notary, I wish him ah ! I wish him as
much wretchedness as he has caused me." Then press-
ing both hands to his forehead, he murmured, in a mourn-
ful tone : "Just God ! what crime have I committed that
a hard fate should deliver me and mine, tied hand and
foot, into the power of such a hypocrite ? Have his
riches been given him only to worry, harass, and destroy
those his bad passions lead him to persecute, injure, and
corrupt ? "
" That's right ! that's right ! " said Madeleine ; " go on
abusing him. You will have done yourself a great deal
of good, shall you not, when he puts you in prison, as he
can do any day, for that promissory note of 1,300 francs
on which he obtained judgment against you ? He holds
you fast as a bird at the end of a string. 1 hate this
notary as badly as you do ; but since we are so com-
pletely in his power, why you should "
"Let him ruin and dishonour my child, I suppose?"
burst from the pale lips of the lapidary, with violent and
impatient energy.
" For heaven's sake. Morel, don't speak so loud ; the
children are awake, and will hear you."
" Pooh, pooh ! " returned Morel, with bitter irony ; " it
will serve as a fine example for our two little girls. It
will instruct them to expect that, one of these days, some
villain or other like the notary may take a fancy to them,
perhaps the same man ; and then, I suppose, you would
tell me, as now, to be careful how I offended him, since
he had me in his power. You say, if I displease him, he
can put me in prison. Now, tell the truth : you advise
279
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
me, then, to leave my daughter at his mercy, do you
not?"
And then, passing from the extreme of rage at the
idea of all the wickedness practised by the notary to
tender recollections of his child, the unhappy man burst
into a sort of convulsive weeping, mingled with deep and
heavy sobs, for his kindly nature could not long sustain
the tone of sarcastic indignation he had assumed.
'^ Oh, my children ! " cried he, with bitter grief ; " my
poor children I My good, my beautiful, too too beau
tiful Louise ! 'Tis from those rich gifts of nature all
our troubles proceeded. Had you been less lovely, that
man would never have pressed his money upon me. I
am honest and hard-working ; and if the jeweller had
given me time, I should never have been under the obli-
gation to the old monster, of which he avails himself to
seek to dishonour my child. I should not then have left
her a single hour within his power ; but I dare not re-
move her, I dare not ! For am I not at his mercy ?
Oh, want ! oh, misery ! What insults do they not make
us endure ! "
" But what can you do ? " asked Madeleine. " You
know he threatens Louise that if she quits him he will
put you in prison directly."
" Oh, yes ! He dares address her as though she were
the very vilest of creatures."
" Well, you must not mind that ; for should she leave
the notary, there is no doubt he would instantly throw
you into prison, and then what would become of me,
with these five helpless creatures and my mother ?
Suppose Louise did earn twenty francs a month in
another place, do you think seven persons can live on
that?"
" And so that we may live, Louise is to be disgraced
and left to ruin ?"
"You always make things out worse than they are.
It is true the notary makes offers of love to Louise ; she
280
MISERY.
has told ns so repeatedly. But then you know what a
good girl she is ; she would never listen to him."
" She is good, indeed ; and so right-minded, active, and
industrious ! When, seeing how hadly we were off in con-
sequence of your long illness, she insisted upon going to
service that she might not be a burthen to us, did I not
say what it cost me to part with her ? To think of my
sweet Louise being subjected to all the harshness and
humiliation of a servant's life, she who was naturally so
proud that we used jokingly ah, we could joke then !
to call her the Princess, because she always said that, by
dint of care and cleanliness, she would make our little
home like a palace ! Dear Louise ! It would have been
my greatest happiness to have kept her with me, though
I had worked all day and all night too. And when I
saw her blooming face, with her bright eyes glancing at
me as she sat beside my work-table, my labour always
seemed lightened ; and when she sung like a bird those
little songs she knew I liked to hear, I used to fancy
myself the happiest father alive. Poor dear Louise !
so hard-working, yet always so gay and lively ! Why, she
could even manage your mother, and make her do what-
ever she wished. But I defy any one to resist her sweet
words or winning smile. And how she watched over
and waited upon you ! What pains she would take to
try and divert you from thinking of what you suffered !
And how tenderly she looked after her little brothers
and sisters, finding time for everything ! Ah, with our
Louise all our joy and happiness all all left us ! "
" Don't go on so. Morel. Don't remind me of all
these things, or you will break my heart," cried
Madeleine, weeping bitterly.
"And, then, when I think that perhaps that old mon-
ster Do you know, when that idea flashes across my
brain, my senses seem disturbed, and I have but one
thought, that of first killing him and then killing my-
self ? "
281
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" What would become of all of us if you were to do so ?
Besides, I tell you again, you make things worse than
they really are. I dare say the notary was only joking
with Louise. He is such a pious man, and goes so reg-
ularly to mass every Sunday, and only keeps company
with priests folks say. Why, many people think that
he is safer to place money with than the bank itself."
" Well, and what does all that prove ? Merely that
he is a rich hypocrite, instead of a poor one. I know
well enough what a good girl Louise is ; but then she
loves us so tenderly that it breaks her heart to see the
want and wretchedness we are in. She knows well
enough that if anything were to happen to me you
would all perish with hunger ; and by threatening to
put me into prison he might work on the dear child's
mind, like a villain as he is, and persuade her, on
our account ! 0, God, my brain burns ! I feel as
though I were going mad."
" Biit, Morel, if ever that were the case, the notary
would be sure to make her a great number of fine pres-
ents or money, and, I am sure, she would not have kept
them all to herself. She would certainly have brought
part to us."
" Silence, woman ! Let me hear no more such words
escape your lips. Louise touch the wages of infamy !
My good, my virtuous girl, accept such foul gifts ! Oh,
wife ! "
" Not for herself, certainly. But to bring to us per-
haps she would "
" Madeleine," exclaimed Morel, excited almost to
frenzy, " again, I say, let me not hear such language
from your lips ; you make me shudder. Heaven only
knows what you and the children also would become
were I taken away, if such are your principles."
" Why, what harm did I say ? "
" Oh, none."
" Then what makes you uneasy about Louise ? '*
282
MISERY.
The lapidary impatiently interrupted his wife by
saying :
" Because I have noticed for the last three months
that, whenever Louise comes to see us, she seems embar-
rassed, and even confused. When I take her in my
arms and embrace her, as 1 have been used to do from
her birth, she blushes."
" Ah, that is with delight at seeing you, or from
shame."
" She seems sadder and more dejected, too, each visit
she pays us."
" Because she finds our misery constantly increasing.
Besides, when I spoke to her concerning the notary, she
told me he had quite ceased his threats of putting you in
prison."
" But did she tell you the price she has paid to induce
him to lay aside his threats ? She did not tell you that,
I dare say, did she ? Ah, a father's eye is not to be
deceived ; and her blushes and embarrassments, when
giving me her usual kiss, make me dread I know not
what. Why, would it not be an atrocious thing to say
to a poor girl, whose bread depended on her employer's
word, ' Either sacrifice your virtuous principles, and be-
come what I would have you, or quit my house ? And
if any one should inquire of me respecting the character
you have with me, I shall speak of you in such terms
that no one will take you into their service.' Well,
then, how much worse is it to frighten a fond and affec-
tionate child into surrendering her innocence, by threat-
ening to put her father into prison if she refused, when
the brute knows that upon the labour of that father a
whole family depends ? Surely the eaith contains
nothing more infamous, more fiendlike, than such con-
duct."
" Ah," replied Madeleine, " and then only to think that
with the value of one, only one of those diamonds now
lying on your table, we might pay the notary all we owe
283
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
him, and so take Louise out of his power and keep her
at home with us. Don't you see, husband ? "
" What is the use of your repeating the same thing
over and over again ? You might just as well tell me
that if I were rich I should not be poor," answered
Morel, with sorrowful impatience. For such was the
innate and almost constitutional honesty of this man,
that it never once occurred to him that his weak-minded
partner, bowed down and irritated by long suffering and
want, could ever have conceived the idea of tempting him
to a dishonourable appropriation of that which belonged
to another.
With a heavy sigh, the unfortunate man resigned him-
self to his hard fate. '' Thrice happy those parents who
can retain their innocent children beneath the paternal
roof, and defend them from the thousand snares laid to
entrap their unsuspecting youth. But who is there to
watch over the safety of the poor girl condemned at an
early age to seek employment from home ? Alas, no one !
Directly she is capable of adding her mite to the family
earnings, she leaves her dwelling at an early hour, and
repairs to the manufactory where she may happen to be
engaged. Meanwhile, both father and mother are too
busily employed to have leisure to attend to their daugh-
ter's comings or goings. ' Our time is our stock in
trade,' cry they, ' and bread is too dear to enable us to
lay aside our work while we look after our children.'
And then there is an outcry raised as to the quantity of
depraved females constantly to be met with, and of the
impropriety of conduct among those of the lower orders,
wholly forgetting that the parents have neither the means
of keeping them at home, nor of watching over their
morals when away from them."
Thus mentally moralised Morel. Then, speaking
aloud, he added :^
" After all, our greatest privation is when forced to
quit our parents, wives, or children. It is to the poor
284
MISERY.
that family affection is most comforting and beneficial.
Yet, directly our children grow up, and are capable of
becoming our dearest companions, we are forced to part
with them."
At this moment some one knocked loudly at the door.
335
CHAPTER XIII.
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
The lapidary, much astonished, rose and opened
the door. Two men entered the garret. One, tall,
lanky, with an ill-favoured and pimply face, shaded by
thick grizzly whiskers, held in his hand a thick cane,
loaded at the head ; he wore a battered hat, and a long-
tailed and bespattered green coat, buttoned up close to
his throat. Above the threadbare velvet collar was dis-
played his long neck, red and bald like that of a vulture.
This man's name was Malicorne. The other was a
shorter man, with a look as low-lived, and red, fat,
puffed features, dressed with a great effort at ridiculous
splendour. Shiny buttons were in the folds of the front
of his shirt, whose cleanliness was most suspicious, and
a long chain of mosaic gold serpentined down a faded
plaid waistcoat, which was seen beneath his seedy Ches-
terfield, of a yellowish gray colour. This gentleman's
name was Bourdin.
" How poverty-stricken this hole smells," said Mali-
corne, pausing on the threshold.
" Why, it does not scent of lavender-water. Confound
it, but we have a lowish customer to deal with," re-
sponded Bourdin, with a gesture of disgust and con-
tempt, and then advanced towards the artisan, who was
looking at him with as much surprise as indignation.
Through the door, left a little ajar, might be seen the
villainous, watchful, and cunning face of the young scamp
Tortillard^ who, having followed these strangers unknown
^86
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
to them, was sneaking after, spying, and listening to
them.
" What do you want ? " inquired the lapidary, abruptly,
disgusted at the coarseness of these fellows.
" Jerome Morel ? " said Bourdin.
" I am he ! "
" Working lapidary ? "
" Yes."
" You are quite sure ?''
" Quite sure. But you are troublesome, so tell me at
once your business, or leave the room."
" Really, your politeness is remarkable ! Much obliged !
I say, Malicorne," said the man, turning to his comrade,
" there's not so much fat to cut at here as there was at
that 'ere Viscount de Saint-R^my's."
" I believe you ; but when there is fat, why the door's
kept shut in your face, as we found in the Rue de
Chaillot. The bird had hopped the twig, and precious
quick, too, whilst such vermin as these hold on to their
cribs like a snail to his shell."
" I believe you ; well, the stone jug just suits such
individuals."
" The sufferer (creditor) must be a good fellow, for it
will cost him more than it's worth ; but that's his
lookout."
" If," said Morel, angrily, " you were not drunk, as
you seem to be, I should be angry with you. Leave this
apartment instantly ! "
" Ha ! ha ! He's a fine fellow with his elegant curve,"
said Bourdin, making an insulting allusion to the con-
torted figure of the poor lapidary. " I say, Malicorne,
he has cheek enough to call this an apartment, a hole
in which I would not put my dog."
" Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! " exclaimed Madeleine, who
had been so frightened that she could not say a word
before. " Call for assistance ; perhaps they are rogues.
Take care of your diamonds ! "
287
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
And, seeing these two ill-looking strangers come closer
to his working-bench, on which his precious stones were
still lying, Morel, fearful of some evil intentions, ran
towards the table, and covered the jewels with his two
hands.
Tortillard, still on the watch, caught at Madeleine's
words, observed the movement of the artisan, and said
to himself :
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! So they said he was a lapidary of
sham stones ; if they were mock he would not be afraid
of being robbed ; this is a good thing to know. So
Mother Mathieu, who comes here so often, is a matcher
of real stones, after all, and has real diamonds in her
basket ; this is a good thing to know, and I'll tell the
Chouette," added Bras Rouge's brat.
" If you do not leave this room, I will call in the
guard," said Morel.
The children, alarmed at this scene, began to cry, and
the idiotic mother sat up in her bed.
" If any one has a right to call for the guard, it is we,
you Mister Twistabout," said Bourdin.
" And the guard would lend us a hand to carry you
off to gaol if you resist," added Malicorne. " We have
not the magistrate vvith us, it is true ; but if you have
any wish for his company, we'll find you one, just
out of bed, hot and heavy ; Bourdin will go and fetch
him."
" To prison ! me ? " exclaimed Morel, struck with
dismay.
" Yes, to Clichy."
"To Clichy?" repeated the artisan, with an air of
despair.
'' It seems a hardish pill," said Malicorne.
" Well, then, to the debtors' jail, if you like that
better," said Bourdin.
" You what indeed why the notary ah,
mon Dieu!^^
288
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
And the workman, pale as death, fell on his stool,
unable to add another word.
" We are bound bailiffs, come to lay hold of you ?
now are you fly ? "
" Morel, it is the note of Louise's master I We are
undone ! " exclaimed Madeleine, in a tone of agony.
" Hear the judgment," said Malicorne, taking from
his dirty and crammed pocketbook a stamped writ.
After having skimmed over, according to custom, a
part of this document in an unintelligible tone, he dis-
tinctly articulated the last words, which were, unfortu-
nately, but too important to the artisan :
"Judgment finally given. The Tribunal condemns Jerome
Morel to pay to Pierre Petit-Jean, merchant,^ by every available
means, even to the arrest of body, the sum of 1,300 francs, with
interest from the day of protest, and to pay all other and extra
costs. Given and judged at Paris, 13 September, etc., etc."
" And Louise ! Louise ! " cried Morel, almost distracted
in his brain, and apparently unheeding the long preamble
which had just been read. " Where is Louise, then,
for, doubtless, she has quitted the notary, since he sends
me to prison ? My child ! My Louise ! What has become
of you ? "
"Who the devil is Louise ? " asked Bourdin.
" Let him alone ! " replied Malicorne, brutally ; " don't
you see the respectable old twaddler is not right in his
nonsense-box?" Then, approaching Morel, he added:
*' I say, my fine fellow, right about file ! March on !
Let us get out of here, will you, and have a little fresh
air. You stink enough to poison a cat in this here
hole ! "
" Morel ! " shrieked Madeleine, wildly, " don't go !
Kill those wretches ! Oh, you coward, not to knock
1 The cunning notary, unable to prosecute in his own name, had made the
unfortunate Morel give a blank acceptance, and had filled up the note of
hand with the name of a third party.
289
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
them down ! What ! are you going to let them take
you away ? Are you going to abandon us all ? "
" Pray don't put yourself out of the way, ma'am,"
said Bourdin, with an ironical grin. " I've only just
got to remark that if your good man lays his little
finger on me, why I'll make him remember it," con-
tinued he, swinging his loaded stick round and round.
Entirely occupied with thoughts of Louise, Morel
scarcely heard a word of what was passing. All at
once an expression of bitter satisfaction passed over
his countenance, as he said :
" Louise has doubtless left the notary's house ; now
I shall go to prison willingly." Then, casting a troubled
look around him, he exclaimed : " But my wife ! Her
mother ! The children ! Who will provide for them ?
No one will trust me with stones to work at in prison,
for it will be supposed my bad conduct has sent me
there. Does this hard-hearted notary wish the destruc-
tion of myself and all my family also ? "
" Once, twice, old chap," said Bourdin, " will you
stop your gammon ? You are enough to bore a man
to death. Come, put on your things, and let us be off."
" Good gentlemen, kind gentlemen," cried Madeleine,
from her sick-bed, '' pray forgive what I said just now !
Surely you will not be so cruel as to take my husband
away ; what will become of me and my five poor chil-
dren, and my old mother, who is an idiot ? There she
lies ; you see her, poor old creature, huddled up on her
mattress ; she is quite out of her senses, my good
gentlemen ; she is, indeed, quite mad ! "
" La ! what, that old bald-headed thing a woman ?
Well, hang me if that ain't enough to astonish a man ! "
" I'll be hanged if it isn't, then ! " cried the other
bailiff, bursting into a horse-laugh ; " why, I took it for
something tied up in an old sack. Look ! her old head
is shaved quite close ; it seems as though she had got a
white skull-cap on."
290
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
" Go, children, and kneel down, and beg of these
good gentlemen not to take away your poor father, our
only support," said Madeleine, anxious by a last effort
to touch the hearts of the bailiffs. But, spite of their
mother's orders, the terrified children remained weeping
on their miserable mattress.
At the unusual noise which prevailed, added to the
aspect of two strange men in the room, the poor idiot
turned herself towards the wall, as though striving to
hide from them, uttering all the time the most discord-
ant cries and moans. Morel, meanwhile, appeared un-
conscious of all that was going on ; this last stroke of
fate had been so frightful and unexpected, and the con-
sequences of his arrest were so dreadful, that his mind ,
seemed almost unequal to understanding its reality.
Worn out by all manner of privations, and exhausted
by over-toil, his strength utterly forsook him, and he
remained seated on his stool, pale and haggard, and as
though incapable of speech or motion, his head drooping
on his breast, and his arms hanging listlessly by his
side.
" Deuce take me," cried Malicorne, " if that old pat-
terer is not going fast asleep ! Why, I say, my chap,
you seem to think nothing of keeping gen'l'men like us
waiting ; just remember, will you, our time is precious !
You know this is not exactly a party of pleasure, so
march, or I shall be obliged to make you."
Suitfng the action to the word, the man grasped the
artisan by the shoulder, and shook him roughly ; which
so alarmed the children, that, unable to restrain their
terror, the three little boys emerged from their paillasse^
and, half naked as they* were, came in an agony of tears
to throw themselves at the feet of the bailiffs, holding
up their clasped hands, and crying, in tones of touching
earnestness :
" Pray, pray don't hurt our dear father ! "
At the sight of these poor, shivering, half-clad infants,
291
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
weeping with affright, and tremhling with cold, Bourdin,
spite of his natural callousness and long acquaintance
with scenes of this sort, could not avoid a feeling almost
resembling compassion from stealing over him, while his
pitiless companion, brutally disengaging himself from
the grasp of the small, weak creatures who were cling-
ing to him, exclaimed :
" Hands off, you young ragamuffins ! A devilish fine
trade ours would be, if we were to allow ourselves to be
mauled about by a set of beggars' brats like you ! "
As though the scene were not sufficiently distressing,
a fearful addition was made to its horrors. The eldest
of the little girls, who had remained in the paillasse with
her sick sister, suddenly exclaimed :
" Mother ! mother ! I don't know what's the matter
with Adele ! She is so cold, and her eyes are fixed on
my face, and yet she does not breathe."
The poor little child, whose consumptive appearance
we have before noticed, had expired gently, and without
a sigh, her looks fixed earnestly on the sister she so
tenderly loved.
No language can describe the cry which burst from
the lips of the lapidary's wife at these words, which at
once revealed the dreadful truth ; it was one of those
wild, despairing, convulsive shrieks, which seem to sever
the very heart-strings of a mother.
" My poor little sister looks as though she were ^ead ! "
continued the child ; " she frightens me, with her eyes
fixed on me, and her face so cold ! "
Saying which, in an agony of terror, she leaped from
beside the corpse of the infant, and ran to shelter herself
in her mother's arms, while the distracted parent, for-
getting that her almost paralysed limbs were incapable
of supporting her, made a violent effort to rise and go to
the assistance of her child, whom she could not believe
was actually past recovery ; but her strength failed her,
and with a deep sigh of despair she sunk upon the floor.
292
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
That cry found an echo in the heart of Morel, and
roused him from his stupor. He sprang with one bound
to the paillasse^ and withdrew from it the stiffened form
of an infant four years old, dead and cold. Want and
misery had accelerated its end, although its complaint,
which had originated in the positive want of common
necessaries, was beyond the reach of any human aid to
remove. Its poor little limbs were already rigid with
death. Morel, whose very hair seemed to stand on end
with despair and terror, stood holding his dead child in
his arms, motionlessly contemplating its thin features
with a fixed bloodshot gaze, though no tear moistened
his dry, burning eyeballs.
" Morel ! Morel, give Adele to me I " cried the unhappy
mother, extending her arms towards him ; " she is not
dead, it is not possible I Let me have her, and I shall
be able to warm her in my arms."
The curiosity of the idiot was excited by observing
the pertinacity with which the bailiffs kept close to the
lapidary, who would not part with the body of his child.
She ceased her yells and cries, and, rising from her
mattress, approached gently, protruded her hideous,
senseless countenance over Morel's shoulder, staring in
vacant wonder at the pale corpse of her grandchild, the
features of the idiot retaining their usual expression of
stupid sullenness. At the end of a few minutes, she
uttered a sort of horrible yawning noise, almost resem-
bling the roar of a famished animal ; then, hurrying back
to her mattress, she threw herself upon it, exclaiming :
" Hungry ! hungry ! hungry ! "
" Well, gentlemen," said the poor, half-crazed artisan,
with haggard looks, " you see all that is left me of my
poor child, my Ad^le, we called ter Adele, she was
so pretty she deserved a pretty name ; and she was just
four years old last night. Ay, and this morning even I
kissed her, and she put her little arms about my neck
and embraced me, oh, so fondly ! And now, you see,
293
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
gentlemen, perhaps you will tell me there is one mouth
less to feed, and that I am lucky to get rid of one, you
think so, don't you ? "
The unfortunate man's reason was fast giving way
under the many shocks he had received.
" Morel," cried Madeleine, " give me my child ! I will
have her ! "
" To be sure," replied the lapidary ; " that is only fair.
Everybody ought to secure their own happiness ! " So
saying, he laid the child in its mother's arms, and utter-
ing a groan, such as comes only from a breaking heart,
he covered his face with his hands ; while Madeleine,
almost as frenzied as her husband, placed the body of
her child amid the straw of her wretched bed, watching
it with frantic jealousy, while the other children, kneeling
around her, filled the air with their wailings.
The bailiffs, who had experienced a temporary feeling
of compassion at the death of the child, soon fell back
into their accustomed brutality.
" I say, friend," said Malicorne to the lapidary, " your
child is dead, and there's an end of it ! I dare say you
think it a misfortune ; but then, you see, we are all
mortal, and neither we nor you can bring it back to life.
So come along with us ; for, to tell you the truth, we're
upon the scent of a spicy one we must nab to-day. So
don't delay us, that's a trump ! "
But Morel heard not a word he said. Entirely pre-
occupied with his own sad thoughts, the bewildered man
kept up a kind of wandering delivery of his own afflicting
ideas.
" My poor Ad^le ! " murmured he ; " we must now see
about laying you in. the grave, and watching by her little
corpse till the people come to carry it to its last home,
to lay it in the ground. But how are we to do that
without a coffin, and where shall we get one ? Who
will give me credit for one ? Oh, a very small coffin will
do, only for a little creature of four years of age ! And
294
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
we shall want no bearers ! Oh, no, I can carry it under
my arm. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " added he, with a burst of
frightful mirth ; " what a good thing it is she did not live
to be as old as Louise ! I never could have persuaded
anybody to trust me for a coffin large enough for a girl
of eighteen years of age."
" I say, just look at that chap ! " said Bourdin to
Malicorne. " I'll be dashed if I don't think as he's
a~going mad, like the old woman there ! Only see how
he rolls his eyes about, enough to frighten one ! Come,
I say, let's make haste and be off. Only hark, how that
idiot creature is a-roaring for something to eat ! Well,
they are rum customers, from beginning to end ! "
" We must get done with them as soon as we can.
Although the law only allows us seventy-six francs,
seventy-five centiemes, for arresting this beggar, yet, in
justice to ourselves, we must swell the costs to two hun-
dred and forty or two hundred and fifty francs. You
know the sufferer (the creditor) pays us ! "
" You mean, advances the cash. Old Gaffer there
will have to pay the piper, since he must dance to the
music."
" Weil, by the time he has paid his creditor 2,500
francs for debt, interest, and expenses, etc., he'll find it
pretty warm work."
" A devilish sight more than we do our job up here !
I'm a'most frost-bitten ! " cried the bailiff, blowing the
ends of his fingers. '' Come, old fellow, make haste, will
you ! Just look sharp ! You can snivel, you know, as
we go along. Why, how the devil can we help it, if
your brat has kicked the bucket ? "
" These beggars always have such a lot of children, if
they have nothing else ! "
" Yes, so they have," responded Malicorne. Then,
slapping Morel on the shoulder, he called out in a loud
voice, " I tell you what it is, my friend, we're not going
to be kept dawdling here all day, our time is precious.
295
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
So either out with the stumpy, or march off to prison,
without any more bother ! "
*' Prison ! " exclaimed a clear, youthful voice ; " take
M. Morel to prison ! " and a bright, beaming face
appeared at the door.
" Ah, Mile. Rigolette," cried the weeping children,
as they recognised the happy, healthful countenance of
their young protectress and friend, " these wicked men
are going to take our poor father away, and put him in
prison ! And sister Adele is just dead ! ''
" Dead ! " cried the kind-hearted girl, her dark eyes
filling with compassionating tears ; " poor little thing !
But it cannot be true that your father is in danger of
a prison ; " and, almost stupefied with surprise, she
gazed alternately from the children to Morel, and from
him to the bailiffs.
" 1 say, my girl," said Bourdin, approaching Rigolette,
" as you do seem to have the use of your senses, just
make this good man hear reason, will you ? His child
has just died. Well, that can't be helped now ; but, you
see, he is a-keeping of us, because we're a-waiting to take
him to the debtors' prison, being sheriffs' officers, duly
sworn in and appointed. Tell him so ! "
" Then it is true ! " exclaimed the feeling girl.
" True ? I should say it was and no mistake ! Now,
don't you see, while the mother is busy with the dead
babby and, bless you ! she's got it there, hugging it up
in bed, and won't part with it ! she won't notice us ?
So I want the father to be off while she isn't thinking
nothing about it ! "
" Good God ! Good God ! " replied Rigolette, in deep
distress ; " what is to be done ? "
" Done ? Why, pay the money, or go to prison ! There
is nothing between them two ways. If you happen to
have two or three thousand francs by you you can oblige
him with, why, shell out, and we'll be off, and glad
enough to be gone ! "
296
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
" How can you," cried Rigolette, " be so barbarous as
to make a jest of such distress as this ? "
" Well, then," rejoined the other man, " all joking
apart, if you really do wish to be useful, try to prevent
the woman from seeing us take her husband away. You
will spare them both a very disagreeable ten minutes! "
Coarse as was this counsel, it was not destitute of
good sense ; and Rigolette, feeling she could do nothing
else, approached the bedside of Madeleine, who, dis-
ti-acted by her grief, appeared unconscious of the
presence of Rigolette, as, gathering the children to-
gether, she knelt with them beside their afflicted mother.
Meanwhile Morel, upon recovering from his temporary
wildness, had sunk into a state of deep and bitter reflec-
tions upon his present position, which, now that his
mind saw things through a calmer medium, only in-
creased the poignancy of his sufferings. Since the
notary had proceeded to such extremities, any hope
from his mercy was vain. He felt there was nothing
left but to submit to his fate, and let the law take its
course.
" Are we ever to get off?" inquired Bourdin. " I tell
you what, my man, if you are not for marching, we must
make you, that's all."
" I cannot leave these diamonds about in this manner,
my wife is half distracted," cried Morel, pointing to
the stones lying on his work-table. " The person for
whom I am polishing them will come to fetch them
away either this morning or during the day. They are
of considerable value."
" Capital ! " whispered Tortillard, who was still peep-
ing in at the half closed door ; " capital, capital ! What
will Mother Chouette say when I tell her this bit of
luck?"
*' Only give me till to-morrow," said Morel, beseech-
ingly ; " only till I can return these diamonds to my
employer."
297
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" I tell you, the thing can't be done. So let's have no
more to say about it."
" But it is impossible for me to leave diamonds of
such value as thaise exposed, to be lost or even stolen in
my absence."
" Well, then, take them along with you. We have got
a coach waiting below, for which you will have to pay
when you settle the costs. We will go all together to your
employer's house, and, if you don't meet with him, why,
then, you can deposit these jewels at the office of the
prison, where they will be as safe as in the bank ;
only look sharp, and let's be off before your wife and
children perceive us."
" Give me but till to-morrow, only to bury my
child ! " implored Morel, in a supplicating voice, half
stifled by the heavy sobs he strove in vain to repress.
" Nonsense, I tell you ; why, we have lost an hour
here already ! "
" Besides, it's dull work going to berrins," chimed in
Malicorne. " It would be too much for your feelings,
p'raps."
" Yes," said Morel, bitterly ; -' it is dull work to see
what we would have given our lives to save laid in the
cold earth. But, as you are men, grant me that satis-
faction." Then, looking up, and observing the non-
chalant air with which his prayer was received, he
added, " But no, persons of so much feeling as you
are would fear to indulge me, lest I should find it a
gloomy sight. Well, then, at least grant me one word ! "
" The deuce take your last words ! Why, old chap,
there seems no end to them. Come, put the steam on ;
make haste," said Malicorne, with brutal impatience, '' or
we shall lose t'other gent we're after."
" When did you receive orders to arrest me ?"
" Oh, w^hy, judgment was signed four months ago ! But
it was only yesterday our officer got instructions to put
it in execution."
298
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION. '
"Only yesterday! And why has it been delayed so
long ? "
" How the devil should I know ? Come, look about
you, and put up your things."
" Only yesterday ? And during the whole day we saw
nothing of Louise ! Where can she be ? Or what has
become of her?" inquired the lapidary mentally, as he
took from his table a small box filled with cotton, in
which he placed his stones. " But never mind all that
now. I shall have plenty of time to think about it when
I am in prison."
" Come, look sharp there a bit. Tie up your things to
take with you, and put your clothes on, there's a fine
fellow ! "
" I have no clothes to tie up, and have nothing what-
ever to take with me except these jewels, that I may
deposit them at the ofiice of the prison."
" Well, then, dress yourself as quick as you can."
" I have no other dress than that you now see me in."
" I say, mate," cried Bourdin, " does he really mean to
be seen in our company with such rags as those on ? "
" I fear, indeed, I shall shame such gentlemen as you
are I " said Morel, bitterly.
" It don't much signify," replied Malicorne, " as
nobody will see us in the coach."
" Father ! " cried one of the children, " mother is
calling for you ! "
" Listen to me ! " said Morel, addressing one of the
men with hurried tones ; " if one spark of human pity
dwells within you, grant me one favour ! I have not the
courage to bid my wife and children farewell ; it would
break my heart! And if they see you take me away,
they will try to follow me. I wish to spare all this.
Therefore, I beseech you to say, in a loud voice, that you
will come again in three or four days, and pretend to go
away. You can wait for me at the next landing-place,
and I will come to you in less than five minutes ; that
299
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
will spare all the misery of taking leave. I am quite
sure it would be too much for me, and that I should
become mad ! I was not far off it a little while ago."
" Not to be caught ! " answered Malicorne ; " you want
to do me ! But I'm up to you ! You mean to give us
the slip, you old chouse ! "
" God of heaven ! " cried Morel, with a mixture of
grief and indignation, " has it come to this ? "
" I don't think he means what you say," whispered
Bourdin to his companion ; " let us do what he asks ; we
shall never get away unless we do. I'll stand outside
the door ; there is no other way of escaping from this
garret ; he cannot get away from us."
" Very well. But what a dog-hole ! What a place
for a man to care about leaving ! Why, a prison will be
a palace to it ! " Then, addressing Morel, he said, " Now,
then, be quick, and we will wait for you on the next
landing ; so make up some pretence for our going."
" Well," said Bourdin in a loud voice, and bestow-
ing a significant look on the unhappy artisan, '' since
things are as you say, and as you think you shall be able
to pay us in a short time, why, we shall leave you for
the present, and return in about four or five days ; but
you must not disappoint us then, remember ! "
*' Thank you, gentlemen. I have no doubt I shall be
able to pay you then."
The bailiffs then withdrew, while Tortillard, hearing
the men talk of quitting the room, had hastened down-
stairs for fear of being detected listening.
" There, Madame Morel ! " said Rigolette, endeavour-
ing to draw the wife of the lapidary from the state of
gloomy abstraction into which she had fallen, " do you
hear that ? The men have gone, and left your husband
undisturbed."
" Mother! mother! " exclaimed the children, joyfully,
" they have not taken father away ! "
" Morel, Morel ! " murmured Madeleine, her brain
300
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
quite turned, " take one of those diamonds take the
largest and sell it ; no one will know it, and then we
shall be delivered from our misery ; poor little Addle
will get warm then, and come back to us."
Taking advantage of the instant when no one was ob-
serving him, the lapidary profited by it to steal from the
room. One of the men was waiting for him on the little
landing-place, which was also covered only by the roof ;
on this small spot opened the door of a garret, which ad-
joined the apartment occupied by the Morels, and in which
M. Pipelet kept his dep6t of leather ; and, further, this
little angular recess, in which a person could not stand
upright, was dignified by the melancholy porter with the
name of his Melodramatic Cabinet, because, by means of
a hole between the lath and plaster, he frequently in-
dulged in the luxury of woe by witnessing the many
touching scenes occasioned by the distress of the wretched
family who dwelt in the garret beyond it. This door had
not escaped the lynx eye of the bailiff, who had, for a
time, suspected his prisoner of intending either to escape
or conceal himself by means of it.
" Now, then, let us make a start of it ! " cried he, be-
ginning to descend the stairs as Morel emerged from the
garret. " Rather a ragged recruit to march with,"
added he, beckoning to the lapidary to follow him.
'^ Only an instant, one single instant, for the love of
God ! " exclaimed Morel, as, kneeling down, he cast a
last look on his wife and children through a chink in the
door. Then clasping his hands, he said, in a low, heart-
broken voice, while bitter tears flowed down his haggard
cheeks :
" Adieu, my poor children ! my wife ! May Heaven
preserve you all I Farewell, farewell ! "
" Come, don't get preaching ! " said Bourdin, coarsely,
" or your sermons may keep us here till night, which is
what I can't stand, for I am almost froze to death as it
is. Ugh ! what a kennel ! what a hole ! "
. 301
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Morel rose from his knees and was about to follow the
bailiff, when the words, " Father ! father ! " sounded up
the staircase.
" Louise ! " 'exclaimed the lapidary, raising his hands
towards heaven in a transport of gratitude ; " thank God
I shall be able to embrace you before I go ! "
" Heaven be praised, I am here in time ! " cried the
voice, as it rapidly approached, and quick, light steps
were distinguishable, swiftly ascending the stairs.
" Don't be uneasy, my dear," said a second voice, evi-
dently proceeding from some individual considerably
behind the first speaker, but whose thick puffing and
laborious breathing announced the coming of one who
did not find mounting to the top of the house so easy
an affair as it seemed to her light-footed companion.
The reader may, perhaps, have already guessed that
the last comer was no other than Madame Pipelet, who,
less agile than Louise, was compelled to advance at a
much slower pace.
" Louise ! Is it, indeed, you, my own, my good Louise ? "
said Morel, still weeping. " But how pale you look !
For mercy's sake, my child, what is the matter ? "
" Nothing, father, nothing, I assure you ! " said Louise,
in much agitation ; " but I have run so fast ! See, I
have brought the money ! "
"What?"
" You are free ! "
" You knew, then, that "
" Oh, yes ! Here, sir, you will find it quite right,^'
said the poor girl, placing the rouleau of gold in the
hands of Malicorne.
" But this money, Louise, how did you become pos-
sessed of it ? "
" I will tell you all about it by and by ; pray do not
be uneasy ; let us go and comfort my mother. Come,
father."
" No, not just this minute ! " cried Morel, remembering
302 .
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
that, as yet, Louise was entirely ignorant of the death of
her little sister ; " wait an instant. I have something to
say to you first. But about this money ? '*
" All right," said Malicorne, as, having finished count-
ing the gold, he put it in his pocket ; " precisely one thou-
sand three hundred francs. And is that all you have got
for me, my pretty dear ? "
" I thought, father," said Louise, struck with alarm
and surprise at the man's question, " that you only owed
one thousand three hundred francs."
" Nor do I," replied Morel.
"Precisely so!" answered the bailiff; "the original
debt is one thousand three hundred francs ; well, that is
all right now, and we may put ' settled ' against that :
but then, you see, there are the costs, caption, etc.,
amounting to eleven hundred and forty francs, still to be
paid."
" Gracious heavens ! " cried Louise, " I thought one
thousand three hundred francs would pay everything!
But, sir, we will make up the money, and bring it to you
very soon ; take this for the present, it is a good sum ;
take it as paid on account ; it will go towards the debt,
at least, won't it, father ? "
" Very well ; then all you have to do is to bring the
required sum to the prison, and then, and not till then,
your father if he is your father will be set at lib-
erty. Come, master, we must start, or we never shall
get there."
" Do you really mean to take him away ? "
" Do I ? Don't I ? Just look here ; I am ready to give
you a memorandum of having received so much on ac-
count; and, whenever you bring the rest, you shall
have a receipt in full, and your father along with it.
There, now, that's a handsome offer, ain't it ? "
" Mercy ! mercy ! " supplicated Louise.
" Whew ! " cried the man, " here's a scene over
again! My stars, I hope this one isn't a-going mad,
30a
THE MYSTERIES OF PARTS.
too, for the whole family seems uncommon queer about
the head ! Well, I declare I never see anything like it!
It is enough to set a man ' prespiring' in the midst of win-
ter ! " and here the bailiff burst into a loud, coarse laugh
at his own brutal wit.
" Oh, my poor, dear father ! " exclaimed Louise, almost
distractedly ; " when I had hoped to have saved you ! "
" No, no I " cried the lapidary, in a tone of utter
despair, and stamping his foot in wild desperation,
" hope nothing for me ; God has forgotten me, and
Heaven has ceased to be just to a wretch like me ! "
" Calm yourself, my worthy friend," said a rich,
manly voice ; " there is always a kind Providence that
watches over and preserves good and honest men like
you."
At the same instant Rodolph appeared at the door of
the small recess we have spoken of, from whence he had
been an invisible spectator of much that we have re-
lated ; he was pale, and extremely agitated. At this
sudden apparition the bailiff drew back with surprise ;
while Morel and his daughter gazed on the stranger
with bewildered wonder. Taking from his waistcoat
pocket a quantity of folded bank-notes, Rodolph selected
three, and, presenting them to Malicorne, he said :
" Here are two thousand five hundred francs ; give
this young woman back the money you have just re-
ceived from her."
Still more and more astonished at this singular inter-
ference, the man half hesitated to take the notes, and,
when he had received them, he eyed them with the
utmost suspicion, turning and twisting them about in
every direction ; at length, satisfied both as to their
reality and genuineness, he finally deposited them in his
pocketbook : but, as his surprise and alarm began to
subside, so did his natural coarseness of idea return,
and, eyeing Rodolph from head to foot with an imperti-
nent stare, he exclaimed :
304
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
" The notes are right enough ; ))ut pray who and what
are you that go about with such sums ? I should just
wish to know whose it is, and how you came by it ? ''
Rodolph was very plainly dressed, and his appearance
by no means improved by the dust and dirt his clothes
had gathered during his stay in M. Pipelet's Cabinet of
Melodrama.
" I desired you to give back the gold you received just
now from this young person," replied Rodolph, in a
severe and authoritative tone.
" You desired me ! And who the devil are you, to give
your orders?" answered the man, approaching Rodolph
in a threatening manner.
" Give back the gold ! Give it back, I say ! " said
the prince, grasping the wrist of Malicorne so tightly
that the unhappy bailiff winced beneath his iron clutch.
" I say," bawled he, " hands off, will you ? Curse
me if I don't think you're old Nick himself ! I am sure
your fingers are cased with iron."
" Then return the money ! Why, you despicable
wretch ! do you want to be paid twice over ? Now
return the gold and begone, or, if you utter one insolent
word, I'll fling you over the banisters ! "
" Well, don't kick up such a row ! There's the girl's
money," said Malicorne, giving back to Louise the
rouleau he had received. " But mind what you are
about, my sparky, and don't think to ill-use me because
you happen to be the strongest ! "
" That's right ! " said Bourdin, ensconcing himself be-
hind his taller associate. " And who are you, I should
like to know, who give yourself such airs ?"
" Who is he ? Why, my lodger, my king of lodgers, you
ill-looking, half-starved, hungry hounds ! you ill-taught,
dirty fellows ! " exclaimed Madame Pipelet, who, puffing
and panting for breath, had at last reached the landing
where they stood ; her head, as usual, adorned with her
Brutus wig, which, during the heat and bustle she had
805
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
experienced in ascending the stairs, had got pushed
somewhat awry, while in her hand she bore an earthen
stewpan, filled with smoking-hot broth, which she was
charitably conveying to the Morels.
" What the devil does this old hedgehog want ? " cried
Bourdin. *
" If you dare make any of your saucy speeches about
me," returned Madame Pipelet, " I'll make you feel my
nails, ay, and my teeth, too, if you provoke me ! And,
if you don't mend your manners, my lodger, my king of
lodgers will pitch you over the banisters, and I will
sweep you out into the street, as I would a heap of
rubbish."
" This old beldam will bring the whole house about
our ears," said Bourdin to Malicorne ; " we've touched
the blunt, our expenses and all, so I say ' Off ' is a good
word."
" Here, take your property," said the latter, flinging a
bundle of law- papers at the feet of Morel.
" Pick them up, and deliver them decently ; you have
been paid as a respectable officer would have been, act
like one I " cried Rodolph, seizing the bailiff' vigorously
with one hand, while with the other he pointed to the
papers.
Fully convinced by this second powerful grip how use-
less any attempt at resistance would prove, the bailiff
stooped down, and, mechanically picking up the papers,
gave them to Morel, who, scarcely venturing to credit his
senses, believed himself under the influence of a delightful
dream.
" Well, young chap," grumbled out Malicorne, " al-
though you have got a fist as strong as a drayman's,
mind you, if ever you fall into my clutches, I'll make
you smart for this ! " So saying, he doubled his fist at
Rodolph, and then scrambled down the stairs, taking
four or five at a time, followed by his companion, who
kept looking behind him with indescribable terror;
306
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
while Madame Pipclet, burning to avenge the insults
offered to her king of lodgers, looked at her steaming
stewpau with an air of inspiration, and heroically ex-
claimed :
" The debts of the Morels are paid ! Henceforward
they will have plenty of food, and can do without my
messes ! Look out there below ! "
So saying, she sto()i)ed over the banisters, and poured
the contents of her stcwpan down the backs and shoul-
ders of the two bailiffs, who had just reached the first
floor landing.
" There goes ! " screamed out the delighted porteress.
" Capital ! Ha, ha, ha ! there they are ! two regular sops
in the pan ! Well, I do enjoy this ! "
" What the devil is this ? " exclaimed Malicorne,
thoroughly soaked with the hot, greasy liquid. " I
say, I wish you would mind w^hat you are about up
there, you old figure of fun ! "
" Alfred ! " bawled Madame Pipelet, in a tone sharp
and shrill enough to have split the tympanum of a deaf
man ; " Alfred, my old darling, have at 'em ! They
wanted to behave ill to your 'Stasie (Anastasie) ! The
nasty fellows have been taking liberties, quite violent !
Knock them down with your broom ! And .call the
oyster-woman, and the man at the wine-vaults, to help
you ! Get out, you ! Get get get out ! Cht, cht,
cht ! Thieves! thieves! robbers! Cht b-r-r-r-r-r-r
hou, hou, hou ! Knock them knock them down!
That's right, old dear ! Pay them off ! Break their
bones! Serve them out! Boum, boum, boum!"
And, by way of conclusion to thir concatenation of
discordant noises, accompanied by a constant succession
of stamping and kicking of feet, Madame Pipelet, carried
away by the excitement of the moment, flung her earthen
stewpan to the bottom of the staircase, which, breaking
into a thousand pieces at the very instant that the two
bailiffs, terrified by the yells and noises from overhead,
307
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
were precipitately descending the stairs with hasty strides,
added not a little to their terror.
" Ah, ah, ah ! " cried Anastasie, bursting into loud
fits of laughte^. "Now be off with you, I think you
have had enough I " Then, crossing her arms, she stood,
like a triumphant Amazon, rejoicing in the victory she
had achieved.
While Madame Pipelet was thus venting her rage
upon the bailiffs. Morel had thrown himself, in heartfelt
gratitude, at the feet of Rodolph.
" Ah, sir," exclaimed he, when at last words came to
his assistance, " you have saved a whole family ! To
whom do we owe this unhoped-for assistance ? "
'' ' To the God who watches over and protects all
honest men,' as your immortal Beranger says."
Note. The following are some curious particulars relative
to bodily restraint, as cited in the " Pauvre Jacques," a journal
published under the patronage of the " Society for the Further-
ance and Protection of Christianity : "
(Prison Committee.) {Comite des Prisons.')
" A protest and intimation of bodily restraint are generally
carried about by sheriffs' officers, and charged by law, the first,
4/. 35c., the second, 4/. 70c. ; for these, however, the officers
usually demand, for tne former, 10/. 40c., for the second, 16/.
40c. ; thus illegally claiming from the unfortunate victims of
law 26/ 80c., for that which is fixed by that very law at 9/ 50c.
" For an arrest, the legal charge is, including stamp and regis-
tering, 3/ 50c. ; coach-hire, 5/ ; for arrest and entry in the prison
books, 60/ 25c. ; office dues, 8/ Total, 76/ 75c. A bill of the
usual scale ordinarily charged by sheriffs' officers, now lying
before us, shows that these allowances by law are magnified by
the extortion of the officers into a sum of about 240/, instead of
the 76/ they ar^e alone entitled to claim."
The same journal says : " Sheriffs' officer has been to our
office, requesting us to correct an article which appeared in one
of our numbers, headed, ' A woman hung.' ' I did not hang the
woman ! ' observed he, angrily. We did not assert that he did,
but, to prevent any further misapprehension, content ourselves with
reprinting the paragraph in question : ' A few days ago, a sheriffs'
officer, named , went to the Rue de la Lune, to arrest a car-
308
i
JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION.
penter, who dwelt there. The man, perceiving him from the
street, rushed hastily into his house, exclaiming, " I am a ruined
man I The officers are here to arrest me ! " His wife, at these
words, hastened to secure the door ; while the carpenter ran to
a room on the top of the house, to conceal himself. The officer,
finding admittance refused, went and fetched a magistrate and a
blacksmith ; the door was forced, and, on proceeding up-stairs,
the woman was found hanging in her own bedchamber. The
officer did not allow himself to be diverted from the pursuit by
the sight of the corpse ; he continued his search, and at length
discovered the husband in his hiding-place. " I arrest you ! "
cried the bailiff. " T have no money ! " replied the man. " Then
you must go to prison." " Let me at least bid my wife adieu ! "
" It is not worth while waiting for that, your wife is dead ! vShe
has hung herself ! " ' Now, M. (adds the journal we have
quoted), what have you to say to that? You see we have merely
copied your own statement upon oath, in which you have detailed
all these frightful circumstances with horrible minuteness ! "
The same journal also cites two or three hundred similar facts,
of which the following may serve as a specimen : " The expenses
upon a note of hand for 300/ have been run up by the sheriffs'
officers to 964/. ; the debtor, therefore, who is a mere artisan,
with a family of five children, has been detained in prison for
the last seven months ! "
The author of this work had a double reason for borrowing
thus largely from the pages of the " Pauvre Jacques." In the
first place, to show that the horrors of the last chapter are far
below reality in their painful details. And secondly, to prove
that, if only viewed in a pliilanthropic light, the allowing such
a state of things to go on (namely, the exorbitant and illegal
fees both demanded and exacted by certain public functionaries),
frequently acts as a preventive to the exercise of benevolence,
and paralyses the hand of charity. Thus, were a small capital
of 1000/. collected among kind-hearted individuals, three or four
honest, though unfortunate, artisans might be released from
a prison and restored to their families, by employing the above-
named sum in paying the debts of such as were incarcerated for
amounts varying from 250 to 300/ ! But when the original
debt is increased threefold by the excessive and illegal expenses,
even the most charitable recede from the good work of delivering
a fellow creature, from the impression that two-thirds of theii
well-intentioned bounty would only go into the pockets of pam-
pered sheriffs' officers and their satellites. And yet no class of
unfortunate beings stand more in need of aid and charitable as-
sistance than the unfortunate class we have just been speaking of
309
CHAPTER XIV.
RIGOLETTE.
Louise, the daughter of the lapidary, was possessed of
more than ordinary loveliness of countenance, a fine,
tall, graceful person, uniting, by the strict regularity of
her faultless features and elegance of her hgure, the
classic beauty of Juno with the lightness and elegance
assigned to the statue of the hunting Diana. Spite of
the injury her complexion had received from exposure
to weather, and the redness of her well-shaped hands
and arms, occasioned by household labour, despite
even the humble dress she wore, the whole appearance
of Louise Morel was stamped with that indescribable
air of grace and superiority Nature sometimes is pleased
to bestow upon the lowly-born, in preference to the
descendant of high lineage.
We shall not attempt to paint the joy, the heartfelt
gratitude of this family, so wondrously preserved from
so severe a calamity ; even the recent death of the little
girl was forgotten during the first burst of happiness.
Rodolph alone found leisure to remark the extreme pale-
ness and utter abstraction of Louise, whose first ecstasy
at finding her father free passed away, apparently plunged
in a deep and painful reverie. Anxious to relieve the
mind of Morel of any apprehensions for the future, and
also to explain a liberality which might have raised sus-
picions as to the character he chose to assume, Rodolph
drew the lapidary to the further end of the staircase,
310
RIGOLETTE.
leaving to Rigolette the task of acquainting Louise with
the death of her little sister, and said to him :
" Did not a young lady come to visit you and your
family on the morning of the day before yesterday ? "
" Yes, and appeared much grieved to see the distress
we were in."
" Then you must thank her, not me."
" Can it be possible, sir ? That young lady "
" Is your benefactress. I frequently wait upon her
from our warehouse ; when I hired an apartment here, I
learned from the porteress all the particulars of your
case, and the painful situation you were placed in ;
relying on this lady's well-known Kndness and benevo-
lence, I hastened to acquaint her with all I had heard
respecting you; and, the day before yesterday, she came
herself, in order to be fully aware of the extent of your
misery. The distress she witnessed deeply affected her ;
but as it might have been brought about by misconduct,
she desired me to take upon myself the task of inquiring
into every circumstance relative to your past and present
condition with as little delay as possible, being desirous
of regulating her benevolent aid by the good or bad
accounts she might receive of your honesty and good
conduct."
" Kind, excellent lady ! Well might I say "
" As you observed just now to Madeleine, ' If the rich
did but know ! ' was not that it ? "
" Is it possible that you are acquainted with the name
of my wife ? Who could have told you that ? "
" My worthy friend," said Rodolph, interrupting
Morel, " I have been concealed in the little garret
adjoining your attic since six o'clock this morning."
" Have you, indeed, sir ? "
" Yes, my honest fellow, I have, and from my
liiding-place heard all that passed among you."
" Oh, sir ! but why did you do so ? "
" I could not have employed more satisfactory means
311
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
of getting at your real character and sentiments ; and I
was desirous of seeing and hearing all you did or said
without your being aware of my presence. The porter
had made mf acquainted with this small retreat, which
he offered to me for a wood-closet. This morning, I
asked his permission to visit it, and remained there
more than an hour, during which time I had ample
proof that a more upright, noble mind did not exist, and
that the courageous resignation with which you bore
your heavy trials was above all praise."
" Nay, indeed, sir, I do not merit such words as these.
I was born honest, I hope, and it comes natural to me
to act as I have done."
" I am quite sure of that ; therefore I do not laud
your conduct, I appreciate it. Just as I was about to
quit my hiding-place, to relieve you of the presence of
the bailiffs, I heard the voice of your daughter, and I
meant to have allowed her the happiness of saving you.
Unhappily, the rapacity of the men deprived poor Louise
of the full completion of her pious task. I then made
my appearance. Fortunately, I yesterday received sev-
eral sums that were due to me, so that I was enabled to
advance the money for your benefactress, and to pay off
your unfortunate debt. But your distress has been so
great, so unmerited, and so nobly sustained, that the
well-deserved interest you have excited shall not stop
here ; and 1 take upon myself, in the name of your
preserving angel, to promise you henceforward calmness,
peace, and happiness, for yourself and family."
" Can it be possible ? But, at least, sir, let me
beseech you to tell me the name of this angel of
goodness, this heavenly preserver, that it may dwell
in our hearts and on our lips ! By what name shall we
bless her in our prayers ? "
" Think of her and speak of her as the angel she is.
Ah, you were right in saying just now that both rich
and poor had their sorrows ! "
312
RIOOLETTE.
'* And is this dear lady, then, unhappy ? "
" Who is free from care and suffering in this world of
trial ? But I see no cause for concealing from you the
name of your protectress. The lady, then, is named "
Remembering that Madame Pipelet was aware of
Madame d'Harville's having, at her first coming to
the house, inquired for the commandant, and fearing
her indiscreet mention of the circumstance, Rodolph
resumed, after a short pause :
" I will venture to tell you this lady's name, upon one
condition "
" Pray go on, sir."
" That you never mention it again to any one, mind,
I say to any person whatever."
" I solemnly promise you never to let it pass my lips ;
but may I not hope to be permitted to thank this friend
of the unfortunate ? "
" I will let Madame d'Harville know your wish ; but
I scarcely think she will consent to it."
" Then this generous lady is called "
" The Marquise d'Harville."
" Never will that name be forgotten by me ! Hence-
forward it will be to me as that of my patron saint,
the object of my grateful woi-ship ! Oh, when I remem-
ber that, thanks to her, my wife, children, all, are
saved ! saved no, no, not all, my little Adele has
gone from us ! We shall see her sweet face no more ;
but still, I know we must have parted with her sooner
or later ; the dear child's doom was long since decreed ! "
Here the poor lapidary wiped away the tears which
filled his eyes at the recollection of his lost darling.
'^ As for the last duties that have now to be per-
formed for your poor child," said Rodolph, " if you
will be guided by me, this is how we will arrange it.
I have not yet begun to occupy my chamber ; it is
large, airy, and convenient. There is already one bed
in it; and I will give orders to add all that may be
313
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
requisite for the accommodation of yourself and family,
until Madame d'Harville is enabled to find an eligible
abode for you. The remains of your little daughter can
then be left in your attic, where, until the period of
interment, they can be properly watched and guarded
by a priest with all requisite attention. I will request
M. Pipelet to take upon himself every necessary arrange-
ment for the mournful office of laying the poor babe in
its peaceful grave."
" Nay, sir, but, indeed, I cannot allow you to be
turned out of your apartment ! Now that we are so
happily freed from our misery, and that I have no longer^
the dread of being dragged to prison, our poor garret
will seem to me like a palace, more especially if my
Louise remains to watch over the family as she used
to do."
"' Your daughter shall never again quit you. You
said, awhile ago, that the first desire of your heart
was to have Louise always with you. Well then, as
a reward for your past sufferings, I promise you she
shall never leave you more."
" Oh, sir, this is too much ; it cannot be reality ! It
seems as though I were dreaming some happy dream.
I fear I have never been as religious as I ought. I have,
in fact, known no other religion than that of honour.
But such a reverse, such a change from wretchedness to
joy, would make even an atheist believe, if not in priests,
at least in a gracious, interposing, and preserving Prov-
idence."
" And if," said Rodolph, sadly, " a father's sorrow for
the loss of his child can be assuaged by promises of
rewards or recompense, I would say that the heavenly
hand which takes one child from you gives you back the
other."
" True, most true ! And henceforward our dear
Louise will be with us to help us to forget our poor
Adele."
ai4
RIGOLETTE.
" Then you will accept the offer of my chamber, will
you not ? Or else how shall we be able to arrange for
the mournful duties to the poor infant ? Think of your
wife, whose head is already in so weak a state. It will
never do to allow her to remain with so afflicting a spec-
tacle constantly before her eyes."
" What goodness," exclaimed the lapidary, " thus to
remember all, to think of all ! Oh, you are indeed a
friend ! May Heaven bless and recompense you ! "
" Come, you must reserve your thanks for the excel-
lent lady you term your protecting angel. 'Tis her
goodness inspires me with a desire to imitate her benev-
olence and charity. I feel assured I am but speaking
as she would speak, were she here, and that all 1 do she
will fully approve. So now, then, it is arranged you will
occupy my room. But, just tell me, this Jacques
Ferrand "
The forehead of Morel became clouded over at the
mention of this name.
" I suppose," continued Rodolph, " there is no doubt
as to his being the same Jacques Ferrand who practises
as a notary in the Rue du Sentier ? "
" None whatever, sir," answered Morel ; " but do you
know him?" Then, assailed afresh by his fears for
Louise, the lapidary continued : " Since you overheard
all our conversation, tell me, sir, tell me, do you not
think I have just cause to hate this man, as I do ? For
who knows but my daughter my Louise "
The unhappy artisan could not proceed ; he groaned
with anguish, and concealed his face with his hands.
Rodolph easily divined the nature of his apprehen-
sions.
" The very step taken by the notary ought to reassure
your mind," said he, " as, there can be no doubt, he was
instigated by revenge for your daughter's rejection of
his improper advances to proceed to the hostile meas-
ures adopted. However, I have every reason to believe
315
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
he is a very bad and dangerous man ; and if my sus-
picions respecting him are realised," said Rodolph, after
a few moments' silence, " then rely on Providence to
punish him. ^f the just vengeance of the Almighty
seems occasionally to slumber, it awakens, sooner or
later."
" He is both rich and hypocritical ! " cried the lap-
idary.
" At the moment of your deepest despair, a guardian
angel appeared to save you from ruin ; so, at the mo-
ment when least expected, will an inexorable Avenger
call upon the notary to atone for his past crimes, if he
be guilty."
At this moment Rigolette came out of the miserable
garret belonging to Morel ; the kind-hearted girl had
evidently been shedding tears, and was trying to dry her
eyes before she descended the stairs. Directly Rodolph
perceived her, he exclaimed :
" Tell me, my good neighbour, will it not be much bet-
ter for M. Morel and his family to occupy my chamber
while they are waiting till his benefactress, whose agent
I am, shall have found a comfortable residence for
him?"
Rigolette surveyed Rodolph with an air of unfeigned
surprise.
'' Really," cried she, at length, " are you in earnest in
making so kind and considerate an offer ? "
" Quite so, on one condition, which depends on your-
self."
" Oh, all that is in my power ! "
" You see, I had some rather difficult accounts to ar-
range for my employer, which are wanted as early as
possible, indeed, I expect they will be sent for almost
directly ; my papers are in my room. Now would you
be neighbourly enough to let me bring my work into
your apartment, and just spare a little corner of your
table ? I should not disturb your work the least in the
ai6
RTCiOLETTE.
world, and then the whole of the Morel family, by the
assistance of Madame Pipelet and her husband, may be
at once established in my apartment."
*' Certainly 1 will, and with great pleasure ; neigh-
bours should always be ready to help and oblige each
other. I am sure, after all you have done for poor
M. Morel, you have set a good example ; so I shall l)e
very glad to give you all the assistance in my power,
monsieur."
" No, no, don't call me monsieur ! say ' my dear
friend,' or ' neighbour,' whichever you prefer ; unless you
lay aside all ceremony, I shall not have courage to in-
trude myself and papers into your room," said Rodolph,
smiling.
" Well, pray don't let that be any hindrance ; then, if
you like, I'll call you ' neighbour,' because, you know,
you are so."
" Father ! father ! " said one of Morel's little boys,
coming out of the garret, " mother is calling for you !
Make haste, father, pray do ! "
The lapidary hastily followed the child back to his
chamber.
" Now, then, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigolette,
"you must do me one more service."
" With all my heart, if it lies in my power to do
so."
" I feel quite sure you are a clever manager and house-
keeper ; now we mwst go to work at once to provide the
Morels with comfortable clothing, and such matters as
may be essential for their accommodation in my apart-
ment, which at present merely contains my slender stock
of bachelor's furniture, sent in yesterday. Beds, bedding,
and a gr^at quantity of requisites will be needed for so
many persons ; and I want you to assist me in procuring
them all the comforts I wish them to have with as little
delay as possible."
Rigolette reflected a moment, and then replied :
317
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
" You shall have all this before two hours have passed :
good clothes, nicely made, warm and comfortable, good
white linen for all the family, two small beds for the
children, one fox* the grandmother, and, in fact, all that
is required ; but, I can tell you, all this will cost a great,
great deal of money."
" Diable ! and how much ? "
"Oh, at least the very least, five or six hundred
francs."
" For everything ? "
" Yes ; you see it is a great sum of money," said
Rigolette, opening her eyes very wide and shaking her
head.
'' But we could procure all this ? "
" Within two hours."
" My little neighbour, you must be a fairy ! "
" Oh, no ! it is easy enough. The Temple is but two
steps from here, and you will get there everything you
require."
" The Temple ? "
" Yes, the Temple."
" What place is that ? "
" What, neighbour, don't you know the Temple ? "
" No, neighbour."
" Yet it is the place where such persons as you and
I fit themselves out in furniture and clothes, when they
are economical. It is much cheaper than any other
place, and the things are also good."
" Really ! "
" I think so. Well, now, I suppose how much did
you pay for your greatcoat ? "
" I cannot say precisely."
" What, neighbour ! not know how much you gave for
your greatcoat ? "
" I will tell you, in confidence, neighbour," said Ro-
dolph, smiling, " that I owe for it ; so, you see, I cannot
exactly say."
318
RIGOLETTE.
" Oh, neighbour, neighbour, you do not appear to me
to be very orderly in your habits ! "
" Alas, neighbour, I fear not ! "
" T must cure you of that, if you desire that we should
continue friends ; and I see already that we shall be, for
you seem so kind ! You will not be sorry to have me
for a neighbour, I can see. You will assist me and I
shall assist you, we are neighbours, and that's why.
I shall look after your linen ; you will give me your help
in cleaning my room. I am u;^ very early in the morn-
ing, and will call you, that you may not be late in going
to your work ; I will knock against the wainscot until
you say to me, ' Good morning, neighbour ! ' "
" That's agreed ; you shall awaken me, you shall take
charge of my linen, and I will clean out your room."
" Certainly. And, when you have anything to buy,
you must go to the Temple ; for see now, for example,
your greatcoat must have cost you eighty francs, I have
no doubt ; well, you might have bought one just as good
at the Temple for thirty francs."
" Really, that is marvellous ! And so you think that
for four or five hundred francs these poor Morels "
" Will be completely set up, and very comfortable for
a long while."
" Neighbour, an idea comes across me."
" Well, what is this idea ? "
" Do you understand all about household affairs ? "
" Yes ; I should think so," said Rigolette, with a slight
affectation of manner.
" Take my arm, then, and let us go to the Temple and
buy all these things for the Morels ; won't that be a good
way ? "
"Oh, how capital! Poor souls! But, then, the
money ? "
" I have it."
" What, five hundred francs ? "
"The benefactor of the Morels has given me carte
319
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
blanche; and she will spare nothing to see these poor
people restored to comfort. Is there any place where
we can buy better supplies than at the Temple ? "
" Certainly not ; you will not find better things any-
where ; and then there is everything, and all ready,
there ; little frocks for children, and gowns for the
mother."
" Well, then, neighbour, let us go at once to the
Temple."
" Ah, mon Dieu! but - - "
"What?"
" Nothing ; only, you see, my time is everything to
me, and I am already a little behindhand, through com-
ing here to watch over poor Madame Morel ; and you
must know that an hour in one way, and an hour in
another, that by little and little makes whole days ; well,
a day is thirty sous, and, whether we gain something or
nothing, we must live; but bah! never mind. I will
make up for that at night, and then, d'ye see, parties of
pleasure are very rare, and I call this one. It will seem
to me that I am rich, rich, rich, and that it is with my
own money that I shall buy all these things for the
Morels. So come along, neighbour, I will throw on my
shawl and cap, and then I am ready."
" Suppose, whilst you are doing this, I bring my papers
to your apartment ? "
" Willingly ; and then you will see my room," said
Rigolette, with pride, " for it is all tidy, which will con-
vince you how early I am in the morning ; and that, if
you are idle and a sluggard, so much the worse for you,
for I shall be a troublesome neighbour."
So saying, light as a bird, Rigolette descended the
staircase, followed by Rodolph, who went into his own
room to brush off the dust which had settled on him in
M. Pipelet's garret. We will hereafter disclose how it
was that Rodolph was not informed of the carrying off
of Fleur-de-Marie from the farm at Bouqueval, and
320
RTGOLETTE.
why he had not visited the Morels the day after his
conversation with Madame d'llarville.
Rodolph, furnished, by way of saying appearances,
with a thick roll of papers, entered Rigolette's chamber.
Rigolette was nearly the same age as Goualeuse, her
old prison acquaintance. There was between these two
young girls the same difference that there is between
laughter and tears ; between joyous light-heartedness and
melancholy dejection ; between the wildest thoughtless-
ness and a dark and constant reflection on the future ;
between a delicate, refined, elevated, poetic nature, exquis-
itely sensitive, and incurably wounded by remorse, and
a gay, lively, happy, good, and compassionate nature.
Rigolette had no sorrows but those derived from the
woes of others, and with these she sympathised with all
her might, devoting herself, body and soul, to any suffer-
ing fellow creature ; but, her back turned on them, to
use a common expression, she thought no more about
them. She often checked her bursts of laughter by a
flood of tears, and then checked her tears by renewing
her laughter. Like a real Parisian, Rigolette preferred
excitement to calm, and motion to repose ; the loud and
echoing harmony of the orchestra at the fete of the
Chartreuse or the Colys^e to the soft murmurs of the
breeze, waters, and leaves ; the bustling disturbance of
the thoroughfares of Paris to the silent solitude of the
fields ; the brilliancy of fireworks, the flaring of the grand
finale, the uproar of the maroons and Roman candles, to
the serenity of a lovely night, starlight, clear, and still.
Alas, yes ! the dear, good little girl actually preferred the
pavement of the streets of the capital to the fresh
moss of the shaded paths, perfumed with violets ; the
dust of the Boulevards to the waving of the ears of corn,
mingled with the scarlet of the wild poppies and the azure
of the bluebells.
Rigolette only left her chamber on Sundays, and each
morning to provide her prescribed allowance of chick-
321
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
weed, bread, milk, and millet, for herself and her two
birds, as Madame Pipelet observed ; but she lived in
Paris for Paris, and would have been wretched to have
resided anywhere but in the capital.
A few words as to the personal appearance of the
grisette, and we will then introduce Rodolph into the
chamber of his neighbour.
Rigolette was scarcely eighteen years of age, of middle
height, rather small than large, but so gracefully formed,
so admirably proportioned, so delightfully filled out, so
entirely in accordance with her step, which was light
and easy, that she seemed perfect of her kind. The
movement of her finely formed feet, always encased in
well-made boots of black cloth, with a rather thick sole,
reminded you of the quick, pretty, and cautious tread of
the quail or wagtail. She did not seem to walk, but to
pass over the pavement as if she were gliding over the
surface. This step, so peculiar to grisettes, at once
nimble, attractive, and as if somewhat alarmed, may
doubtless be attributed to three causes : their desire to
be thought pretty, their fear of being mistaken for what
they are not, and to the desire they always have not to
lose a minute in their peregrinations.
Rodolph had not seen Rigolette but by the dim light
of Morel's garret, or on the landing-place, equally ob-
scure, and he was therefore really struck by the bright
and fresh countenance of the young girl when he softly
entered her apartment, which was lighted up by two
large windows. He remained motionless for a moment,
in admiration of the striking picture before his eyes.
Standing in front of a glass placed over her mantelpiece,
Rigolette was tying under her chin the ribands of a small
cap of bordered tulle, ornamented with a light trimming
of cherry-coloured riband. The cap, which fitted tightly,
was placed at the back of her head, and thus revealed
two large and thick bandeaux of glossy hair, shining like
jet, and falling very low in front. Her eyebrows, fine
322
RIGOLETTE.
and well defined, seemed as if traced in ink, and curved
above two large black, piercing, and intelligent eyes ; her
firm and velvety cheeks were suffused with the rosy hue
of health, fresh to the eye, fresh to the touch, like a ripe
peach covered with the dew of dawn ; her small, up-
turned, attractive, and saucy nose, would have been a
fortune to any Lisctte or Marton ; her mouth, which was
rather large, had rosy and moist lips, small, white, close,
and pearly teeth, and was laughter-loving and sportive ;
three charming dimples, which gave a characteristic grace
to her features, were placed, two in her cheeks, and the
other in her chin, close to a beauty-spot, a small ebony
speck, which was most killingly situated at the corner of
her mouth. Between a worked collar, which fell verv
low, and the border of the little cap, gathered in by a
cherry-coloured riband, was seen a forest of beautiful
hair, so accurately twisted and turned up that their
roots were seen as clearly and as black as if* they had
been painted on the ivory of that lovely neck. A plum-
coloured merino gown, with a plain back and close sleeves,
made skilfully by Rigolette, covered a figure so small
and slender that the young girl never wore a corset,
for economy's sake. An ease and unusual freedom in
the smallest action of the shoulders and body, which re-
sembled the facile undulations of a cat's motions, evinced
this fact. Imagine a gown fitting tightly to a form
rounded and polished as marble, and we must agree that
Rigolet could easily dispense with this accessory to the
toilet of which we have spoken. The tie of a small
apron of dark green levantine formed a girdle around a
waist which might have been spanned by the ten fingers.
Believing herself to be alone (for Rodolph still re-
mained at the door, motionless and unperceived), the
grisette, having smoothed down her bandeaux with her
small hand, white and delicately clean, put her small
foot on a chair and stooped to tie the lace of her boot
This attitude developed to Rodolph a portion of a cotton
323
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
stocking, white as snow, and a well-formed ankle and
leg.
After the detail we have given of this toilet, we may
guess that Rigolecte had selected her prettiest cap and
best apron to do honour to her neighbour on their excur-
sion to the Temple. She found the pretended trades-
man's clerk very much to her taste ; his face, at once
kind, bold, and animated, pleased her greatly ; and then
he had been so kind to the Morels, by giving up his room
to them ; so that, thanks to this proof of goodness, and,
perhaps, also to his good looks, Rodolph had unwittingly
advanced into the confidence of the grisette with giant
strides. She, according to her ideas, founded on the
compelled intimacy and reciprocal obligation which
neighbourhood invites, thought herself very fortunate in
having such a neighbour as Rodolph to succeed to the
travelling clerk, Cabrion, and Francois Germain ; for she
was beginning to find that the next room had remained
very long empty, and was afraid that she should never
again see it occupied in an agreeable manner.
Rodolph took advantage of his invisibility to cast a
curious eye around him, and he found the apartment
even beyond the praises which Madame Pipelet had be-
stowed on the extreme cleanliness of the humble home
of Rigolette. Nothing could be more lively or better
arranged than this apartment. A gray paper, with green
garlands, covered the walls ; the floor, painted of a red
colour, shone like a looking-glass ; a small earthenware
stone was placed in the chimney, where was piled up,
very symmetrically, a small store of wood, cut So short,
so thin, that, without exaggeration, each piece might
have been compared to a very large match. On the
stone mantelpiece, painted gray marble, there were, for
ornaments, two pots of common flowers, covered in with
green moss ; a small case of boxwood contained a silver
watch instead of a pendule. On one side was a brass
candlestick, shining like gold, and having in it a small
32i
RIGOLETTE.
piece of wax-light ; and, on the other side, no less re-
splendently, one of those lamps formed by a cylinder and
a brass reflector, supported by a bar of steel, and having
a base of lead. A tolerably large square glass, in a
black wood frame, was over the mantelpiece. Curtains
of gray and green Persian cloth, with a woollen-fiinged
border, cut and worked by Rigolette, and hung in light
rings of black iron, decorated the windows ; and the bed
was covered with a counterpane of the same make and
material. Two closets, with glass doors, and painted
white, were in each side of the recess, enclosing, no
doubt, liMisehold utensils, the portable stove, the foun-
tain, brooms, etc. ; for none of these things spoiled the
neat appearance of the chamber. A chest of drawers of
well veined and shining walnut-tree ; four chairs of the
same wood ; a large table for ironing and working, cov-
ered with one of those green woollen coveriiigs which we
sometimes see in a peasant's cottage ; a straw armchair,
with a stool to match, the constant seat of the work-
woman, such was the unpretending furniture. There
was, too, in one of the window-seats, a cage with two
canary birds, the faithful comj)anions of Rigolette. By
one of those notable ideas which occur to the pooi-, this
cage was placed in the middle of a large wooden chest,
about a foot deep, placed on a table. This chest, which
Rigolette called her bird's garden, was filled with mould,
covered with moss during the winter, and in spring the
young girl sowed grass seeds, and planted flowers there.
Rodolph examined the place with interest, and entered
fully into the cheerful disposition of the grisette. He
pictured to himself this solitude, enlivened by the song
of the birds and of Rigolette. hei-self. In summer, no
doubt, she worked at the open window, half veiled by a
verdant curtain of sweet peas, roses, nasturtiums, and
blue and white convolvulus. In winter she warmed
herself near her small stove, by the soft light of her
lamp.
325
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Rodolph was thus reflecting, when, looking mechan-
ically at the door, he saw there a large bolt, a bolt
which would not have been out of place on the door of a
prison. This bolt made him reflect. It might have two
meanings, two very distinct uses : to close the door on
the lover within ; to close the door on the lover without.
Rodolph was aroused from his reflections by Rigolette,
who, turning her head, saw him, and, without changing
her attitude, said to him :
" What, neighbour, are you there ? " Then the well-
formed ankle instantly disappeared beneath the ample
skirt of the plum-coloured gown, and Rigolette added,
" Ah, Mr. Cunning ! "
" I was here admiring in silence."
" Admiring what, neighbour ? "
" This pretty little room ; for, neighbour, you are
lodged like a queen."
" Why, you must know that is my enjoyment. I never
go out, and so I can do no less than make my home com-
fortable."
" But really I never saw anything half so nice. What
pretty curtains ! and the drawers as handsome as mahog-
any ! You must have spent a great deal of money here."
" Oh, don't mention it ! I had, of my own, four hun-
dred and twenty-five francs when I left the prison, and
almost all has been spent."
" When you left the prison ! you ? "
" Yes, but it is a very long story. Of course, you do
not suppose that I was in prison for anything wrong ? "
" Of course not ; but how was it ? "
" After the cholera, I was quite alone in the world.
I was then, I think, ten years of age."
" But who had taken care of you till then ? "
" Ah, some excellent people I But they died of the
cholera ; " here Rigolette's large eyes became moistened.
'^ They had sold the little they possessed to pay their small
debts, and I remained without having any one ,who would
326
RIGOLCTTE.
take care of me. Not knowing what to do, I went to the
guard-house, opposite to our house, and said to the senti-
nel : ' Sir, my relations are dead, and I do not know
where to go to ; what must I do ? ' Then the officer
came, and he took me to the commissary, who put me in
prison as a vagabond, and I did not go out until I was
sixteen years old."
" But your relations ? "
" I do not know who my father was, and I was six
years old when I lost my mother, who had recovered me
from the Enfants Trouv^s (Foundling Hospital), where
she had been compelled at first to place me. The kind
people of whom I spoke to you lived in our house ; they
had no children, and, seeing me an orphan, they took
care of me."
" And what were they ? What was their business or
pursuit ? "
" Papa Cr^tu, so I always called him, was a house-
painter, and his wife worked at her needle."
" Then they were pretty well off ? "
" Oh, like other people in their station, though they
were not married ; but they called each other husband
and wife. They had their ups and downs ; to-day plenty,
if there was work to be had ; to-morrow short commons,
if there was none ; but that did not prevent the couple
from being content and always cheerful ; " at this remem-
brance Rigolette's face brightened up. " There was not
such a household in the quarter, always merry, always
singing, and, with it all, as good as they could be. What
they had any one was welcome to share. Mamma Crdtu
was a plump body, about thirty years old, as neat as a
penny, as active as an eel, as merry as a lark. Her hus-
band was a regular good-tempered fellow, with a large
nose, a wide mouth, and always a paper cap on his head,
and such a funny face, oh, so funny, you could not
look at him without laughing. When he came home
after worlc, he did nothing but sing, and make faces, and
327
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
gambol like a child. He used to dance me on his knees,
and play with me like a child of my own age ; and his
wife spoiled me, as if I had been a blessing to her. They
both required only one thing fi-om me, and that was to
be in a good humour ; and in that I never thwarted
them, thank Heaven. So they called me Rigolette, ^ and
the name has stuck to me. As to mirth, they set me the
example, for I never saw them sorrowful. If ever there
was a word, it was the wife who said to her husband,
* Cr^tu, you silly fellow, do be quiet, you make me laugh
too much.' Then he said to her, 'Hold your foolish
tongue, Ramonette,' I don't know why he called her
Ramonette, ' do be still, you really make my sides ache,
you are so funny.' And then I laughed to see them
laugh, and in this way I was brought up, and in this
way they formed my disposition ; and I hope I have
profited by it."
" Most assuredly you have, neighbour. So there never
were any disputes between them ? "
" Never, oh, never ! Sunday, Monday, and sometimes
on Tuesday, they made holiday, or kept wedding-day, as
they called it, and always took me with them. Papa
Cr^tu was an excellent workman, and, when he chose to
work, he could earn what he pleased, and so could his
wife, too. If they had got enough to do for Sunday and
Monday, and live on pretty comfortably, they were per-
fectly satisfied. If, after this, they were on short allow-
ance for a time, they didn't mind it. I remember, when
we had only bread and water, Papa Cr^tu took from his
library "
" He had a library, then ? "
" Oh, he used to call a little box so, in which he put
his collection of new songs ; for he bought all the new
ones, and knew them every one. When, then, there was
nothing but bread in the house, he used to take an old
cookery book from his library, and say to us, * Well, now,
1 The French verb rigoler is " to be merry." E. T.
328
RiGOLETTE.
let us see, what shall we eat to-day ? This, or that ? '
And then he used to read out a long list of good things.
Each of us chose a dish, and then Papa Cr^tu took an
empty saucepan, and, with the funniest airs and gestures
in the world, pretended to put into the saucepan all the
ingredients requisite for making a capital stew ; and then
he used to pretend to pour it all out into a dish also
empty which he placed on the table, with still the same
drolleries, which almost split our sides. Then he took
up his book again, and, whilst he was reading to us, for
instance, the recipe of a good fricassee of chicken, which
we had chosen, and which made our mouths water, we
ate our bread, all laughing like so many mad people."
" And, in this happy household, were there any debts
to trouble them ?"
" None whatever. So long as the money lasted, they
ate, drank, and made merry, and, when it was all gone,
they lived upon ' make believe,' as before."
" And did they never think of the future ?"
" Oh, yes, they thought of it, of course ; but what is
the future to such as we ? Present and future are like
Sunday and Monday ; the one we spend gaily and happily
outside the barriers, the other is got over in the fau-
bourgs."
" And why, since this couple seemed so well assorted,
did they never marry ? "
" A friend of theirs once put that very question in my
presence."
'' Well, and what did they say ? "
'' ' Oh,' said they, ' if ever we have any children, it may
be all very well to marry, but as far as we are concerned,
we do very well as we are. And why should we make
an obligation of that which we now perform willingly ? Be-
sides, getting married costs money, and we have none to
spare in unnecessary expenses.' But, my goodness,"
added Rigolette, " how I am running on. But, really,
when once I begin to talk of these kind people, who were
329
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
so good to me, I never know when to leave off. Here,
neighbour, will you give me my shawl off the bed, and
put it nicely over my shoulders, then pin it underneath
the collar of my hi*,bit-shirt with this large pin, and then
we will set off, for it will take us some time to select the
different things you wish to buy for the poor Morels."
Rodolph readily obeyed the directions of Rigolette.
First he took from the bed a large plaid shawl, which
he placed with all imaginable care on the well-formed
shoulders of Rigolette.
"That will do, neighbour. Now, lift up my collar,
and press the shawl and dress together; then stick in
the pin ; but pray try not to prick me with it."
The prince executed the orders given with zealous
accuracy ; then observed, smilingly, to the grisette :
"Ah, Mile. Rigolette, I should not like to be your
femme de chambre ; there is danger in it ! "
" Yes, I know," answered Rigolette gaily ; " there is
great danger for me of having a pin run in by your
awkwardness. But now," added she, after they had left
the room, and carefully locked the door after them,
" take my key ; it is so large, I always expect it will
burst my pocket; it is as large as a pistol," and
here the light-hearted girl laughed merrily at her own
conceit.
Rodolph accordingly " took charge " (that is the pre-
scribed form of speech) of an enormous key, which
might well have figured in one of those allegorical
devices in which the vanquished are represented as
humbly offering the keys of their lost cities to the
conquerors. Although Rodolph believed himself too
much changed by y.ears to run any risk of being
recognised by Folidori, he still deemed it prudent to
draw up the collar of his paletot as he passed by
the door of the apartments belonging to the quack,
Bradamanti.
" Neighbour," said Rigolette, " don't forget to tell M.
aao
RIGOLETTE.
Pipelet that you arc about to send in some things which
are to be carried at once up to your chamber."
" You are right, my good friend ; let us step into the
porter's lodge for an instant."
M. Pipelet, with his everlasting bell-shaped hat on his
head, dressed, as usual, in the accustomed green coat,
and seated before a table covered with scraps of leather
and fragments of boots and shoes, was occupied in
fixing a new sole on a boot, his whole look and
manner impressed with the same deeply meditative air
which characterised his usual proceedings. Anastasie
was just then absent from the lodge.
" Well, M. Pipelet," said Rigolette, " I hope you will
be pleased to hear the good news. Thanks to my good
neighbour here, the poor Morels have got out of trouble.
La ! when one thinks of that poor man being taken off
to prison oh, those bailiffs have no hearts ! "
" Nor manners either, mademoiselle," rejoined M.
Pipelet, in an angry tone, wrathfully brandishing the
boot then in progress of repair, and into which he had
inserted his left hand and arm. " No ! I have no hesi-
tation in declaring, in the face of all mankind, that they
are a set of mannerless scoundrels. Why, taking advan-
tage of the darkness of our stairs, they actually carried
their indecent violence so far as to lay their audacious
fingers upon the waist of my wife. When I first heard
the cries of her insulted modesty, I could not restrain
myself, and, spite of all efforts to restrain myself, I
yielded to the natural , impetuosity of my disposition.
Yes, I will frankly confess, my first impulse was to
remain perfectly motionless."
" But, I suppose, afterwards," said Rigolette, who had
much ado to preserve a serious air, " afterwards, M.
Pipelet, you pursued them, and bestowed the punishment
they so well deserved ? "
" ril tell you, mademoiselle," answered Pipelet, delib-
erately ; " when these shameless ruffians passed before
331
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
my lodge, mj blood boiled, and I could not prevent
myself from hastily covering my face, that I might
not be shocked by the sight of these luxurious male-
factors ; but, after ^ards, I ceased to be astonished ; for
well I knew I might expect some sight or sound to shock
my senses ; full well I was prepared for some direful
misfortune ere the day had passed, for I dreamed last
night of Cabrion."
Rigolette smiled, while the heavy groans which broke
from the oppressed mind of the porter were mingled
with blows of his hammer, as he vigorously applied it to
the sole of the boot he was mending.
" You wisely chose the wisest part, my dear M.
Pipelet, that of despising offences, and holding it
beneath you to revenge them ; but try to forget these
ill-conducted bailiffs, and oblige me by doing me a
great favour."
" Man is born to help his fellow man," drawled out
Pipelet, in a melancholy and sententious tone ; " and he
is still further called upon so to do when a good and
worthy gentleman, moreover, a lodger in one's house, is
concerned."
" What I have to request of you is to carry up to
my apartments for me several things I am about to send
in, and which are for the Morels."
" Make yourself easy upon that point, monsieur,'*
replied Pipelet. " I will faithfully perform your
wishes."
" And afterwards," said Rodolph, mournfully, " you
must obtain a priest to watch by a little girl the Morels
have lost in the night. Go and give the requisite noti-
fication of the death, and bespeak a suitable funeral."
" Make your mind easy, monsieur," replied Pipelet,
more gravely even than before ; " directly my wife
returns, I will go to the mayor, the church, and the
traiteurs : to the church, for the soul of the dead ; to
the traiteur^s, for the body of the living," added M.
332
RIGOLETTE.
Pipelet, philosophically and poetically. *' Consider it
done in both cases ; my good sir, consider it done."
At the entrance to the alley, Rodolph and Rigolette
encountered Anastasie returning from market with a
huge basket of provisions.
^' That's right ! That's right I '* cried the porteress,
looking at the pair with a knowing and significant air;
"there you go, arm in arm already. To be sure, look
and love, love and look. Young people will be young
people, no doubt on't. Me and Alfred was just the
same. Whoevei' heard of a pretty girl without a
beau ? So, go along, my dears, and make yourselves
happy while you can." Then, after gazing after them
some minutes, the old woman disappearf^d in the depths
of the alley, crying out, " Alfred, my old darling ! Don't
worry yourself ; 'Stasie's coming to bring you something
nice, oh, so nice ! "