The Mysteries of Paris Vol 3
Author: Sue, Eugène
Date: 2015-05-17T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery & Crime
Description: Ebook prepared by crutledge@knology.net
Rights: Public Domain

TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I—THE TEMPLE.

CHAPTER II—THE ARREST.

CHAPTER III—JACQUES FERRAND.

CHAPTER IV—THE OFFICE.

CHAPTER V—THE CLIENTS.

CHAPTER VI—THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.

CHAPTER VII—REFLECTIONS.

CHAPTER VIII—THE BACHELORS’ BREAKFAST.

CHAPTER IX—ST. LAZARE.

CHAPTER X—MONT SAINT-JEAN.

CHAPTER XI—LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE.

CHAPTER XII—THE PROTECTRESS.

CHAPTER XIII—THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP.

CHAPTER XIV—CECILY.

ENDNOTES

LIST of ILLUSTRATIONS

- Took my head between his hands.

- Drew carefully out a sheet of paper.

- Morel fell back on the stool.

- He will scold you awfully.

- M. d’Harville had blown his brains out.

- La Goualeuse in the prison.

CHAPTER I.
THE TEMPLE.

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

“What a funny old woman Madame Pipelet is!” observed the grisette to her companion; “and what very odd things she says!”

“Well, I thought her remarks very striking, as well as appropriate.”

“Which of them, neighbour?”

“Why, when she said ‘Young people would be young people,’ and ‘Vive l’amour!’”

“Well?”

“Well! I only mean to say those are precisely my sentiments.”

“Your sentiments?”

“Yes, I should like nothing better than to pass my youth with you, taking ‘Vive l’amour!‘ for my motto.”

“I dare say, for certainly you are not hard to please.”

“Why, where would be the harm,—are we not near neighbours? Of course we are, or else I should not be seen walking out with you in this manner in broad day.”

“Then you allow me to hope—”

“Hope what?”

“That you will learn to love me.”

“Oh, bless you, I do love you already!”

“Really?”

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

Then, suddenly breaking into loud fits of laughter, Rigolette abruptly exclaimed, “Look there, only look at that fat woman with the furred shoes! What does she remind you of? I’ll tell you,—of a great sack being drawn along by two cats without tails!” and again she laughed merrily.

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

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

Again interrupting the thread of her discourse, the grisette drew up suddenly before the windows of a shop, saying, “Oh, do pray only look at that pretty clock and those two handsome vases! I had already saved up three francs and a half, and had put it in my money-box, to buy such a set as that. In five or six years I might have been able to buy them.”

“Saved up, do you say? Then, I suppose, you earn—”

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

“But with thirty sous a day, how do you manage to live?”

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

“Yes, pray do.”

“Well, then, thirty sous a day make five and forty francs a month, do they not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, out of that I pay twelve francs for lodging; that leaves me twenty-three francs for food, etc.”

“Is it possible? Twenty-three francs for one month’s food!”

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

“Oh, you little glutton!”

“Ah! but then, remember, I include the food for both my birds in that sum.”

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

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

“And do you never eat meat?”

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

“Oh, pray let me know what it is?”

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

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

“Well, then, out of the forty-five or fifty francs I earn, there remains from ten to fifteen francs a month for my wood and oil during the winter, as well as for my clothes and washing; that is to say, for soap and other requisites; because, excepting my sheets, I wash my own things; that is another of my extravagances,—a good laundress would pretty well ruin me; while, as I am a very quick and good ironer, the expense is principally that of my own time. During the five winter months I burn a load and a half of wood, while I consume about four or fivesous’ worth of oil for my lamp daily; that makes it cost me about eighty francs a year for fire and lights.”

“So that you have, in fact, scarcely one hundred francs to clothe yourself, and find you in pocket money.”

“No more; yet out of that sum I managed to save my three francs and a half.”

“But your gowns, your shoes,—this smart little cap?”

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

“Ah, yes, this convenient, handy Temple! So you buy there?”

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

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

“To be sure; why, I can buy in the summer sweet pretty gowns for five or six francs; boots, like these I have on, and almost new, for two or three francs a pair; just look at my boots. Now, would not any one say they had been made for me?” said Rigolette, suddenly stopping, and holding up one of her pretty little feet, really very nicely set off by the well-fitting boot she wore.

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

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

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

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

“And certainly yours is as charming a nest as the most fastidious bird could desire.”

“Yes, isn’t it? for, as I say, I never refuse myself anything. Now, I consider my chamber as above my means; in fact, too handsome for one like me; then I have two birds; always, at least, two pots of flowers on my mantelpiece, without reckoning those on the window-ledges; and yet, as I told you, I had actually got three francs and a half in my money-box, towardsthe ornaments I hoped some day to be able to buy for my mantelpiece.”

“And what became of this store?”

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

“Yes, but my dear neighbour, you cannot refuse to let them repay you, now they are so differently situated.”

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

“But, then, you should think a little of the future.”

“What future?”

“Suppose you were to be ill, for instance.”

“Me ill? Oh, the idea!” And the fresh, hearty laugh of Rigolette resounded through the street.

“Well, why should you not be?”

“Do I look like a person likely to be sick?”

“Certainly I never saw a more bright or blooming countenance.”

“Well, then, what could possibly have put it into your head to talk such nonsense as to suppose I could ever be ill?”

“Nay, but—”

“Why, I am only eighteen years of age, and, considering the sort of life I lead, there is no chance of such a thing. I rise at five o’clock, winter or summer; I amnever up after ten, or, at latest, eleven; I eat sufficient to satisfy my appetite, which certainly is not a very great one; I do not suffer from exposure to cold; I work all day, singing as merrily as a lark; and at night I sleep like a dormouse. My heart is free, light, and happy. My employers are so well satisfied with what I do for them, that I am quite sure not to want for work; so what is there for me to be ill about? It really is too amusing to hear you try to talk sense, and only utter nonsense! Me ill!” And, at the very absurdity of the idea, Rigolette again burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, so loud and prolonged that a stout gentleman who was walking before her, carrying a dog under his arm, turned around quite angrily, believing all this mirth was excited by his presence.

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

“Is your dog so very tired, sir?”

The fat man grumbled out some indistinct reply, and continued on his way.

“My dear neighbour,” said Rodolph, “are you losing your senses?”

“It is your fault if I am.”

“How so?”

“Because you talk such nonsense to me.”

“Do you call my saying that perhaps you might be ill, talking foolishly?”

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

“Then,” said Rodolph to the grisette, “it seems you have no wish for anything more than you already possess?”

“No, really I have not.”

“Positively, nothing you desire?”

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

“And besides these ornaments?”

“Oh, nothing more; no, I cannot recollect any one other thing I care for more especially now.”

“Why now, particularly?”

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

“Well, but you know, my dear neighbour, we have already entered into an agreement to be mutually serviceableto each other; you will look after my linen for me, and I shall clean up and polish your chamber for you; and besides attending to my linen, you are to wake me every morning early by tapping against the wainscot.”

“And do you think you have named all I shall expect you to do?”

“What else can I do?”

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

“To be sure I do; and when summer comes we will go into the country.”

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

“And what has become of her?”

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

And here Rigolette indulged in another peal of merry laughter.

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

“I am delighted at the way you have disposed of my Sundays,” said Rodolph, gaily. “I see plainly we shall have some capital treats.”

“Stop a little, Mr. Extravagance, and let me tell you how I mean to regulate our expenses; in the summer we can dine beautifully, either at the Chartreuse or the Montmartre hermitage, for three francs, then half a dozen quadrilles or waltzes, and a ride upon the wooden horses,—oh, I do so love riding on horseback!—well,that will bring it altogether to about five francs, not a farthing more, I assure you. Do you waltz?”

“Yes, very well.”

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

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

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

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

“What then! Why, they would just look at you, and then at me; and then they would smile and say, ‘That’s a lucky fellow, that Rodolph!’”

“You know my name, do you?”

“Why, of course, when I heard that the chamber adjoiningmine was let, I inquired the name of the person who had taken it.”

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

“So much the better.”

“They would believe I was perfectly happy.”

“Of course, of course they would.”

“All the while I should only be so in appearance.”

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

“But your reputation might suffer.”

Rigolette burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

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

“But still I should be very unhappy.”

“What for?”

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

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

“I quite agree with you; but I always was lucky. Apropos of your late fellow lodger, M. Germain, where is he at present?”

“In Paris, I believe.”

“Then you do not see much of him now?”

“No, he has never been to see me since he quitted the house.”

“But where is he living? And what is he doing at present?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because,” said Rodolph, smiling, “I am jealous of him, and I wish—”

“Jealous!” exclaimed Rigolette, bursting into a fit of laughter. “La, bless you, there is no occasion for that, poor fellow!”

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

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

“Nay, but—”

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

Spite of her thoughtlessness and frivolity, the young dressmaker pronounced these last words with so much firmness that, to his great regret, Rodolph perceived the impossibility of gaining the desired information respectingGermain through her means; and his mind revolted at the idea of laying any snare to entrap her into a betrayal of her secret; he therefore, after a slight pause, gaily replied:

“Well, let us say no more about it, then; but, upon my life, I don’t wonder at you, who can so well keep the secrets of others, guarding your own so closely.”

“Me have secrets?” cried Rigolette. “I only wish I had some more secrets of my own; it must be very amusing to have secrets.”

“Do you really mean to assert that you have not a ‘nice little secret’ about some love-affair?”

“Love-affair!”

“Are you going to persuade me you have never been in love?” said Rodolph, looking fixedly at Rigolette, the better to read the truth in her telltale features.

“Been in love? Why, of course I have, with M. Giraudeau, M. Cabrion, M. Germain, and you!”

“Are you sure you loved them just as you do me, neither more nor less?”

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

“Come now, my pretty neighbour, you must not be angry with me; I am going to speak candidly and sincerely, like an old friend.”

“Oh, don’t be afraid to say anything to me; I am very good-natured; and besides, I feel certain you are too kind; you could never have the heart to say anything to me that would give me pain.”

“You are quite right; but do tell me truly, have you never had any lovers?”

“Lovers! I should think not! What time have I for such things?”

“What has time got to do with it?”

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

“Well, but all lovers are not faithless and a cause of grief and sorrow to their mistress.”

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

“Your liberty?”

“Yes, I might go as forewoman to the person whokeeps the warehouse for which I work; she would give me four hundred francs a year, with board and lodging.”

“And you will not accept it?”

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

“Then you have never thought of marriage?”

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

“And do you never build castles in the air?—never dream?”

“Dream? Oh, yes!—of my chimney ornaments; but, besides them, what can I have to wish for?”

“But, suppose now some relation you never heard of in your life were to die, and leave you a nice little fortune—twelve hundred francs a year, for instance—you have made five hundred sufficient to supply all your wants?”

“Perhaps it might prove a good thing; perhaps a bad one.”

“How could it be a bad one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rodolph was particularly struck with the manner, at once attentive, eager, and cheerful, of the various dealers, as, standing at the door of their shops, they solicited the patronage and custom of the passers-by. Their mode of address, at once familiar and respectful, seemed altogether unlike the tone of the present day. Scarcely had Rigolette and her companion entered that part of theplace devoted to the sale of bedding, than they were surrounded by the most seducing offers and solicitations.

“Walk in, sir, and look at my mattresses, if you please,” said one. “They are quite new. I will just open a corner to show you how beautifully white and soft the wool is,—more like the wool of a lamb than a sheep.”

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

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

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

“Well, then, let it be the fat old lady,” said Rigolette. “I like her appearance, too.”

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

“So long as it is Mother Bouvard, and no one else, that has this customer; she has a family, and is the dowager and the honour of the Temple.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To write to the Duchesse de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy.”

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

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

“Well, husband,” said Rigolette, gaily, to Rodolph, “what is there so interesting in that piece of paper, which you are reading there?”

“My little wife,” replied Rodolph, “you are very inquisitive; I will tell you by and by. Have you bought all you want?”

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

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

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

And Rigolette went out, saying:

“Madame Bouvard, take care of my husband, and do not flirt with him, mind, whilst I am gone.”

And then came the laugh, and away the merry maiden ran.

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

“Is she not charming? and ain’t I a happy husband, Madame Bouvard?”

“As happy a husband as she is a wife, I am sure of that.”

“You are not mistaken. But tell me how much I owe you.”

“Your little lady would only give me three hundred and thirty francs for the whole; as true as heaven’s above us, I only make fifteen francs by the bargain, for I did not try to get the things as cheaply as I might, for I hadn’t the heart to bate ‘em down; the people who sold ‘em seemed so uncommon miserable!”

“Really! Were they the same people that you bought this little secrétaire of?”

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

“Well, and this young girl?”

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

“And their rooms were wretched?”

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

“I will buy it of you, Madame Bouvard.”

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

“But their name?”

“I don’t know; the lady sold me the things in the presence of the porter, and so I had no occasion to ask her name, for what she sold belonged to her.”

“But their new address?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“No doubt they know at their old lodging?”

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

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

“To write to Madame de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy?”

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

“Here, ma’am, be so good as to take your money,” said Rodolph to the shopkeeper, handing her a note for five hundred francs.

“I will give you the change, sir. What is your address?”

“Rue du Temple, No. 17.”

“Rue du Temple, No. 17; oh, very well, very well, I know it.”

“Have you ever been to that house?”

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

“M. François Germain, perhaps?” said Rodolph.

“Just so. Did you know him?”

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

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

“What? Do you know where he lives?”

“Not exactly, but I know where you may be sure to meet with him.”

“Where?”

“At the notary’s where he works.”

“At a notary’s?”

“Yes, who lives in the Rue du Sentier.”

“M. Jacques Ferrand?” exclaimed Rodolph.

“Yes; and a very worthy man he is. There is a crucifix and some holy boxwood in his study; it looks just as if one was in a sacristy.”

“But how did you know that M. Germain worked at this notary’s?”

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

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

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

Rigolette now returned, with a joyful eye and smiling lips.

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

Rodolph paid, and quitted the Temple with Rigolette.

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

“Mercy on us!” said Rigolette, “what ails you, Madame Pipelet? Where are you running to in that manner?”

“Is it you, Mlle. Rigolette?” exclaimed Anastasie; “it is Providence that sends you; help me to save the life of Alfred.”

“What do you mean?”

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

Rigolette let go Rodolph’s arm, and ran quickly to the dram-shop.

“But what has happened, Madame Pipelet?” inquired Rodolph, following the porteress into the lodge.

“How can I tell, my worthy sir? I had gone out tothe mayor’s, to church, and the cook-shop, to save Alfred so much trotting about; I returned, and what should I see but the dear old cosset with his legs and arms all in the air! There, M. Rodolph,” said Anastasie, opening the door of her dog-hole, “say if that is not enough to break one’s heart!”

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

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

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

“Cabrion!”

And his tremulous hands again seemed desirous of repulsing the fearful vision.

“Cabrion! What, that cussed painter again?” exclaimed Madame Pipelet. “Alfred dreamed of him all night long, so that he kicked me almost to death. This monster is his nightmare; not only does he poison his days, but he poisons his nights also,—he pursues him in his very sleep; yes, sir, as though Alfred was a malefactor, and this Cabrion, whom may Heaven confound! was his unceasing remorse.”

Rodolph smiled, discreetly detecting some new freak of Rigolette’s former neighbour.

“Alfred! answer me; don’t remain mute, you frighten me,” said Madame Pipelet; “let’s try and get you up. Why, lovey, do you keep thinking of that vagabond fellow? You know that, when you think of that fellow, it has the same effect on you that cabbage has,—it fills up your pylorus and stifles you.”

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

Rigolette entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe.

“Thankee, ma’amselle, you are so kind!” said the old body; and then she added, “Come, deary, suck this down, that will make you all right.”

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

“Ther-r-r-r-e, now-w-w! you’re on your pins again, my ducky!”

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

“Have you seen him?”

“Who?”

“Is he gone?”

“Who, Alfred?”

“Cabrion!”

“Has he dared—” asked the porteress.

M. Pipelet, as mute as the statue of the commandant, like that redoubtable spectre, bowed his head twice with an affirmative air.

“What! has M. Cabrion been here?” inquired Rigolette, repressing a violent desire to laugh.

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

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

“My wife had left me, to save me the trouble of going out, according to the request of monsieur,” bowing to Rodolph, “to the mayor’s, to church, and the cook-shop.”

“The dear old darling had had the nightmare all night, and I wished to save him the journey,” said Anastasie.

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

“Cabrion!” exclaimed Anastasie, clasping her hands.

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

“He entered? Owdacious monster!” replied MadamePipelet, as much astonished as her spouse at such audacity.

“He entered slowly,” resumed Alfred, “stopped a moment at the threshold, as if to fascinate me with his look, atrocious as it was, then he advanced towards me, pausing at each step, and piercing me through with his eye, but not uttering a word,—straight, mute, and threatening as a phantom!”

“I declare, my very heart aches to hear him,” said Anastasie.

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

Anastasie lifted her hands towards heaven.

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

Then, as if the recital had exhausted all his strength,M. Pipelet fell back in his chair, raising his hands to heaven in a manner of mute imprecation. Rigolette went out quickly; she could not restrain herself any longer; her desire to laugh almost stifled her. Rodolph had the greatest difficulty to keep his countenance.

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

CHAPTER II.
THE ARREST.

“Good gracious! M. Rodolph,” exclaimed Rigolette, running in, pale and trembling, “a commissary of police and the guard have come here.”

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

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

“M. le Commissaire is too late; the malefactor has escaped,” said M. Pipelet, in a sorrowful voice; “but I will give you his description,—villainous smile, impudent look, insulting—”

“Of whom do you speak?” inquired the magistrate.

“Of Cabrion, M. le Commissaire; but, perhaps, if you make all haste, it is not yet too late to catch him,” added M. Pipelet.

“I know nothing about any Cabrion,” said the magistrate, impatiently. “Does one Jérome Morel, a working lapidary, live in this house?”

“Yes, mon commissaire,” said Madame Pipelet, putting herself into a military attitude.

“Conduct me to his apartment.”

“Morel, the lapidary!” said the porteress, excessively surprised; “why, he is the mildest lambkin in the world. He is incapable of—”

“Does Jérome Morel live here or not?”

“He lives here, sir, with his family, in one of the attics.”

“Lead me to his attic.”

Then, addressing himself to a man who accompanied him, the magistrate said:

“Let two of the municipal guard wait below, and not leave the entrance. Send Justing for a hackney-coach.”

The man left the lodge to put these orders in execution.

“Now,” continued the magistrate, addressing himself to M. Pipelet, “lead me to Morel.”

“If it is all the same to you, mon commissaire, I will do that for Alfred; he is indisposed from Cabrion’s behaviour, which, just as the cabbage does, troubles his pylorus.”

“You or your husband, it is no matter which. Go forward.”

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

“Who are you, and what do you want?” he inquired.

“They are two lodgers in the fourth story,” said Madame Pipelet.

“I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know that you belonged to the house,” said he to Rodolph.

The latter, auguring well from the polite behaviour of the magistrate, said to him:

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

“Is it possible?”

“It is, indeed, the fact, mon commissaire,” said Madame Pipelet. “But for this gentleman who speaksto you, and who is a king of lodgers, for he has saved poor Morel from prison by his generosity, the whole family of the lapidary must have died of hunger.”

The commissary looked at Rodolph with equal surprise and interest.

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

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

“I have no doubt of Morel’s probity. I only regret I have to fulfil a painful duty in your presence, sir, who have so deeply interested yourself in this family.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

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

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

“Of what is she then accused?”

“She lies under a charge of child-murder.”

“She! she! Oh, her poor father!”

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

“But it is at present only an accusation?” asked Rodolph. “Proofs, no doubt, are still wanting?”

“I cannot tell you more on that point. Justice has been informed of this crime, or rather the presumptive crime, by the statement of an individual most respectable in every particular, Louise Morel’s master.”

“Jacques Ferrand, the notary?” said Rodolph, with indignation.

“Yes, sir—”

“M. Jacques Ferrand is a wretch, sir!”

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

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

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

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

“Sir, I have always executed my orders with every possible consideration, and I shall act similarly now.”

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

“Most willingly, sir, if it can be so arranged.”

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

“My good little neighbour, I want another service from you,—I want you to leave your room at my disposal for the next hour.”

“As long as you please, M. Rodolph. You have the key. But, oh, say what is the matter?”

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

“To be sure I will, M. Rodolph; but has any fresh misfortune befallen the Morels?”

“Alas! yes, something very sad indeed, which you will learn but too soon.”

“Well, then, neighbour, I will run to the Temple. Alas, alas! I was thinking that, thanks to your kindness, these poor people had been quite relieved from their trouble!” said the grisette, who then descended the staircase very quickly.

Rodolph had been very desirous of sparing Rigolette the distressing scene of Louise Morel’s arrest.

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

“Go, go,” said the magistrate, who was thus left alone with Rodolph.

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

Suddenly the door opened. Louise, pale and in tears, came out quickly.

“Adieu, adieu, father!” she exclaimed. “I will come back again, but I must go now.”

“Louise, my child, listen to me a moment,” said Morel, following his daughter, and endeavouring to detain her.

At the sight of Rodolph and the magistrate, Louise and the lapidary remained motionless.

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

Rodolph was wounded to the heart, and was unable to utter a word in reply.

The commissary said sternly to Louise:

“Is your name Louise Morel?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the young girl, quite overcome.

“You are Jérome Morel, her father?” added the magistrate, addressing the lapidary.

Rodolph had opened the door of Rigolette’s apartment.

“Yes, sir; but—”

“Go in there with your daughter.”

And the magistrate pointed to Rigolette’s chamber, into which Rodolph had already entered.

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

The commissary shut the door, and said with much feeling to Morel:

“I know that you are honest and unfortunate, and it is, therefore, with regret that I tell you that I am here in the name of the law to apprehend your daughter.”

“All is discovered,—I am lost!” cried Louise, in agony, and throwing herself into her father’s arms.

“What do you say? What do you say?” inquired Morel, stupefied. “You are mad! What do you mean by lost? Apprehend you! Why apprehend you? Who has come to apprehend you?”

“I, and in the name of the law;” and the commissary showed his scarf.

“Oh, wretched, wretched girl!” exclaimed Louise, falling on her knees.

“What! in the name of the law?” said the artisan, whose reason, severely shaken by this fresh blow, began to totter. “Why apprehend my daughter in the name of the law? I will answer for Louise, I will,—this my child, my good child, ain’t you, Louise? What! apprehend you, when our good angel has restored you to us to console us for the death of our poor, dear little Adèle? Come, come, this can’t be. And then, to speak respectfully, M. le Commissaire, they apprehend none but the bad, you know; and my Louise is not bad. So you see, my dear, the good gentleman is mistaken. My name is Morel, but there are other Morels; you are Louise, butthere are other Louises; so you see, M. le Commissaire, there is a mistake, certainly some mistake!”

“Unhappily there is no mistake. Louise Morel, take leave of your father!”

“What! are you going to take my daughter away?” exclaimed the workman, furious with grief, and advancing towards the magistrate with a menacing air.

Rodolph seized the lapidary by the arm, and said to him:

“Be calm, and hope for the best; your daughter will be restored to you; her innocence must be proved; she cannot be guilty.”

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

Louise understood it.

“I rob!” she exclaimed; and her cheeks suffused with generous indignation, her tone and gesture, reassured her father.

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

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

“Well, then, what is the charge against her? I, her father, swear to you that she is innocent of whatever crime they may accuse her of, and I never told a lie in my life either.”

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

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

“Your daughter is accused of child-murder,” said the magistrate.

“I—I—I—child-mur—I don’t—you—”

And Morel, aghast, stammered incoherently.

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

“Oh, no, I have not, sir! I have not!” exclaimed Louise, energetically, and rising; “I swear to you that it was dead. It never breathed,—it was cold. I lost my senses,—this is my crime. But kill my child! Oh, never, never!”

“Your child, abandoned girl!” cried Morel, raising his hands towards Louise, as if he would annihilate her by this gesture and imprecation.

“Pardon, father, pardon!” she exclaimed.

After a moment’s fearful silence, Morel resumed, with a calm that was even more frightful:

“M. le Commissaire, take away that creature; she is not my child!”

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

“Father, hear me! Only hear me!”

“M. le Commissaire, away with her, I beseech you! I leave her to you,” said the lapidary, struggling to free himself from Louise’s embrace.

“Listen to her,” said Rodolph, holding him; “do not be so pitiless.”

“To her! To her!” repeated Morel, lifting his two hands to his forehead, “to a dishonoured wretch! A wanton! Oh, a wanton!”

“But, if she were dishonoured through her efforts to save you?” said Rodolph to him in a low voice.

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

“The notary?”

An answer came to Louise’s lips. She was about to speak, but paused,—no doubt a reflection,—and, bending down her head, remained silent.

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

“No, no; do not curse me, my father! I will tell you all,—to you alone, and you will see—you will see whether or not I deserve your forgiveness.”

“For pity’s sake, hear her!” said Rodolph to him.

“What will she tell me,—her infamy? That will soon be public, and I can wait till then.”

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

“Be it so,” said the magistrate.

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

After a moment’s sad and angry silence, Morel replied:

“I will.”

“But where shall we go!” inquired Rodolph; “your family are in the other room.”

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

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

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

“Alas, sir, I am equally fearful with yourself of some fresh and terrible disaster! I will abridge as much as I can this most painful farewell.”

And Rodolph rejoined the lapidary and his daughter.

However strange and painful Morel’s determination might appear, it was really the only thing that, under the circumstances, could be done. The magistrate consented to await the issue of this conversation in Rigolette’s chamber; the Morel family were occupying Rodolph’s apartment, and there was only the garret at liberty; and it was into this horrid retreat that Louise, her father, and Rodolph betook themselves. Sad and affecting sight!

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

“Oh, father, if you only knew!” exclaimed Louise; “if you only knew how much I am to be pitied!”

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

“And I, I would sooner be there!” replied Louise.

“Be silent, unhappy girl, you pain me. I was wrongto say so; I have been too harsh. Come, speak; but in the name of Heaven, do not lie. However frightful the truth may be, yet tell it me all; let me learn it from your lips, and it will be less cruel. Speak, for, alas! our moments are counted, they are waiting for you down below. Ah, just Heaven, what a sad, sad parting!”

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

“What man?”

“My master!”

“The notary?”

“Yes,” said Louise in a whisper, and looking around her as if she feared to be overheard.

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

“And me too, Louise, if I speak, it would be in endeavouring to save you. But what has this villain done?”

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

Rodolph, believing that she referred to Germain, said to Louise:

“If you mean François Germain, make your mind tranquil, his secret shall be kept by your father and myself.”

Louise looked at Rodolph with surprise.

“Do you know him?” said she.

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

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

“But,” inquired Rodolph, “who, then, placed your daughter at the notary’s?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His motive is very evident,” said Rodolph; “he wished to have you entirely in his power.”

“Alas, sir, it was from the very day in which he obtained judgment that he commenced! But, go on, Louise, go on. I scarcely know where I am. My head seems giddy and bewildered, and at times my memory entirely fails me. I fear my senses are leaving me, and that I shall become mad. Oh, this is too much—too hard to bear!”

Rodolph having succeeded in tranquillising the lapidary, Louise thus proceeded:

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

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

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

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

“You hear, sir,—you hear,” said Morel to Rodolph, “the manner in which this generous benefactor behaved to the daughter of the man he affected to serve!”

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

“There spoke my Louise,” said Morel, “or, rather, as she would have spoken in her days of proud innocence. How, then, if such were your sentiments—But go on, go on.”

“I was still concealed by the darkness, which I trusted would preserve me, when I heard the door closed which led from the antechamber, and which my master had contrived to find by groping along the wall. Thus, having me wholly in his power, he returned to his chamber for a light, with which he quickly returned, and then commenced a fresh attack, the particulars of which, my dearest father, I will notventure to describe; suffice it, that promises, threats, violence, all were tried; but anger, fear, and despair armed me with fresh strength, and, while I continually eluded his grasp, and fled for safety from room to room, his rage at my determined resistance knew no bounds. In his fury he even struck me with such frenzied violence as to leave my features streaming with blood.”

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

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

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

“The following day after this scene, spite of the menaces of my master, I ran home to complain to my father of the unkind usage I received, without daring, however, to tell him all. His first desire was for me toquit the house of M. Ferrand without delay. But, then, a prison would close upon my poor parent; added to which, my small earnings had become indispensably necessary to our family since the illness of my mother, and the bad character promised me by M. Ferrand might possibly have prevented me from finding another service for a very long time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus encouraged, Louise proceeded:

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

“Explain yourself, my good girl,” said Rodolph.

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

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

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

“I believe you—I believe you; but proceed.”

“I know not how long I slept; but when I awoke it was to shame and dishonour, for I found M. Ferrand beside me.”

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

“Father! father! I call Heaven to witness I am telling you the truth only.”

“I tell you ‘tis a base falsehood. Why should the notary have wished to throw me in prison, since you had freely yielded to his wishes?”

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

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

After reflecting a short time, Louise replied:

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

“But, on the day you were describing, your wine had a bitter taste?”

“It had, sir, but not sufficiently so to prevent mydrinking it; and I attributed it to the wine being turned.”

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

“And before falling asleep on your chair, did not your head seem unusually heavy, and your limbs weary?”

“Oh, yes, sir, I felt a fullness and throbbing in my temples, an icy coldness seemed to fill my veins, and a feeling of unusual discomfort oppressed me.”

“Wretch, villainous wretch!” exclaimed Rodolph. “Are you aware, Morel, what this man made your poor child take in her wine?”

The artisan gazed at Rodolph without replying to his question.

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

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

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

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

“Proceed, my poor child, and let us have the remainder of this tissue of horrors.”

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

“Ah!” cried Rodolph, “the villain had evidently taken every precaution to prevent detection.”

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

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

“Then,” said he, after a pause of some minutes, “you never ventured to inform your father of the infamous treatment you had received?”

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

“And probably,” continued Rodolph, desirous if possible to save Louise the painful confession, “probably, yielding to constraint, and the dread of endangering the safety of your father and family by a refusal, you continued to be the victim of this monster’s brutality?”

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

“And was his conduct afterwards less barbarous and unfeeling than before?”

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

“And, when alone with M. Ferrand, how did he account for his treatment of you before the curé?”

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

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

“I fancy I have been ill, or something is wrong with my head—grief—fatigue—tell me, my child—what were you saying just now? I seem almost unable to recollect.”

“When,” continued Louise, unheeding her father’s look, “when M. Ferrand discovered that I was likely to become a mother—”

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

“Yes, yes,” said Morel, “let me hear all; ‘tis fit and right the tale should be told. Go on, go on, my girl, and I will listen from beginning to end.”

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

“What did he say? Speak.”

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

“‘What a lost, depraved character!’ cried M. Ferrand, raising his clasped hands towards heaven. ‘Horrible, indeed! Why, you poor, wretched girl, is it possible that you have the audacity to accuse me of disgracing myself by any illicit acquaintance with a person of yourinfamous description? Can it be that you have the hardihood to lay the fruits of your immoral conduct and gross irregularity at my door,—I, who have repeated a hundred times, in the presence of respectable witnesses, that you would come to ruin some day, vile profligate that you are? Quit my house this instant, or I will drive you out!’”

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

“By Heaven!” said Rodolph, “this surpasses any horrors that imagination could have conceived.”

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

“Morel, where are you going? You will do a mischief, unhappy man!”

“Take care,” exclaimed the infuriated artisan, struggling, “or I shall commit two crimes instead of one!” and the madman threatened Rodolph.

“Father, it is our benefactor!” exclaimed Louise.

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

“Father, it is our benefactor! You have raised your hand against him,—recover yourself.”

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

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

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

“Silence, Morel! your grief distracts you,” said Rodolph to him sorrowfully; “let your daughter speak; the moments are precious; the magistrate waits; I must know all,—all, I tell you; go on, my child.”

Morel fell back on the stool, overwhelmed with his anguish.

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

“What occurred then?”

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

“And you did not unmask the scoundrel on the spot?” asked Rodolph.

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

“Was not that about the time when he came to reside here?”

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

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

“And it never occurred to you to make a confidant of Germain?” he said to Louise.

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

“When Germain was lodging here, did he never hear your father at times accuse the notary of desiring to seduce you?”

“My father never expressed his fears before strangers; and besides, at this period, I deceived his uneasiness, and comforted him by the assurances that M. Ferrand no longer thought of me. Alas! my poor father will nowforgive me those falsehoods? I only employed them to tranquillise your mind, father dear, that was all.”

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

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

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

After a moment’s silence, Louise resumed with great effort, and in a trembling voice:

“I had heard say by the porteress that a quack doctor lived in the house,—and,—”

She could not finish.

Rodolph recollected that, at his first interview with Madame Pipelet, he had received from the postman, in her absence, a letter written on coarse paper, in a feigned hand, and on which he had remarked the traces of tears.

“And you wrote to him, unhappy girl, three days since? You wept over your letter; and the handwriting was disguised.”

Louise looked at Rodolph in great consternation.

“How did you know that, sir?”

“Do not alarm yourself; I was alone in Madame Pipelet’s lodge when they brought in the letter; and I remarked it quite accidentally.”

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

“And you did not hear the conversation?”

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

“And, when you left the office, what did he say to you?”

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

“And who was the person who was talking with the notary and shut up in this room with him?” inquired Rodolph of Louise.

“I do not know, sir; I did not recognise the voice.”

“And what were they saying?”

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

“What new mystery of crime and infamy?” said Rodolph, with increased astonishment.

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

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

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

“Why did you not summon assistance?”

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

And the voice of Louise was stifled with sobs.

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

“She weeps,—she weeps,—why is she weeping?” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “Ah, yes,—I know, I know,—the notary,—isn’t it? Go on my poor Louise,—you are my daughter,—I love you still,—just now I did not recognise you,—my eyes were darkenedwith my tears,—oh, my head,—how badly it aches,—my head, my head!”

“You do not believe me guilty, do you, father, do you?”

“Oh, no, no!”

“It is a terrible misfortune; but I was so fearful of the notary.”

“The notary? Ah, yes, and well you might be; he is so wicked, so very wicked!”

“But you will forgive me now?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Really and truly?”

“Yes—ah, yes! Ah! I love you the same as ever,—although I cannot—not say—you see—because—oh, my head, my head!”

Louise looked at Rodolph in extreme alarm.

“He is suffering deeply; but let him calm himself. Go on.”

Louise, after looking twice or thrice at Morel with great disquietude, thus resumed:

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

And Louise burst into tears.

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

“What torture! what torture!” said Rodolph with deep sympathy.

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

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

But, suddenly interrupting herself, Louise exclaimed with alarm:

“Sir, sir, look at my father! what can be the matter with him?”

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

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

“But, sir,” said Louise again, with increasing fright, “look, pray look at my father!”

Then, approaching the artisan, she said to him:

“Father! father!”

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

“I owe the notary thirteen hundred francs; it is the price of Louise’s blood,—so I must work, work, work!—oh, I’ll pay, I’ll pay, I’ll pay!”

“Can it be possible? This cannot be,—he is not mad,—no, no!” exclaimed Louise, in a heart-rending voice. “He will recover,—it is but a momentary fit of absence!”

“Morel, my good fellow,” said Rodolph to him, “we are here. Your daughter is near you,—she is innocent.”

“Thirteen hundred francs!” said the lapidary, not attending to Rodolph, but going on with his sham employment.

“My father!” exclaimed Louise, throwing herself at his feet, and clasping his hands in her own, in spite of his resistance, “it is I—it is your Louise!”

“Thirteen hundred francs,” he repeated, wresting his hands from the grasp of his daughter. “Thirteen hundred francs,—and if not,” he added, in a low and as it were, confidential tone, “and if not, Louise is to be guillotined.”

And again he imitated the turning of his lathe.

Louise gave a piercing shriek.

“He is mad!” she exclaimed, “he is mad! and it is I—it is I who am the cause! Oh! Yet it is not my fault,—I did not desire to do ill,—it was that monster.”

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

“But my mother, my grandmother, my sisters, mybrothers, what will become of them all?” exclaimed Louise, “Now they are deprived of my father and myself, they must die of hunger, misery and despair!”

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

“Ah, sir, you see,—dishonour, madness, death,—see the miseries which that man causes, and yet no one can do any thing against him! Nothing! The very thought completes all my wretchedness.”

“So far from that, let the contrary thought help to support you.”

“What mean you, sir?”

“Take with you the assurance that your father, yourself, and your family shall be avenged.”

“Avenged!”

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

“Ah, sir, may Heaven hear you! It is no longer myself whom I seek to avenge, but a poor, distracted father,—my child killed in its birth—”

Then, trying another effort to turn Morel from his insanity, Louise again exclaimed:

“Adieu, father! They are going to lead me to prison, and I shall never see you again. It is your poor Louisewho bids you adieu. My father! my father! my father!”

To this distressing appeal there was no response. In that poor, destroyed mind there was no echo,—none. The paternal cords, always the last broken, no longer vibrated.

The door of the garret opened; the commissary entered.

“My moments are numbered, sir,” said he to Rodolph. “I declare to you with much regret that I cannot allow this conversation to be protracted any longer.”

“This conversation is ended, sir,” replied Rodolph, bitterly, and pointing to the lapidary. “Louise has nothing more to say to her father,—he has nothing more to hear from his daughter,—he is a lunatic.”

“I feared as much. It is really frightful!” exclaimed the magistrate.

And approaching the workman hastily, after a minute’s scrutiny, he was convinced of the sad reality.

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

“Thanks, thanks, sir!” said Rodolph; “by acting thus it will not be a mere duty that you fulfil, but a holy office which you undertake.”

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

“One word more, sir. The disclosures of LouiseMorel have fully convinced me of her innocence. Will you be so kind as inform me how her pretended crime was discovered, or rather denounced?”

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

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

“I thank you a thousand times, sir, for your kindness, and the support you promise Louise. I will take care that this poor man, as well as his wife’s mother, are sent to a lunatic asylum.”

Then, addressing Louise, who was still kneeling closeto her father, endeavouring, but vainly, to recall him to his senses:

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

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

Rigolette apprised Madeleine Morel, with considerable delicacy, of the fit of lunacy which had attacked the lapidary, and of Louise’s imprisonment. At first, Madeleinewept bitterly, and uttered terrible shrieks; then, the first burst of her grief over, the poor creature, weak and overcome, consoled herself as well as she could by seeing that she and her children were surrounded by the many comforts which she owed to the generosity of their benefactor.

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

“‘“Has kissed and has prattled with fifty fair maids,
And changed them as oft, do you see;”

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

CHAPTER III.
JACQUES FERRAND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such was the opinion of the contemporaries of M. Jacques Ferrand.

CHAPTER IV.
THE OFFICE.

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

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

“Well, if any one had told me that François Germain was a thief,” said one of the young men, “I should have said, ‘That’s a lie!’”

“So should I.”

“And I.”

“And I. It really quite affected me to see him arrested and led away by the police. I could not eat any breakfast; but I have been rewarded by not having to eat thedaily mess doled out by Mother Séraphin, for, as the song goes:

‘To eat the allowance of old Séraphin,
One must have a twist indeed.’”

“Capital! why, Chalamel, you are beginning your poetry already.”

“I demand Chalamel’s head!”

“Folly apart, it is very terrible for poor Germain.”

“Seventeen thousand francs (680l.) is a lump of money!”

“I believe you!”

“And yet, for the fifteen months that Germain has been cashier, he was never a farthing deficient in making up his books.”

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

“Ah, that’s the bore of people of such ferocious honesty as our governor, they have no pity!”

“But they ought to think twice before they ruin a poor young fellow, who, up to this time, has behaved with strict honesty.”

“M. Ferrand said he did it for an example.”

“Example? What? It is none to the honest, and the dishonest know well enough what they expose themselves to if they are found out in any delinquencies.”

“Our house seems to produce lots of jobs for the police officers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, this morning there was poor little Louise, and now poor Germain.”

“I confess that Germain’s affair was not quite clear to me.”

“But he confessed?”

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

“True; and, if he confessed one thing, why shouldn’t he confess another?”

“Exactly so; for a man is as much punished for five hundred francs as he is for fifteen thousand francs.”

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

‘To get a jolly lot of “swag”
A cove must dip deep in the lucky-bag.’”

“I demand Chalamel’s head!”

“Can’t you talk sense for five minutes?”

“Ah, here’s Jabulot! won’t he be astonished?”

“What at, my boys? what at? Anything fresh about poor Louise?”

“You would have known, roving blade, if you had not been so long in your rounds.”

“What, you think it is but a step from here to the Rue de Chaillot?”

“I never said so.”

“Well, what about that gallant don, the famous Viscount de Saint-Rémy?”

“Has he not been here yet?”

“No.”

“Well, his horses were harnessed, and he sent me word by his valet de chambre, that he would come here directly. But he didn’t seem best pleased, the servant said. Oh, my boys! such a lovely little house, furnished most magnificently, like one of the dwellings of the olden time that Faublas writes about. Oh, Faublas! heis my hero—my model!” said the clerk, putting down his umbrella and taking off his clogs.

“You are right, Jabulot; for, as that sublime old blind man, Homer, said:

‘Faublas, that amorous hero, it is said,
Forsook the duchess for the waiting-maid.’”

“Yes; but then, she was a theatrical ‘waiting-maid,’ my lads.”

“I demand Chalamel’s head!”

“But about this Viscount de Saint-Rémy? Jabulot says his mansion is superb.”

“Pyramidic!”

“Then, I’ll be bound, he has debts not a few, and arrests to match, this viscount.”

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

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

“How is it, then, that they have not seized the furniture already?”

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

“Why, imagine the governor coming in here two hours ago in a most awful passion. ‘Germain is not here?’ he exclaimed. ‘No, sir.’ ‘Well, the rascal has robbed me last night of seventeen thousand francs!’ says the governor.”

“Germain—rob—ah, come, that’s ‘no go!’”

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

“And Germain?”

“The poor fellow turned as pale as death, and stammered out, ‘Pray—pray, sir, do not ruin me—’”

“What! he had stolen—”

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

“Really, you do surprise me! I feel as if some one had given me a thump on the head. Germain—Germain, who seemed such an honest fellow,—a chap to whom one would have given absolution without confession.”

“I should say that he had some presentiment of his misfortune.”

“How?”

“For some days past he seemed to have something on his mind.”

“Perhaps about Louise.”

“Louise?”

“Why, I only repeat what Mother Séraphin said this morning.”

“What did she say?”

“What? that he was Louise’s lover, and the father of her child.”

“Sly dog! Do you think so?”

“Why—why—why—”

“Pooh! pooh!”

“That’s not the case.”

“How do you know, Master Jabulot?”

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

“Why, Jabulot, you are getting quite poetical.”

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

‘A spicy blade, of the right cock-feather,
May love a blonde and brunette together.’”

“I demand Chalamel’s head!”

“I tell you that Germain spoke in earnest.”

At this moment the head clerk entered the office.

“Well, M. Jabulot,” said he, “have you completed your rounds?”

“Yes, M. Dubois; I have been to M. de Saint-Remy, and he will come and pay immediately.”

“And as to the Countess Macgregor?”

“Here is her answer.”

“And the Countess d’Orbigny?”

“She returns her compliments to our employer. She only arrived from Normandy yesterday morning, and did not know that her reply was required so soon; here is a note from her. I also called on the Marquis d’Harville’s steward, as he desired me to receive the money for drawing up the contract which I witnessed at their house the other day.”

“You should have told him there was no hurry.”

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

“He did not write an answer?”

“No, sir; he said he had not time.”

“Very well.”

“M. Charles Robert will come in the course of the morning to speak to our master. It seems that he fought a duel yesterday with the Duke de Lucenay.”

“And is he wounded?”

“I think not, or else they would have told me so at the house.”

“Hark! there’s a carriage stopping at the door.”

“Oh, what fine horses! how full of spirits they are!”

“And that fat English coachman, with his white wig, and brown livery striped with silver, and his epaulettes like a colonel!”

“It must be some ambassador’s.”

“And the chasseur, look how he is bedizened all over with silver!”

“And what moustachios!”

“Oh,” said Jabulot, “it is the Viscount de Saint-Remy’s carriage!”

“What! is that the way he does it? Oh, my!”

Soon after the Viscount de Saint-Remy entered the office.

We have already described the handsome appearance, elegance of style, and aristocratical demeanour of M. de Saint-Remy, when he was on his way to the farm of Arnouville (the estate of Madame de Lucenay), where he had found a retreat from the pursuit of the bailiffs, Malicorne and Bourdin. The viscount, who entered unceremoniously into the office, with his hat on his head, a haughty and disdainful look, and his eyes halfclosed, asked, with an air of extreme superciliousness, and without looking at anybody:

“Where is the notary?”

“M. Ferrand is engaged in his private room,” said the chief clerk. “If you will please to wait a moment, sir, he will see you.”

“What do you mean by wait a moment?”

“Why, sir—”

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

“Will you walk into this side room, sir?” said the chief clerk, “and I will inform M. Ferrand this instant.”

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

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

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

M. Ferrand, quite unmoved, finished a calculation he was engaged in, wiped his pen methodically in a moistsponge which encircled his inkstand of cracked earthenware, and raised towards the viscount his icy, earthy, flat face, shaded by his spectacles. He looked like a death’s head in which the eye-holes had been replaced by large, fixed, staring green eyeballs. After having looked at the viscount for a moment or two, the notary said to him, in a harsh and abrupt tone:

“Where’s the money?”

This coolness exasperated M. de Saint-Rémy.

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

“Where are the bills?” inquired the viscount, abruptly.

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

“How many are there?” he inquired.

“Forty thousand francs.”

“Hand them to me!”

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

The notary took up the bank-notes, rose, went close to the window to examine them, turning and re-turning them over and over, one by one, with an attention so scrupulous, and really so insulting for M. de Saint-Rémy, that the viscount actually turned pale with rage. Jacques Ferrand, as if he had guessed the thoughts which were passing in the viscount’s mind, shook his head, turnedhalf towards him, and said to him, with an indefinable accent:

“I have seen—”

M. de Saint-Remy, confused for a moment, said, drily:

“What?”

“Forged bank-notes,” replied the notary, continuing his scrutiny of a note, which he had not yet examined.

“What do you mean by that remark, sir?”

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

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

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

“Here’s your change out of the forty thousand francs; my client has desired me to deduct the expenses.”

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

“I beg to know, sir, what you meant by saying, whilst you looked at the bank-notes which I handed to you, that you ‘had seen forged notes?’”

“What I meant?”

“Yes.”

“Because I sent for you to come here on a matter of forgery.”

And the notary fixed his green spectacles on the viscount.

“And how can this forgery in any way affect me?”

After a moment’s silence, M. Ferrand said to the viscount, with a stern air:

“Are you aware, sir, of the duties which a notary fulfils?”

“Those duties appear to me, sir, very simple indeed; just now I had forty thousand francs, now I have thirteen hundred francs left.”

“You are facetious, sir; I will tell you that a notary is, in temporal matters, what a confessor is in spiritual affairs; by virtue of his position, he often becomes possessed of disgraceful secrets.”

“Go on, I beg, sir.”

“He is often brought into contact with rogues.”

“Go on, sir.”

“He ought, as well as he can, to prevent an honourable name from being dragged through the mud.”

“What is all this to me?”

“Your father’s name is deservedly respected; you, sir, dishonour it.”

“How dare you, sir, to address such language to me?”

“But for the interest which the gentleman, of whom I speak, inspires in the minds of all honest men, instead of being summoned before me, you would, at this moment, be standing before a police-magistrate.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Two months since, you discounted, through an agent, a bill for fifty-eight thousand francs (2,320l.), accepted by the house of Meulaert & Company, of Hamburg, in favour of a certain William Smith, payable in three months, at the bank of M. Grimaldi, of Paris.”

“Well?”

“That bill was a forgery.”

“Impossible!”

“That bill was a forgery! the firm of Meulaert never gave such a bill to William Smith, and never had such a transaction with such an individual.”

“Can this be true?” exclaimed M. de Saint-Rémy, with equal surprise and indignation; “then I have been most infamously deceived, sir, for I took the bill as ready money.”

“From whom?”

“From M. William Smith himself; the house of Meulaert is so well known, and I was so firmly convinced myself of the honour of M. William Smith, that I took the bill in payment of a debt he owed me.”

“William Smith never existed,—he is an imaginary personage.”

“Sir, you insult me!”

“His signature is forged and false, as well as all the rest of the bill.”

“I assert that M. William Smith is alive; but I must have been the dupe of a horrible abuse of confidence.”

“Poor young man!”

“Explain yourself, sir.”

“The actual holder of the bill is convinced you committed the forgery.”

“Sir!”

“He declares that he has proof of this; and he came to me the day before yesterday, requesting me to see you, and offer to give up this forged document, under certain conditions. Up to this point all was straightforward, but what follows is not so, and I only speak to you now according to my instructions. He requires one hundred thousand francs (4,000l.) down this very day, or else to-morrow, at twelve o’clock at noon, the forged bill will be handed over to the king’s attorney-general.”

“This is infamous, sir!”

“It is more,—it is absurd. You are a ruined man; you were all but arrested for the sum which you have just paid me, and which you have scraped up I cannot tell from where; and this I have told to the holder of the bill, who replied, that a certain great and very rich lady would not allow you to remain in this embarrassment.”

“Enough, sir! enough!”

“More infamous! more absurd! agreed.”

“Well, sir, and what is required of me?”

“Why, to work out infamously an action infamously commenced. I have consented to communicate this proposition to you, although it disgusts me, as an honest man ought to feel disgust on such an occasion; but now it is your affair. If you are guilty, choose between a criminal court and the means of ransom offered to you; my duty is only an official one, and I will not dirty my fingers any further in so foul a transaction. The third party is called M. Petit-Jean, an oil merchant, who lives on the banks of the Seine, Quai de Billy, No. 10. Make your arrangements with him; you are fit to meet if you are a forger, as he declares.”

M. de Saint-Remy had entered Jacques Ferrand’s study with a lip all scorn, and a head all pride. Although he had in his life committed some shameful actions, he still retained a certain elevation of race, and an instinctive courage, which had never forsaken him. At the beginning of this conversation, considering the notary as an adversary beneath him, he had been content to treat him with disdain; but, when Jacques Ferrand began to talk of forgery, he felt annihilated; in his turn he felt himself rode over by the notary. But for the entire command of self which he possessed, he could not have concealed the terrible impression which this unexpected revelation disclosed to him, for it might have incalculable consequences to him,—consequences unsuspected by the notary himself. After a moment of silence and reflection, he resigned himself,—he, so haughty, so irritable, so vain of his self-possession!—to beg of this coarse man, who hadso roughly addressed to him the stern language of probity:

“Sir, you give me a proof of your interest, for which I thank you, and I regret that any hasty expressions should have escaped me,” said M. de Saint-Remy, with a tone of cordiality.

“I do not take the slightest interest in or for you,” replied the notary, brutally. “Your father is the soul of honour, and I would not wish that in the depth of that solitude in which he lives, as they tell me, at Angers, he should learn that his name has been exposed, tarnished, degraded, in a court of justice, that’s all.”

“I repeat to you, sir, that I am incapable of the infamy which is attributed to me.”

“You may tell that to M. Petit-Jean.”

“But I confess that, in the absence of M. Smith, who has so unworthily abused my confidence, that—”

“The scoundrel Smith!”

“The absence of M. Smith places me in a cruel embarrassment. I am innocent,—let them accuse me, I will prove myself guiltless; but such an accusation, even, must always disgrace a gentleman.”

“Well?”

“Be so good as to use the sum I have just handed to you in part payment to the person who holds the acceptance.”

“That money belongs to a client and is sacred.”

“In two or three days I will repay you.”

“You will not be able.”

“I have resources.”

“You have none; not visible at least. Your household furniture, your horses, do not belong to you, as you declare; this has to me the appearance of a disgraceful fraud.”

“You are severe, sir; but, admitting what you say, do you not suppose that I shall turn everything into money in such a desperate extremity? Only, as it will be impossible for me to procure, between this and noon to-morrow, the one hundred thousand francs, I entreat you to employ the money I have just handed to you in procuring this unfortunate bill, or, at least, as you are very rich, advance the money. Do not leave me in such a position.”

“Me? Why, is the man mad?”

“Sir, I beseech you, in my father’s name, which you have mentioned to me, be so kind as to—”

“I am kind to those who deserve it,” said the notary, harshly. “An honest man myself, I hate swindlers, and should not be sorry to see one of those high-minded gentlemen, without faith or honour, impious and reprobate, put in the pillory, as an example to others; but I hear your horses, who are impatient to depart, M. le Vicomte,” said the notary, with a smile that displayed his black fangs.

At this moment some one knocked at the door of the apartment.

“Who’s there?” inquired Jacques Ferrand.

“Madame the Countess d’Orbigny,” said the chief clerk.

“Request her to wait a moment.”

“The stepmother of the Marchioness d’Harville?” exclaimed M. de Saint-Remy.

“Yes, sir; she has an appointment with me,—so, your servant, sir.”

“Not a word of this, sir!” cried M. de Saint-Remy, in a menacing voice.

“I told you, sir, that a notary is as discreet as a confessor.”

Jacques Ferrand rang, and the clerk appeared.

“Show Madame d’Orbigny in.” Then, addressing the viscount, “Take these thirteen hundred francs, sir; they will be something towards an arrangement with M. Petit-Jean.”

Madame d’Orbigny (formerly Madame Roland) enteredat the moment when M. de Saint-Remy went out, his features convulsed with rage at having so uselessly humiliated himself before the notary.

“Ah, good day, M. de Saint-Remy,” said Madame d’Orbigny; “what a time it is since I saw you!”

“Why, madame, since D’Harville’s marriage, at which I was present, I do not think I have had the pleasure of meeting you,” said M. de Saint-Remy, bowing, and assuming an affable and smiling demeanour. “You have remained in Normandy ever since, I think?”

“Why, yes! M. d’Orbigny will only live in the country, and what he likes I like; so you see in me a complete country wife. I have not been in Paris since the marriage of my dear stepdaughter with that excellent M. d’Harville. Do you see him frequently?”

“D’Harville has grown very sullen and morose; he is seldom seen in the world,” said M. de Saint-Remy, with something like impatience, for the conversation was most irksome to him, both because of its untimeliness and that the notary seemed amused at it; but Madame d’Harville’s stepmother, enchanted at thus meeting with a dandy of the first water, was not the woman to allow her prey to escape her so easily.

“And my dear stepdaughter,” she continued,—“she, I hope, is not as morose as her husband?”

“Madame d’Harville is all the fashion, and has the world at her feet, as a lovely woman should have. But I take up your time, and—”

“Not at all, I assure you. It is quite agreeable to me to meet the ‘observed of all observers,’—the monarch of fashion,—for, in ten minutes, I shall be as au fait of Paris as if I had never left it. And your dear M. de Lucenay, who was also present at M. d’Harville’s marriage?”

“A still greater oddity. He has been travelling in the East, and returned in time to receive a sword-wound yesterday,—nothing serious, though.”

“Poor dear duke! And his wife, always lovely and fascinating?”

“Madame, I have the honour to be one of her profoundest admirers, and my testimony would, therefore, be received with suspicion. I beg, on your return to Aubiers, you will not forget my regards to M. d’Orbigny.”

“He will, I am sure, be most sensible of your kindness; he often talks of you, and says you remind him of the Duke de Lauzun.”

“His comparison is a eulogy in itself, but, unfortunately, infinitely more flattering than true. Adieu, madame, for I fear I must not ask to be allowed to pay my respects to you before your departure.”

“I should lament to give you the trouble of calling on me, for I have pitched my tent for a few days in a furnished hôtel; but if, in the summer or autumn, you should be passing our way, en route to some of those fashionable châteaus where the leaders of ton dispute the pleasure of receiving you, pray give us a few days of your society, if it be only by way of contrast, and to rest yourself with us poor rustic folk from the whirl of your high life of fashion and distinction; for where you are it is always delightful to be.”

“Madame!”

“I need not say how delighted M. d’Orbigny and myself would be to receive you; but adieu, sir, I fear the kind attorney (she pointed to Ferrand) will grow impatient at our gossip.”

“Quite the reverse, madame, quite the reverse,” said Ferrand, with an emphasis that redoubled the repressed rage of M. de Saint-Remy.

“Is not M. Ferrand a terrible man?” said Madame d’Orbigny, affectedly. “Mind now, I tell you, that, if he has charge of your affairs, he will scold you awfully. He is the most unpitying man—But that’s my nonsense; on the contrary, why, such an exquisite as you to have M. Ferrand for his solicitor is a proof of reformation,for we know very well that he never allows his clients to do foolish things; if they do, he gives up their business. Oh, he will not be everybody’s lawyer!” Then, turning to Jacques Ferrand: “Do you know, most puritanical solicitor, that you have made a splendid conversion there? If you reform the exquisite of exquisites, the King of the Mode—”

“It is really a conversion, madame. The viscount left my study a very different man from what he entered it.”

“There, I tell you that you perform miracles!”

“Ah, madame, you flatter me,” said Jacques Ferrand, with emphasis.

M. de Saint-Remy made a low bow to Madame d’Orbigny, and then, as he left the notary, desirous of trying once more to excite his pity, he said to him, in a careless tone, which, however, betrayed deep anxiety:

“Then, my dear M. Ferrand, you will not grant me the favour I ask?”

“Some wild scheme, no doubt. Be inexorable, my dear Puritan,” cried Madame d’Orbigny, laughing.

“You hear, sir? I must not contradict such a handsome lady.”

“My dear M. Ferrand, let us speak seriously of serious things, and, you know, this is a most serious matter. Do you really refuse me?” inquired the viscount, with an anxiety which he could not altogether dissemble.

The notary was cruel enough to appear to hesitate; M. de Saint-Remy had an instant’s hope.

“What, man of iron, do you yield?” said Madame d’Harville’s stepmother, laughing still. “Do you, too, yield to the charm of the irresistible?”

“Ma foi, madame! I was on the point of yielding, as you say; but you make me blush for my weakness,” added M. Ferrand. And then, addressing himself to the viscount, he said to him, with an accent of which Saint-Remy felt all the meaning, “Well then, seriously,” (and he dwelt on the word), “it is impossible.”

“Ah, the Puritan! Hark to the Puritan!” said Madame d’Orbigny.

“See M. Petit-Jean. He will think precisely as I do, I am sure, and, like me, will say to you ‘No!’”

M. de Saint-Remy rushed out in despair.

After a moment’s reflection he said to himself, “It must be so!” Then he added, addressing his chasseur, who was standing with the door of his carriage opened, “To the Hôtel de Lucenay.”

Whilst M. de Saint-Remy is on his way to see the duchess, we will present the reader at the interview between M. Ferrand and the stepmother of Madame d’Harville.

CHAPTER V.
THE CLIENTS.

The reader may have forgotten the portrait of the stepmother of Madame d’Harville as drawn by the latter. Let us then repeat, that Madame d’Orbigny was a slight, fair, delicate woman, with eyelashes almost white, round and palish blue eyes, with a soft voice, a hypocritical air, insidious and insinuating manners. Any one who studied her treacherous and perfidious countenance would detect therein craft and cruelty.

“What a delightful young man M. de Saint-Remy is!” said Madame d’Orbigny to Jacques Ferrand, when the viscount had left them.

“Delightful! But, madame, let us now proceed to our business. You wrote to me from Normandy that you desired to consult me upon most serious matters.”

“Have you not always been my adviser ever since the worthy Doctor Polidori introduced me to you? By the way, have you heard from him recently?” inquired Madame d’Orbigny, with an air of complete carelessness.

“Since he left Paris he has not written me a single line,” replied the notary, with an air of similar indifference.

Let the reader understand that these two persons lied most unequivocally to each other. The notary had seen Polidori (one of his two accomplices) recently, and had proposed to him to go to Asnières, to the Martials, the fresh-water pirates, of whom we shall presently speak,—had proposed to him, we say, to poison Louise Morel,under the name of Doctor Vincent. Madame d’Harville’s stepmother, on her side, had come to Paris in order to have a secret meeting with this scoundrel, who had been for a long time concealed, as we have said, under the name of César Bradamanti.

“But it is not the good doctor of whom we have to discourse,” continued Madame d’Harville’s stepmother. “You see me very uneasy. My husband is indisposed; his health becomes weaker and weaker every day. Without experiencing serious alarm, his condition gives me much concern,—or rather, gives him much concern,” said Madame d’Orbigny, drying her eyes, which were slightly moistened.

“What is the business, madame?”

“He is constantly talking of making his last arrangements,—of his will.” Here Madame d’Orbigny concealed her face in her pocket-handkerchief for some minutes.

“It is very afflicting, no doubt,” said the notary; “but the precaution has nothing terrible in itself. And what may be M. d’Orbigny’s intentions, madame?”

“Dear sir! How do I know? You may suppose that when he commences the subject I do not allow him to dwell on it long.”

“Well, then, he has not up to this time told you anything positive?”

“I think,” replied Madame d’Orbigny, with a deep sigh,—“I think that he wishes to leave me not only all that the law will allow him to bequeath to me, but—But, really, I pray of you, do not let us talk of that.”

“Of what, then, shall we talk?”

“Alas, you are right, pitiless man! I must, in spite of myself, return to the sad subject that brings me here to see you. Well, then, M. d’Orbigny’s inclination extends so far that he desires to sell a part of his estate and present me with a large sum.”

“But his daughter—his daughter?” exclaimed M.Ferrand, harshly. “I must tell you that, during the last year, M. d’Harville has placed his affairs in my hands, and I have lately purchased a splendid estate for him. You know my blunt way of doing business? Whether M. d’Harville is my client or not is no matter. I stand up only for justice. If your husband makes up his mind to behave to his daughter in a way that I do not approve, I tell you plainly he must not reckon on my assistance. Upright and downright, such has always been my line of conduct.”

“And mine, also! Therefore it is that I am always saying to my husband what you now say to me, ‘Your daughter has behaved very ill to you, that is but too true; but that is no reason why you should disinherit her.’”

“Very good,—quite right! And what answer does he make to that?”

“He replies, ‘I shall leave my daughter twenty-five thousand livres of annual income (1,000l.); she had more than a million (40,000l.) from her mother. Her husband has an enormous fortune of his own; and, therefore, why should I not leave you the residue of my fortune,—you, my tender love, the sole support, the only comfort of my declining years, my guardian angel?’ I repeat these very flattering words to you,” said Madame d’Orbigny, with an air of modesty, “to prove to you how kind M. d’Orbigny is to me. But, in spite of that, I have always refused his offers; and, as he perceives that, he has compelled me to come and seek you.”

“But I do not know M. d’Orbigny.”

“But he, like all the world, knows your high character.”

“But why should he send you to me?”

“To put an end to all my scruples and refusals, he said to me, ‘I will not ask you to consult my notary, because you will think him too much devoted to my service; but I will trust myself entirely to the decision of a man of whose extreme probity of character I have heard you so frequently speak in praise,—M. Jacques Ferrand. If he considers your delicacy compromised by your consent to my wishes, we will not say another word on the subject; otherwise, you must comply without a word.’ ‘I consent!’ I replied to M. d’Orbigny. And so now you are the arbitrator between us. ‘If M. Ferrand approves,’ added my husband, ‘I will send him ample power to realise in my name my rents and investments, and he shall keep the proceeds in his hands as a deposit; and thus, after my decease, my tender love, you will at least have an existence worthy of you.’”

Perhaps M. Ferrand never had greater need of his spectacles than at this moment; for, had he not worn them, Madame d’Orbigny would doubtless have been struck with the sparkle of the notary’s eyes, which seemed to dart fire when the word deposit was pronounced. However, he replied, in his usual coarse way:

“It is very tiresome. This is the tenth or twelfth time that I have been made the arbitrator in a similar matter, always under the pretence of my honesty,—that is the only word in people’s mouths. My honesty!—my honesty! What a fine quality, forsooth!—which only brings me in a great deal of tiresome trouble.”

“My good M. Ferrand! Come, do not repulse me. You will write at once to M. d’Orbigny, who only awaits your letter to send you full powers to act for him, and to realise the sum required.”

“Which amounts to how much?”

“Why, I think he said four or five hundred thousand francs” (16,000l. or 20,000l.).

“The sum, after all, is not so much as I thought. You are devoted to M. d’Orbigny. His daughter is very rich; you have nothing. That is not just; and I really think you should accept it.”

“Really, do you think so, indeed?” said Madame d’Orbigny, who was the dupe, like the rest of the world, of the proverbial probity of the notary, and who had not been enlightened by Polidori in this particular.

“You may accept,” he repeated.

“I will accept, then,” said Madame d’Orbigny, with a sigh.

The chief clerk knocked at the door.

“Who is there?” inquired M. Ferrand.

“Madame the Countess Macgregor.”

“Request her to wait a moment.”

“I will go, then, my dear M. Ferrand,” said Madame d’Orbigny. “You will write to my husband, since he wishes it, and he will send you the requisite authority by return of post?”

“I will write.”

“Adieu, my worthy and excellent counsellor!”

“Ah, you do not know, you people of the world, how disagreeable it is to take charge of such deposits,—the responsibility which we then assume. I tell you that there is nothing more detestable in the world than this fine character for probity, which brings down upon one all these turmoils and troubles.”

“And the admiration of all good people.”

“Thank Heaven, I place otherwise than here below the hopes of the reward at which I aim!” said M. Ferrand, in a hypocritical tone.

To Madame d’Orbigny succeeded Sarah Macgregor.

Sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her usual coolness and assurance. Jacques Ferrand did not know her, nor the motives of her visit, and he therefore scrutinised her carefully in the hope of catching another dupe. He looked most attentively at the countess; and, despite the imperturbability of this marble-fronted woman, he observed a slight working of the eyebrows, which betrayed a repressed embarrassment. The notary rose from his seat, handed a chair, and, motioning to Sarah to sit down, thus accosted her:

“You have requested of me, madame, an interview for to-day. I was very much engaged yesterday, and could not reply until this morning. I beg you will accept my apology for the delay.”

“I was desirous of seeing you, sir, on a matter of the greatest importance. Your reputation for honesty, kindness, and complaisance has made me hope that the step I have taken with you will be successful.”

The notary bent forward slightly in his chair.

“I know, sir, that your discretion is perfect.”

“It is my duty, madame.”

“You are, sir, a man of rigid, moral, and incorruptible character.”

“Yes, madame.”

“Yet, sir, if you were told that it depended on you to restore life—more than life, reason—to an unhappy mother, should you have the courage to refuse her?”

“If you will state the circumstances, madame, I shall be better able to reply.”

“It is fourteen years since, at the end of the month of December, 1824, a man in the prime of life, and dressed in deep mourning, came to ask you to take, by way of life-annuity, the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs (6,000l.), which it was desired should be sunk in favour of a child of three years of age, whose parents were desirous of remaining unknown.”

“Well, madame?” said the notary, careful not to reply in the affirmative.

“You assented, and took charge of this sum, agreeing to insure the child a yearly pension of eight thousand francs (320l.). Half this income was to accumulate for the child’s benefit until of age; the other half was to be paid by you to the person who took care of this little girl.”

“Well, madame?”

“At the end of two years,” said Sarah, unable to repress a slight emotion, “on the 28th of November, 1827, the child died.”

“Before we proceed any farther, madame, with this conversation, I must know what interest you take in this matter?”

“The mother of this little girl, sir, was—my sister. [2] I have here proofs of what I advance: the declaration of the poor child’s death, the letters of the person who took charge of her, and the acknowledgment of one of your clients with whom you have placed the hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

“Allow me to see those papers, madame.”

Somewhat astonished at not being believed on her word, Sarah drew from a pocket-book several papers, which the notary examined with great attention.

“Well, madame, what do you desire? The declaration of decease is perfectly in order. The hundred and fifty thousand francs came to my client, M. Petit-Jean, on the death of the child. It is one of the chances of life-annuities, as I remarked to the person who placed the affair in my hands. As to the pension, it was duly paid by me up to the time of the child’s decease.”

“I am ready to declare, sir, that nothing could be more satisfactory than your conduct throughout the whole of the affair. The female who had charge of the child is also entitled to our gratitude, for she took the greatest care of my poor little niece.”

“True, madame. And I was so much satisfied with her conduct, that, seeing her out of place after the death of the child, I took her into my employment; and, since that time, she has remained with me.”

“Is Madame Séraphin in your service, sir?”

“She has been my housekeeper these fourteen years, and I must ever speak in her praise.”

“Since that is the case, sir, she may be of the greatest use to us, if you will kindly grant me a request, which may appear strange, perhaps even culpable, at first sight, but when you know the motive—”

“A culpable request, madame, is what I cannot believe you capable of addressing to me.”

“Sir, I am acquainted with the rectitude of your principles; but all my hope—my only hope—is in your pity. Under any event, I may rely on your discretion?”

“Madame, you may.”

“Well, then, I will proceed. The death of this poor child was so great a shock to her mother, that her grief is as great now as it was fourteen years since, and, having then feared for her life, we are now in dread for her reason.”

“Poor mother!” said M. Ferrand, in a tone of sympathy.

“Oh, yes, poor unhappy mother, indeed, sir! for she could only blush at the birth of her child at the time when she lost it; whilst now circumstances are such, that, if the child were still alive, my sister could render her legitimate, be proud of her, and never again allow her to quit her. Thus this incessant regret, coming to add to her other sorrows, we are afraid every hour lest she should be bereft of her senses.”

“It is unfortunate that nothing can be done in the matter.”

“Yes, sir—”

“What, madame?”

“Suppose some one told the poor mother, ‘Your child was reported to be dead, but she did not die: the woman who had charge of her when she was little could vouch for this.’”

“Such a falsehood, madame, would be cruel. Why give so vain a hope to the poor mother?”

“But, supposing it were not a falsehood, sir? or, rather, if the supposition could be realised?”

“By a miracle? If it only required my prayers to be united with your own to obtain this result, I would give them to you from the bottom of my heart,—believe me, madame. Unfortunately, the register of decease is strictly regular.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I know well enough that the child is dead; and yet, if you will agree, that misfortune need not be irreparable.”

“Is this some riddle, madame?”

“I will speak more clearly. If my sister were to-morrow to recover her daughter, she would be certain not only to be restored to health, but to be wedded to the father of her child, who is now as free as herself. My niece died at six years old. Separated from her parents from a very tender age, they have not the slightest recollection of her. Suppose a young girl of seventeen was produced (my niece would be about that age),—a young girl (such as there are many) forsaken by her parents,—and it was said to my sister, ‘Here’s your daughter, for you have been imposed upon. Important interests have required that she should have been said to be dead. The female who brought her up and a respectable notary will confirm these facts, and prove to you that it is really she—’”

Jacques Ferrand, after having allowed the countess to speak on without interruption, rose abruptly, and exclaimed, with an indignant air:

“Madame, this is infamous!”

“Sir!”

“To dare to propose such a thing to me—to me! A supposititious child, the destruction of a registry of decease; a criminal act, indeed! It is the first time in my life that I was ever subjected to so outrageous a proposal,—a proposal I have not merited, and you know it!”

“But, sir, what wrong does this do to any one? My sister and the individual she desires to marry are widow and widower, and childless, both bitterly lamenting the child they have lost. To deceive them is to restore them to happiness, to life, is to ensure a happy destiny to some poor, forsaken girl; and it becomes, therefore, a noble, a generous action, and not a crime!”

“Really, madame, I marvel to see how the most execrable projects may be coloured, so as to pass for beautiful pictures!”

“But, sir, reflect—”

“I repeat to you, madame, that it is infamous! And it is shameful to see a lady of your rank lend herself to such abominable machinations,—to which, I trust, your sister is a stranger.”

“Sir—”

“Enough, madame, enough! I am not a polished gentleman, I am not, and I shall speak my mind bluntly.”

Sarah gave the notary a piercing look with her jet-black eyes, and said, coldly:

“You refuse?”

“I pray, madame, that you will not again insult me.”

“Beware!”

“What! Threats?”

“Threats! And that you may learn they are not vain ones, learn, first, that I have no sister—”

“What, madame?”

“I am the mother of this child!”

“You?”

“I—I made a circuitous route to reach my end—coined a tale to excite your interest; but you are pitiless. I raise the mask, you are for war. Well, war be it then!”

“War! Because I refuse to associate myself with you in a criminal machination! What audacity!”

“Listen to me, sir! Your reputation as an honest man is established, acknowledged, undisputed—”

“Because deserved; and, therefore, you must have lost your reason to make me such a proposal as you have done, and then threaten me because I will not accede to it.”

“I know, sir, better than any one how much reputations for immaculate virtue are to be distrusted; they often mask wantonness in women and roguery in men.”

“Madame?”

“Ever since our conversation began,—I do not know why, but I have mistrusted your claim to the esteem and consideration which you enjoy.”

“Really, madame, your mistrust does honour to your penetration!”

“Does it not? For this mistrust is based on mere nothings—on instinct—on inexplicable presentiments; but these intimations have rarely beguiled me.”

“Madame, let us terminate this conversation.”

“First learn my determination. I begin by telling you that I am convinced of the death of my poor daughter. But, no matter, I shall pretend that she is not dead: the most unlikely things do happen. You are at this moment in a position of which very many must be envious, and would be delighted at any weapon with which to assail you. I will supply one.”

“You?”

“I, by attacking you under some absurd pretext, some irregularity in the declaration of death; say—no matter what—I will insist that my child is not dead. As I have the greatest interest in making it believed that she is still alive, though lost, this action will be useful to me in giving a wide circulation to the affair. A mother who claims her child is always interesting; and I should have with me those who envy you,—your enemies, and every sensitive and romantic mind.”

“This is as mad as it is malevolent! What motive could I have in making your daughter pass for dead, if she were not really defunct?”

“That is true enough, and the motive may be difficult to find; but, then, have we not the attorneys and barristers at our elbows? Now I think of it (excellent idea!), desirous of sharing with your client the sum sunk in the annuity on this unfortunate child, you caused her disappearance.”

The unabashed notary shrugged his shoulders.

“If I had been criminal enough for that, instead of causing its disappearance, I should have killed it!”

Sarah started with surprise, remained silent for a moment, and then said, with bitterness:

“For a pious man, this is an idea of crime deeply reflective! Can I by chance, then, have hit the mark when I fired at random? I must think of this,—and think I will. One other word. You see the sort of woman I am: I crush without remorse all obstacles that lie in my onward path. Reflect well, then, for to-morrow this must be decided on. You may do what I ask you with impunity. In his joy, the father of my daughter will not think of doubting the possibility of his child’s restoration, if our falsehoods, which will make him happy, are adroitly combined. Besides, he has no other proofs of the death of our daughter than those I wrote to him of fourteen years ago, and I could easily persuade him that I had deceived him on this subject; for then I had real causes of complaint against him. I will tell him that in my grief I was desirous of breaking every existing tie that bound us to each other. You cannot, therefore, be compromised in any way. Affirm only, irreproachable man. Affirm that all was in former days concerted between us,—you and me and Madame Séraphin,—and you will be credited. As to the fifteen thousand francs sunk in an annuity for my child, that is my affair solely. They will remain acquired by your client, who must be kept profoundly ignorant of this; and, moreover, you shall yourself name your own recompense.”

Jacques Ferrand maintained all his sang-froid in spite of the singularity of his situation, remarkable and dangerous as it was. The countess, really believing in the death of her daughter, had proposed to the notary to pass off the dead child as living, whom, living, he had declared to have died fourteen years before. He was too clever, and too well acquainted with the perils of his position, not to understand the effect of all Sarah’s threats. His reputation, although admirably and laboriously built up, was based on a substructure of sand. The public detaches itself as easily as it becomes infatuated, liking to have the right to trample under foot him whom but just now it elevated to the skies. How could the consequences of the first assault on the reputation of Jacques Ferrand be foreseen? However absurd the attack might be, its very boldness might give rise to suspicions. Wishing to gain time to determine on the mode by which he would seek to parry the dangerous blow, the notary said, frigidly, to Sarah:

“You have given me, madame, until to-morrow at noon; I give you until the next day to renounce a plot whose serious nature you do not seem to have contemplated. If, between this and then, I do not receive from you a letter informing me that you have abandoned this criminal and crazy enterprise, you will learn to your cost that Justice knows how to protect honest people who refuse guilty associations, and what may happen to the concoctors of hateful machinations.”

“You mean to say, sir, that you ask from me one more day to reflect on my proposals? That is a good sign, and I grant the delay. The day after to-morrow, at this hour, I will come here again, and it shall be between us peace or war,—I repeat it,—but a ‘war to the knife,’ without mercy or pity.”

And Sarah left the room.

“All goes well,” she said. “This miserable girl, inwhom Rodolph capriciously takes so much interest, and has sent to the farm at Bouqueval, in order, no doubt, to make her his mistress hereafter, is no longer to be feared,—thanks to the one-eyed woman who has freed me from her. Rodolph’s adroitness has saved Madame d’Harville from the snare into which I meant she should fall; but it is impossible that she can escape from the fresh plot I have laid for her, and thus she must be for ever lost to Rodolph. Thus, saddened, discouraged, isolated from all affection, will he not be in a frame of mind such as will best suit my purpose of making him the dupe of a falsehood to which, by the notary’s aid, I can give every impress of truth? And the notary will aid me, for I have frightened him. I shall easily find a young orphan girl, interesting and poor, who, taught her lesson by me, will fill the character of our child so bitterly mourned by Rodolph. I know the expansiveness, the generosity of his heart,—yes, to give a name, a rank to her whom he will believe to be his daughter, till now forsaken and abandoned, he will renew those bonds between us which I believed indissoluble. The predictions of my nurse will be at length realised, and I shall thus and then attain the constant aim of my life,—a crown!”

Sarah had scarcely left the notary before M. Charles Robert entered, after alighting from a very dashing cabriolet. He went like a person on most intimate terms to the private room of Jacques Ferrand.

The commandant, as Madame Pipelet called him, entered without ceremony into the notary’s cabinet, whom he found in a surly, bilious mood, and who thus accosted him:

“I reserve the afternoon for my clients; when you wish to speak to me come in the morning, will you?”

“My dear lawyer” (this was a standing pleasantry of M. Robert), “I have a very important matter to talkabout in the first place, and, in the next, I was anxious to assure you in person against any alarms you might have—”

“What alarms?”

“What! Haven’t you heard?”

“What?”

“Of my duel—”

“Your duel?”

“With the Duke de Lucenay. Is it possible you have not heard of it?”

“Quite possible.”

“Pooh! pooh!”

“But what did you fight about?”

“A very serious matter, which called for bloodshed. Only imagine that, at a very large party, M. de Lucenay actually said that I had a phlegmy cough!”

“That you had—”

“A phlegmy cough, my dear lawyer; a complaint which is really most ridiculously absurd!”

“And did you fight about that?”

“What the devil would you have a man fight about? Can you imagine that a man could stand calmly and hear himself charged with having a phlegmy cough? And before a lovely woman, too! Before a little marchioness, who—who—In a word, I could not stand it!”

“Really!”

“The military men, you see, are always sensitive. My seconds went, the day before yesterday, to try and obtain some explanation from those of the duke. I put the matter perfectly straight,—a duel or an ample apology.”

“An ample apology for what?”

“For the phlegmy cough, pardieu!—the phlegmy cough that he fastened on me.”

The notary shrugged his shoulders.

“The duke’s seconds said, ‘We bear testimony to thehonourable character of M. Charles Robert, but M. de Lucenay cannot, ought not, and will not retract.’ ‘Then, gentlemen,’ replied my seconds, ‘M. de Lucenay is obstinately determined to assert that M. Charles Robert has a phlegmy cough?’ ‘Yes, gentlemen, but he does not therefore mean in the slightest way to impugn the high respectability of M. Charles Robert.’ ‘Then let him retract—’ ‘No, gentlemen, M. de Lucenay acknowledges M. Robert as a most decidedly worthy gentleman, but still asserts that he has a phlegmy cough.’ You see there was no means of arranging so serious an affair.”

“To be sure not. You were insulted in the point which a man holds dearest.”

“Wasn’t I? Well, time and place were agreed on; and yesterday morning we met at Vincennes, and everything passed off in the most honourable manner possible. I touched M. de Lucenay slightly in the arm, and the seconds declared that honour was satisfied. Then the duke, with a loud voice, said, ‘I never retract before a meeting, but, afterwards, it is a very different thing. It is, therefore, my duty, and my honour impels me to declare, that I falsely accused M. Charles Robert of having a phlegmy cough. Gentlemen, I not only declare that my honourable opponent had not a phlegmy cough, but I trust he never will have one.’ Then the duke extended his hand in the most cordial manner, saying,‘Are you now satisfied?’ ‘We are friends through life and death,’ I replied; and it was really due to him to say so. The duke has behaved to perfection. Either he might have said nothing, or contented himself with declaring that I had not the phlegmy cough. But to express his wish that I might never have it, was a most delicate attention on his part.”

“This is what I call courage well employed! But what do you want?”

“My dear cashkeeper” (this was another of M. Robert’s habitual pleasantries), “it is a matter of great importanceto me. You know that, according to our agreement, I have advanced to you three hundred and fifty thousand francs (14,000l.) to complete a particular payment you had; and it was stipulated that I was to give you three months’ notice of my wish to withdraw that money, the interest of which you pay me regularly.”

“Go on.”

“Well,” said M. Robert, hesitatingly, “I—no—that is—”

“What?”

“Why, it is only a whim of becoming a landed proprietor.”

“Come to the point, pray! You annoy me.”

“In a word, then, I am anxious to become a landed proprietor. And, if not inconvenient to you, I should like—that is I should wish—to have my funds now in your hands; and I came to say so.”

“Ah, ah!”

“That does not offend you, I hope?”

“Why should I be offended?”

“Because you might think—”

“I might think—?”

“That I am the echo of certain reports—”

“What reports?”

“Oh, nothing. Mere folly.”

“But, tell me—”

“Oh, there can be no certainty in the gossip about you!”

“What gossip?”

“Oh, it is false from beginning to end. But there are chatterers who say that you are mixed up in some unpleasant transactions. Idle gossip, I am quite certain. It is just the same as the report that you and I speculated on the Exchange together. These reports soon died away. For I will always say that—”

“So you suppose that your money is not safe with me?”

“Oh, no—no! But, at this moment, I should like to have it in my own hands.”

“Wait a moment.” M. Ferrand shut the drawer of his bureau, and rose.

“Where are you going, my dear cashkeeper?”

“To fetch what will convince you of the truth of the reports as to the embarrassment of my affairs,” said the notary, ironically; and, opening the door of a small private staircase, which enabled him to go into the pavilion at the back without passing through the office, he disappeared. He had scarce left the room, when the head clerk rapped again.

“Come in,” said Charles Robert.

“Is not M. Ferrand here?”

“No, my worthy pounce and parchment” (another joke of M. Robert).

“There is a lady with a veil on, who wishes to see my employer this moment on a very urgent affair.”

“Worthy quill-driver, the excellent employer will be here in a moment, and I will inform him. Is the lady handsome?”

“One must be very keen-sighted to discover; for she has on a black veil, so thick that it is impossible to see her face.”

“Really, really, I will make her show her face as I go out. I’ll tell the governor as soon as he returns.”

The clerk left the room.

“Where the devil has the attorney at law vanished?” said M. Charles Robert. “To examine the state of his finances, no doubt. If these reports are groundless, so much the better. And, when all is said and done, they can but be false reports. Men of Jacques Ferrand’s honesty always have so many people jealous of them! Still, at the same time, I should just as well like to have my own cash. I will certainly buy the château in question. There are towers and Gothic turrets quite à la Louis Quatorze, the real renaissance, and, in a word, allthat is most rococo. It would give me a kind of landed proprietor’s sort of air which would be capital. It would not be like my amour with that flirt of a Madame d’Harville. Has she really cut me? Can she really have given me the ‘go-by?’ No, no! I am not trifled with as that stupid porteress in the Rue du Temple, with her bob-wig, says. Yet this agreeable little flirtation has cost me at least one thousand crowns. True, the furniture is left, and I have quite enough in my power to compromise the marchioness. But here comes the lawyer!”

M. Ferrand returned, holding in his hands some papers, which he handed to M. Charles Robert.

“Here,” said he, “are three hundred and fifty thousand francs in bank-bills. In a few days we will balance the account of interest. Give me a receipt.”

“What!” exclaimed M. Robert, astonished; “do not go to think that—”

“I don’t think anything.”

“But—”

“The receipt!”

“Dear cashkeeper!”

“Write it; and tell the persons who talk to you of my embarrassments, how I reply to such suspicions.”

“The fact is that, as soon as they hear this, your credit will be more solid than ever. But, really, take the money back again; I do not want it at this moment. I told you it was three months hence.”

“Monsieur Charles Robert, no man suspects me twice.”

“You are angry?”

“The receipt,—the receipt!”

“Man of iron, that you are!” said M. Charles Robert. “There!” he added, writing the receipt. “There is a lady, closely veiled, who desires to speak to you directly on a very urgent affair. Won’t I have a good look at her as I go out! There’s your receipt; is it all right?”

“Quite. Now I’ll thank you to go out this way.”

“And so not see the lady?”

“Precisely so.”

And the notary rang; and when the chief clerk made his appearance, he said:

“Ask the lady to walk in. Good day, M. Robert.”

“Well, I see I must give up the chance of seeing her. Don’t bear malice, lawyer. Believe me, if—”

“There—there; that’ll do. Good-bye.” And the notary shut the door on M. Charles Robert.

After the lapse of a few moments, the chief clerk introduced the Duchess de Lucenay, very simply attired, wearing a large shawl, and her features entirely concealed by a thick veil of black lace, depending from her watered silk bonnet of the same colour.

Madame de Lucenay, a good deal agitated, walked slowly towards the notary’s bureau, who advanced a few paces to meet her.

“Who are you, madame; and what may be your business with me?” said Jacques Ferrand, abruptly; for Sarah’s menaces and M. Charles Robert’s suspicions had a good deal ruffled him. Moreover, the duchess was clad so simply, that the notary did not see any reason why he should not be rude. As she did not immediately reply, he continued, abruptly:

“Will you be so kind as to inform me, madame?”

“Sir,” she said, in a faltering voice, and endeavouring to conceal her face in the folds of her veil, “Sir, may I entrust you with a secret of extreme importance?”

“You may trust me with anything, madame. But it is requisite that I should know and see to whom I speak.”

“That, sir, perhaps, is not necessary. I know that you are probity and honour itself—”

“To the point, madame,—to the point. I have some one waiting for me. Who are you?”

“My name is of no consequence, sir. One—of—my friends,—a relative,—has just left you.”

“His name?”

“M. Florestan de Saint-Remy.”

“Ah!” said the notary; and he cast a scrutinising and steadfast glance on the duchess. Then he added, “Well, madame?”

“M. de Saint-Remy has told me—all,—sir!”

“What has he told you, madame?”

“All!”

“What all?”

“Sir; you know—”

“I know many things about M. de Saint-Remy.”

“Alas, sir, this is a terrible thing!”

“I know many terrible things about M. de Saint-Remy.”

“Oh, sir, he was right when he told me that you were pitiless.”

“For swindlers and forgers like him,—yes, I am pitiless. So this Saint-Remy is a relative of yours? Instead of owning it, you ought to blush at it. Do you mean to try and soften me with your tears? It is useless,—not to add that you have undertaken a very disgraceful task for a respectable female.”

At this coarse insolence the pride and patrician blood of the duchess revolted. She drew herself up, threw back her veil; and then, with a lofty air, imperious glance, and firm voice, said:

“I am the Duchess de Lucenay, sir!”

The lady then assumed the lofty look of her station; and her appearance was so imposing that the notary, controlled, fascinated, receded a pace, quite overcome, took off mechanically the black silk cap that covered his cranium, and made a low bow.

In truth, nothing could be more charming and aristocratic than the face and figure of Madame de Lucenay, although she was turned thirty, and her features were pale and somewhat agitated. But then she had full, brown eyes, sparkling and bold; splendid black hair; anose thin and arched; a lip red and disdainful; a dazzling complexion; teeth of ivory; and a form tall and slender, graceful, and full of distinction,—the carriage of a goddess in the clouds, as the immortal Saint-Simon says. With her hair powdered, and a costume of the eighteenth century, Madame de Lucenay would have represented, physically and morally, one of those gay and careless duchesses of the Regency who carried on their flirtations (or worse) with so much audacity, giddiness, and real kindness of heart, who confessed their peccadilloes from time to time with so much candour and naïveté, that the most punctilious said, with a smile, “She is, doubtless, light and culpable; but she is so kind—so delightful; loves with so much intensity, passion, and fidelity,—as long as she does love,—that we cannot really be angry with her. After all, she only injures herself, and makes so many others happy!” Except the powder and the large skirts to her dress, such also was Madame de Lucenay, when not depressed by sombre thoughts. She entered the office of M. Jacques Ferrand like a plain tradesman’s wife; in the instant she came forth as a great, proud, and irritated lady. Jacques Ferrand had never in his life seen a woman of such striking beauty,—so haughty and bold, and so noble in her demeanour. The look of the duchess, her glorious eyes, encircled with an imperceptible bow of azure, her rosy nostrils, much dilated, betokened her ardent nature.

Although old, ugly, ignoble, and sordid, Jacques Ferrand was as capable as any one of appreciating the style of beauty of Madame de Lucenay. The hatred and rage which the notary felt against M. de Saint-Remy was increased by the admiration which his proud and lovely mistress inspired in him. Devoured by all his repressed passions, he said to himself, in an agony of rage, that this gentleman forger, whom he had compelled almost to fall at his feet when he threatened him with the assizes, could inspire such love in such a woman that she actually risked the present step in his behalf, which might prove fatal to her reputation. As he thus thought, the notary felt his boldness, which had been for a moment paralysed, restored to him. Hatred, envy, a kind of savage and burning resentment, lighted up his eyes, his forehead, and his cheeks. Seeing Madame de Lucenay on the point of commencing so delicate a conversation, he expected from her caution and management. What was his astonishment! She spoke with as much assurance and haughtiness as if she were discoursing about the simplest thing in the world; and as if, before a man of his sort, she had no care for reserve or those concealments which she would assuredly have maintained with her equals. In fact, the coarse brutality of the notary wounded her to the quick, and had led Madame de Lucenay to quit the humble and supplicating part she was acting with much difficulty to herself. Returned to herself, she thought it beneath her to descend to the least concealment with a mere scribbler of acts and deeds. High-spirited, charitable, generous, overflowing with kindness, warm-heartedness, and energy, in spite of her faults,—but the daughter of a mother of no principle, and who had even disgraced the noble and respectable, though fallen position of an émigrée,—Madame de Lucenay, in her inborn contempt for certain classes, would have said with the Roman empress who took her bath in the presence of a male slave, “He is not a man!”

“Monsieur Notary,” said the duchess, with a determined air, to Jacques Ferrand, “M. de Saint-Remy is one of my friends, and has confided to me the embarrassment under which he is at this moment suffering, from a twofold treachery of which he is the victim. All is arranged as to the money. How much is required to terminate these miserable annoyances?”

Jacques Ferrand was actually aghast at this cavalier and deliberate manner of entering on this affair.

“One hundred thousand francs are required,” he repeated, after having in some degree surmounted his surprise.

“You shall have your one hundred thousand francs; so send, at once, these annoying papers to M. de Saint-Remy.”

“Where are the one hundred thousand francs, Madame la Duchesse?”

“Have I not said you should have them, sir?”

“I must have them to-morrow, and before noon, madame; or else proceedings will be instantly commenced for the forgery.”

“Well, do you pay this sum, which I will repay to you.”

“But madame, it is impossible.”

“But, sir, you will not tell me, I imagine, that a notary, like you, cannot find one hundred thousand francs by to-morrow morning?”

“On what securities, madame?”

“What do you mean? Explain!”

“Who will be answerable to me for this sum?”

“I will.”

“Still, madame—”

“Need I say that I have an estate four leagues from Paris, which brings me in eighty thousand francs (3,200l.) a year? That will suffice, I should think, for what you call your securities?”

“Yes, madame, when the mortgage is properly secured.”

“What do you mean? Some formality of law, no doubt? Do it, sir, do it.”

“Such a deed cannot be drawn up in less than a fortnight, and we must have your husband’s assent, madame.”

“But the estate is mine, and mine only,” said the duchess, impatiently.

“No matter, madame, you have a husband; and mortgage deeds are very long and very minute.”

“But, once again, sir, you will not ask me to believe that it is so difficult to find one hundred thousand francs in two hours?”

“Then, madame, apply to the notary you usually employ, or your steward; as for me, it is impossible.”

“I have my reasons for keeping this secret,” said Madame de Lucenay, haughtily. “You know the rogues who seek to take advantage of M. de Saint-Remy, and that is the reason why I address myself to you.”

“Your confidence does me much honour, madame; but I cannot do what you ask of me.”

“You have not this sum?”

“I have much more than that sum, in bank-notes or bright and good gold, here in my chest.”

“Then why waste time about it? You require my signature, I suppose? Well, let me give it to you, and let us end the matter.”

“Even admitting, madame, that you were Madame de Lucenay—”

“Come to the Hôtel de Lucenay in one hour, sir, and I will sign whatever may be requisite.”

“And will the duke sign, also?”

“I do not understand, sir.”

“Your signature, alone, would be worthless to me, madame.”

Jacques Ferrand delighted, with cruel joy, in the manifest impatience of the duchess, who, under the appearance of coolness and hauteur, repressed really painful agony.

For an instant she was at her wits’ end. On the previous evening, her jeweller had advanced her a considerable sum on her jewels, some of which had been confided to Morel, the lapidary. This sum had been employed in paying the bills of M. de Saint-Remy, and thus disarming the other creditors; M. Dubreuil, the farmer of Arnouville, was more than a year’s rent in advanceon the farm; and, then, the time was so pressing. Still more unfortunately for Madame de Lucenay, two of her friends, to whom she could have had recourse in this moment of distress, were then absent from Paris. In her eyes, the viscount was innocent of the forgery. He had said, and she had believed him, that he was the victim of two rogues; but yet his position was not the less terrible. He accused! He led to prison! And, even if he took flight, his name would be no less dishonoured by the suspicion that would light on him. At these distressing thoughts, Madame de Lucenay trembled with affright. She blindly loved this man, at the same time so degraded, and gifted with such strong seductive powers; and her passion for him was one of those affections which women, of her character and her temperament, ordinarily experience when they attain an age of maturity.

Jacques Ferrand carefully watched every variation in the physiognomy of Madame de Lucenay, who seemed to him more lovely and attractive at every moment, and awakened still more his ardent feeling. Yet he felt a fierce pleasure in tormenting, by his refusals, this female, who could only entertain disgust and contempt for him. The lady had spurned the idea of saying a word to the notary that might seem like a supplication; yet, when she found the uselessness of other attempts, which she had addressed to him who alone could save M. de Saint-Remy, she said, at length, trying to repress all evidence of emotion:

“Since you have the sum of money which I ask of you, sir, and my guarantee is sufficient, why do you refuse it to me?”

“Because men have their caprices, as well as ladies, madame.”

“Well, what is this caprice which thus impels you to act against your own interest? For I repeat, sir, that whatever may be your conditions, I accept them.”

“You will accept all my conditions, madame?” said the notary, with a singular expression.

“All,—two, three, four thousand francs, more, if you please. For you must know, sir,” added the duchess, in a tone almost confidential, “I have no resource but in you, sir, and in you only. It will be impossible for me at this moment to find elsewhere what I require for to-morrow, and I must have it, as you know,—I must absolutely have it. Thus I repeat to you that, whatever terms you require for this service, I accept them; nothing will be a sacrifice to me,—nothing.”

The breath of the notary became thick, and, in his ignoble blindness, he interpreted the last words of Madame de Lucenay in an unworthy manner. He saw, through his darkened understanding, a woman as bold as some of the females of the old court,—a woman driven to her wits’ end for fear of the dishonour of him whom she loved, and capable, perhaps, of any sacrifice to save him. It was even more stupid than infamous to think so, but, as we have said already, Jacques Ferrand sometimes, though rarely, forgot himself.

He quitted his chair abruptly, and approached Madame de Lucenay, who, surprised, rose when he did, and looked at him with much astonishment.

“Nothing will be a sacrifice to you, say you? To you, who are so lovely?” he exclaimed, with a voice trembling and broken with agitation, as he went towards the duchess. “Well, then, I will lend you this sum, on one condition,—one condition only,—and I swear to you—”

He could not finish his declaration.

By one of those singular contradictions of human nature, at the sight of the singularly ugly features of M. Ferrand, at the strange and whimsical thoughts which arose in Madame de Lucenay’s mind, at his ridiculous pretensions, which she guessed in spite of her disquietudeand anxiety, she burst into a fit of laughter, so hearty, so loud, and so excessive, that the disconcerted notary reeled back. Then, without allowing him a moment to utter another word, the duchess gave way still more to her increasing mirth, lowered her veil, and, between two bursts of irrepressible laughter, she said to the notary, overwhelmed by hatred, rage, and fury:

“Really, I should much rather prefer asking this advance from M. de Lucenay.”

She then left the room, laughing so heartily that, even when the door of his room was closed, the notary heard her still.

Jacques Ferrand no sooner recovered his reason than he cursed his imprudence; but he became reassured on reflecting that the duchess could not allude to this adventure without compromising herself. Still, the day had been unpropitious, and he was plunged in thought when the door of his study opened, and Madame Séraphin entered in great agitation.

“Ah, Ferrand,” she exclaimed, “you were right when you declared that, one day or other, we should be ruined for having allowed her to live!”

“Who?”

“That cursed little girl!”

“What do you mean?”

“A one-eyed woman, whom I did not know, and to whom Tournemine gave the little chit to get rid of her, fourteen years ago, when we wished to make her pass for dead—Ah, who would have thought it!”

“Speak! Speak! Why don’t you speak?”

“This one-eyed woman has been here, was down-stairs just now, and told me that she knew it was I who had delivered up the little brat.”

“Malediction! Who could have told her? Tournemine is at the galleys.”

“I denied it, and treated the one-eyed woman asa liar. But bah! she declares she knows where the girl is now, and that she has grown up, that she has her, and that it only depends on her to discover everything.”

“Is hell, then, unchained against me to-day?” exclaimed the notary, in a fit of rage. “What shall I say to this woman? What shall I offer her to hold her tongue? Does she seem well off?”

“As I treated her like a beggar, she shook her hand-basket, and there was money inside of it.”

“And she knows where this young girl is now?”

“So she says.”

“And she is the daughter of the Countess Sarah Macgregor!” said the stupefied notary; “and just now she offered me so much to declare that her daughter was not dead; and the girl is alive, and I can restore her to her mother! But, then, the false register of her death! If a search were made, I am ruined! This crime may put others on the scent.”

After a moment’s silence, he said to Madame Séraphin:

“This one-eyed woman knows where the child is?”

“Yes.”

“And the woman will call again?”

“To-morrow.”

“Write to Polidori, to come to me this evening, at nine o’clock.”

“What! Will you rid yourself of the young girl and the old woman, too? Ferrand, that will be too much at once!”

“I bid you write to Polidori, to come here this evening, at nine o’clock!”

At the end of this day, Rodolph said to Murphy: “Desire M. de Graün to despatch a courier this instant; Cecily must be in Paris in six days.”

“What! that she-devil again? The diabolical wife ofpoor David, as beautiful as she is infamous! For what purpose, monseigneur?”

“For what purpose, Sir Walter Murphy? Ask that question, in a month hence, of the notary, Jacques Ferrand.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.

Towards ten o’clock in the evening of the same day in which Fleur-de-Marie was carried off by the Chouette and Schoolmaster, a man on horseback arrived at the Bouqueval farm, representing himself as coming from M. Rodolph to tranquillise Madame Georges as to the safety of her young friend, and to assure her of her safe return ere long. The man further stated that M. Rodolph, having very important reasons for making the request, particularly desired no letters might be addressed to him at Paris for the present; but that, in the event of Madame Georges having anything particular to communicate, the messenger now sent would take charge of it, and deliver it punctually.

This pretended envoy on the part of Rodolph was, in fact, an emissary sent by Sarah, who, by this stratagem, effected the twofold purpose of quieting the apprehensions of Madame Georges and also obtaining a delay of several days ere Rodolph learned that the Goualeuse had been carried off; during which interval Sarah hoped to have induced the notary, Jacques Ferrand, to promote her unworthy attempt to impose a supposititious child on Rodolph, after the manner which has already been related. Nor was this all the evil planned by the countess; she ardently desired to get rid of Madame d’Harville, on whose account she entertained very serious misgivings, and whose destructionshe had so nearly compassed, but for the timely interposition of Rodolph.

On the day following that in which the marquis followed his wife into the house in the Rue du Temple, Tom repaired thither, and, by skilfully drawing Madame Pipelet into conversation, contrived to learn from her how a young and elegantly dressed lady, upon the point of being surprised by her husband, had been preserved through the presence of mind and cleverness of a lodger in the house, named M. Rodolph.

Once informed of this circumstance, and possessing no positive proof of the assignation made by Clémence with M. Charles Robert, Sarah conceived a plan evidently more hateful than the former: she resolved to despatch a second anonymous letter to M. d’Harville, calculated to bring about a complete rupture between himself and Rodolph; or, failing that, to infuse into the mind of the marquis suspicions so unworthy of his wife and friend as should induce him to forbid Madame d’Harville ever admitting the prince into her society.

This black and malignant epistle was couched in the following terms:

“… You have been grossly deceived the other day; your wife, being apprised of your following her, invented a tale of imaginary beneficence; the real purpose of her visit to the Rue du Temple was to fulfil an assignation with an august personage, who has hired a room on the fourth floor in the house situated Rue du Temple,—this illustrious individual being known only at his lodging under the simple name of Rodolph. Should you doubt these facts, which may probably appear to you too improbable to deserve credit, go to No. 17 Rue du Temple, and make due inquiries; obtain a description of the face and figure of the august personage alluded to; and you will be compelled to own yourself the most credulous and easily duped husband that was ever so royally supplanted in the affections of his wife. Despise not this advice, if you would not have the world believe you carry your devotion to your prince rather too far.”

This infamous concoction was put into the post by Sarah herself, about five o’clock in the afternoon of theday which had witnessed her interview with the notary.

On this same day, after having given renewed directions to M. de Graün to expedite the arrival of Cecily in Paris by every means in his power, Rodolph prepared to pass the evening with the Ambassadress of ——, and on his return to call on Madame d’Harville, for the purpose of informing her he had found a charitable intrigue worthy even of her coöperation.

We shall now conduct our readers to the hôtel of Madame d’Harville. The following dialogue will abundantly prove that, in adopting a tone of kind and gentle conciliation towards a husband she had hitherto treated with such invariable coldness and reserve, the heart of Madame d’Harville had already determined to practise the sound and virtuous sentiments dictated by Rodolph. The marquis and his lady had just quitted the dinner-table, and the scene we are about to describe took place in the elegant little salon we have already spoken of. The features of Clémence wore an expression of kindness almost amounting to tenderness, and even M. d’Harville appeared less sad and dejected than usual. It only remains to premise that the marquis had not as yet received the last infamous production of the pen of Sarah Macgregor.

“What are your arrangements for this evening?” inquired M. d’Harville, almost mechanically, of his wife.

“I have no intention of going out. And what are your own plans?”

“I hardly know,” answered he, with a sigh. “I feel more than ordinarily averse to gaiety, and I shall pass my evening, as I have passed many others, alone.”

“Nay, but why alone, since I am not going out?”

M. d’Harville gazed at his wife as though unable to comprehend her. “I am aware,” said he, “that you mentioned your intention to pass this evening at home; still, I—”

“Pray go on, my lord.”

“I did not imagine you would choose to have your solitude broken in upon. I believe you have always expressed a wish to be alone when you did not receive company?”

“Perhaps I may have done so,” said Clémence, with a smile; “but let me, for once, plead my sex’s privilege of changing my mind, and so, even at the risk of astonishing you by my caprice, I will own that I should greatly prefer sharing my solitude with you,—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to you.”

“Oh, how very good of you,” exclaimed M. d’Harville, with much delight, “thus to anticipate my most ardent desire, which I durst not have requested had you not so kindly encouraged me!”

“Ah, my lord, your very surprise is a severe reproach to me.”

“A reproach! Oh, not for worlds would I have you so understand me! But to find you so kindly considerate, so attentive to my wishes, after my cruel and unjust conduct the other day, does, I confess, both shame and surprise me; though the surprise is of the most gratifying and delightful sort.”

“Come, come, my lord,” said Madame d’Harville, with a smile of heavenly sweetness, “let the past be for ever forgotten between us.”

“Can you, Clémence,” said M. d’Harville, “can you bring yourself to forget that I have dared to suspect you; that, hurried on by a wild, insensate jealousy, I meditated violence I now shudder to think of? Still, what are even these deep offences to the greater and more irreparable wrong I have done you?”

“Again I say,” returned Clémence, making a violent effort to command herself, “let us forget the past.”

“What do I hear? Can you,—oh, is it possible you will pardon me, and forget all the past?”

“I will try to do so, and I fear not but I shall succeed.”

“Oh, Clémence! Can you, indeed, be so generous?But no, no,—I dare not hope it! I have long since resigned all expectation that such happiness would ever be mine.”

“And now you see how wrong you were in coming to such a conclusion.”

“But how comes this blessed change? Or do I dream? Speak to me, Clémence! Tell me I am not deceiving myself,—that all is not mere illusion! Speak! Say that I may trust my senses!”

“Indeed you may; I mean all I have said.”

“And, now I look at you, I see more kindness in your eye,—your manner is less cold,—your voice tremulous. Oh, tell me, tell me, is this indeed true? Or am I the sport of some illusion?”

“Nay, my lord, all is true, and safely to be believed. I, too, have need of pardon at your hands, and therefore I propose that we mutually exchange forgiveness.”

“You, Clémence! You need forgiveness! Oh, for what, or wherefore?”

“Have I not been frequently unkind, unrelenting, and perhaps even cruel, towards you? Ought I not to have remembered that it required a more than ordinary share of courage to act otherwise than you did,—a virtue more than human to renounce the hope of exchanging a cheerless, solitary life, for one of wedded sympathy and happiness? Alas, when we are in grief or suffering, it is so natural to trust to the kindness and goodness of others! Hitherto your fault has been in depending too much on my generosity; henceforward it shall be my aim to show you, you have not trusted in vain.”

“Oh, go on! Go on! Continue still to utter such heavenly words!” exclaimed M. d’Harville, gazing in almost ecstasy on the countenance of his wife, and clasping his hands in fervid supplication. “Let me again hear you pronounce my pardon, and it will seem as though a new existence were opening upon me.”

“Our destinies are inseparably united, and death onlycan dissever us. Believe me, it shall for the future be my study to render life less painful to you than it has been.”

“Merciful Heaven! Do I hear aright? Clémence, can it be you who have spoken these dear, these enchanting words?”

“Let me conjure you to spare me the pain and humiliation of hearing you express so much astonishment at my speaking as my duty prompts me to do; indeed, your reluctance to credit my assertions grieves me more than I can describe. How cruel a censure does it imply upon my past conduct! Ah, who will pity and soothe you in your severe trials, if not I? I seem inspired by some holy voice, speaking within my breast, to reflect upon my past conduct. I have deeply meditated on all that has happened, as well as on the future. My faults rise up in judgment against me; but with them come also the whisperings of my awakened feelings, teaching me how to repair my past errors.”

“Your errors, my poor injured Clémence! Alas, you were not to blame!”

“Yes, I was. I ought frankly to have appealed to your honour to release me from the painful necessity of living with you as your wife; and that, too, on the day following our marriage,—”

“Clémence, for pity’s sake no more!”

“Otherwise, in accepting my position, I ought to have elevated it by my entire submission and devotion. Under the circumstances in which I was placed, instead of allowing my coldness and proud reserve to act as a continual reproach, I should have directed all my endeavours to console you for so heavy a misfortune, and have forgotten everything but the severe affliction under which you laboured. By degrees I should have become attached to my work of commiseration, and, probably, the very cares and sacrifices it would have required to fulfil my voluntary duty; for which your grateful appreciation would have been a rich reward. I might, at last—But whatails you, my lord? Are you ill? Surely you are weeping!”

“But they are tears of pure delight. Ah, you can scarcely imagine what new emotions are awakened in my heart! Heed not my tears, beloved Clémence; trust me, they flow from an excess of happiness, arising from those dear words you just now uttered. Never did I seem so guilty in my own eyes as I now appear, for having selfishly bound you to such a life as mine!”

“And never did I find myself more disposed to forget the past, and to bury all reference to it in oblivion; the sight of your gently falling tears, even, seems to open to me a source of happiness hitherto unknown to me. Courage! Courage! Let us, in place of that bright and prosperous life denied us by Providence, seek our enjoyment in the discharge of the serious duties allotted us. Let us be mutually indulgent and forbearing towards each other; and, should our resolution fail, let us turn to our child, and make her the depositary of all our affections. Thus shall we secure to ourselves an unfailing store of holy, of tranquil joys.”

“Sure, ‘tis some angel speaks!” cried M. d’Harville, contemplating his wife with impassioned looks. “Oh, Clémence, you little know the pleasure and the pain you cause me. The severest reproach you ever addressed me—your hardest word or most merited rebuke never touched me as does this angelic devotion, this disregard of self, this generous sacrifice of personal enjoyment. Even despite myself, I feel hope spring up within me. I dare hardly trust myself to believe the blessed future which suggests itself to my imagination.”

“Ah, you may safely and implicitly believe all I say, Albert! I declare to you, by all that is sacred and solemn, that I have firmly taken the resolution I spoke of, and that I will adhere to it in strictest word and deed. Hereafter I may even be enabled to give you further pledges of my truth.”

“Pledges!” exclaimed M. d’Harville, more and more excited by a happiness so wholly unlocked for. “What need have I of any pledges? Do not your look, your tone, the heavenly expression of goodness which animates your countenance, the rapturous pulsations of my own heart, all convince me of the truth of your words? But, Clémence, man, you know, is a creature not easily satisfied; and,” added the marquis, approaching his wife’s chair, “your noble, generous conduct inspires me with the boldness, the courage, to hope—to hope,—yes, Clémence, to venture to hope for that which, only yesterday, I should have considered it even worse than madness to presume to think of.”

“For mercy’s sake, explain yourself!” said Clémence, alarmed at the impassioned words and glances of her husband.

“Yes,” cried he, seizing her hand, “yes, by dint of tender, untiring, unwearied love,—Clémence, do you understand me?—I say, by dint of love such as mine I venture to hope to obtain a return of my affection. I dare to anticipate being loved by you,—not with a cold, lukewarm regard, but with a passion ardent as my own for you. Ah, you know not the real nature of such a love as I would inspire you with! Alas! I never even dared to breathe it in your ears,—so frigid, so repulsive were you to me. Never did you bestow on me a look, a word of kindness, far less make my heart leap with such joy as thrilled through my breast but now, when your words of sweet and gentle tenderness drew happy tears from my eyes, and which, still ringing in my ears, make me almost beside myself with gladness; and, amid the intoxicating delight which floats through my brain, comes the proud consciousness of having earned even so rich a reward by the deep, the passionate ardour of my love for you. Oh, Clémence, when you will let me only tell you half I have suffered,—how I have writhed in despairing anguish at yourcoldness, your disdain, how I have watched and sighed in vain for one encouraging glance,—you will own that, for patient devotion to one beloved object, I am inferior to none. Whence arose that melancholy, that avoidance of all society, our best friends have so fruitlessly sought to rouse me from? Can you not guess the cause? Ah, it originated in desolation of spirit and despair of ever obtaining your love. Yes, dearest Clémence, to that overwhelming dread was owing the sombre taciturnity, the dislike to company, the desponding gloom, which excited so many different conjectures. Think, too, how much my sufferings must have been increased by the fact that she, the beloved object of my heart’s idolatry, was my own,—legally, irrevocably mine,—dwelling beneath the same roof, yet more completely alienated from me than though we dwelt in the opposite parts of the earth. But my burning sighs, my bitter tears, reached not you; or, I feel almost persuaded, they would have moved even you to pity me. And now it seems to me that you must have divined my sufferings, and have come, like an angel of goodness as you are, to whisper in my ears bright promises of days of unclouded happiness. No longer shall I be doomed to gaze in unavailing yet doting admiration on your graceful beauty; no more shall I account myself most blessed yet most accursed in possessing a creature of matchless excellence, whose charms of mind and body, alas! I am forbidden to consider as mine; but now the envious barrier which has thus long divided us is about to be withdrawn, and the treasure my beating heart tells me is all my own will henceforward be freely, indisputably mine! Will it not, dear Clémence? Speak to me, and confirm that which the busy throbbings of my joyful heart tell me to hope for and expect, as the reward of all I have so long endured!”

As M. d’Harville uttered these last words, he seized the hand of his wife, and covered it with passionatekisses; while Clémence, much grieved at the mistake her husband had fallen into, could not avoid withdrawing her hand with a mixture of terror and disgust. And the expression of her countenance so plainly bespoke her feelings, that M. d’Harville saw at once the fearful error he had committed. The blow fell with redoubled force after the tender visions he had so lately conjured up. A look of intense agony replaced the bright exultation of his countenance exhibited a little while since, when Madame d’Harville, eagerly extending her hand towards him, said, in an agitated tone:

“Albert, receive my solemn promise to be unto you as the most tender and affectionate sister,—but nothing more. Forgive me, I beseech you, if, inadvertently, my words have inspired you with hopes which can never be realised.”

“Never?” exclaimed M. d’Harville, fixing on his wife a look of despairing entreaty.

“Never!” answered she. The single word, with the tone in which it was spoken, proved but too well the irrevocable decision Clémence had formed.

Brought back, by the influence of Rodolph, to all her nobleness of character, Madame d’Harville had firmly resolved to bestow on her husband every kind and affectionate attention; but to love him she felt utterly out of her power; and to this immutable resolution she was driven by a power more forcible than either fear, contempt, or even dislike,—it was a species of repugnance almost amounting to horror.

After a painful silence of some duration, M. d’Harville passed his hand across his moist eyelids and said, in a voice of bitterness:

“Let me entreat your pardon for the unintentional mistake I have made. Oh, refuse not to forgive me for having ventured to believe that happiness could exist for me!”

And again a long pause ensued, broken at last byD’Harville’s vehemently exclaiming, “What a wretch am I!”

“Albert,” said Clémence, gently, “for worlds would I not reproach you; yet is my promise of being unto you the most loving and affectionate of sisters unworthy any estimation? You will receive from the tender cares of devoted friendship more solid happiness than love could afford. Look forward to brighter days. Hitherto you have found me almost indifferent to your sorrows; you shall henceforward find me all zeal and solicitude to alleviate them, and eager to share with you every grief or cause of suffering, whether of body or of mind.”

At this moment a servant, throwing open the folding doors, announced:

“His Highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein.”

M. d’Harville started; then, by a powerful effort, recovering his self-command, he advanced to meet his visitor.

“I am singularly fortunate, madame,” said Rodolph, approaching Clémence, “to find you at home to-night; and I am still more delighted with my good fortune, since it procures me the pleasure of meeting you, also, my dear Albert,” continued he, turning to the marquis, and shaking him cordially by the hand.

“It is, indeed, some time since I have had the honour of paying my respects to your royal highness.”

“If the truth must be spoken, my dear Albert,” said the prince, smilingly, “you are somewhat platonic in your friendships, and, relying on the certain attachment of your friends, care very little about either giving or receiving any outward proof of affection.”

By a breach of etiquette, which somewhat annoyed Madame d’Harville, a servant here entered the room with a letter for the marquis. It was the anonymous epistle of Sarah, accusing Rodolph of being the lover of Madame d’Harville.

The marquis, out of deference for the prince, putaway with his hand the small silver salver presented to him by the servant, saying, in an undertone:

“Another time,—another time.”

“My dear Albert,” said Rodolph, in a voice of the most genuine affection, “why all this ceremony with me?”

“My lord!”

“With Madame d’Harville’s permission, let me beg of you to read your letter without delay.”

“I assure you, my lord, it is not of the slightest consequence.”

“Again I say, Albert, read your letter all the same for my being here.”

“But, my lord, indeed—”

“Nay, I ask you to do so; or, if you will have it, I desire you to read it immediately.”

“If your highness commands it, my duty is obedience,” said the marquis, taking the letter from the salver.

“Yes, I positively command you to treat me as one old friend ought to treat another.” Then turning towards Madame d’Harville, while the marquis was breaking the seal of the fatal letter, the contents of which were, of course, unknown to Rodolph, he said, smilingly, to Madame d’Harville:

“What a triumph for you, madame, to bend this untractable spirit, and make it bow to your very caprice!”

M. d’Harville having opened Sarah’s infamous letter, approached the wax-lights burning on the mantelpiece, the better to read it. His features bore no visible mark of agitation as he perused the vile scrawl. A slight trembling of the hand alone was visible, as, after a short hesitation, he refolded the paper and placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat.

“At the risk of passing for a perfect Goth,” said he, with a smile, to Rodolph, “I will ask you to excuse me,my lord, while I retire to reply to this letter, which is more important than it at first appeared.”

“Shall I not see you again this evening?”

“I am fearful I shall not have that honour, my lord; and I trust your royal highness will condescend to excuse me.”

“What a slippery person you are!” cried Rodolph, gaily. “Will you not, madame, endeavour to prevent his quitting us?”

“Nay, I dare not attempt that your highness has failed to accomplish.”

“But seriously, my dear Albert, endeavour to come back as soon as you have concluded your letter; or, if that is not possible, promise to give me a few minutes in the morning. I have a thousand things to say to you.”

“Your highness overwhelms me with kindness,” answered the marquis, as, bowing profoundly, he withdrew, leaving Clémence and the prince alone.

“Your husband has some heavy care on his mind,” observed Rodolph to the marquise; “his smile appeared to me a forced one.”

“At the moment of your highness’s arrival, M. d’Harville was much excited, and he has had great difficulty in concealing his agitation from you.”

“My visit was, probably, mal à propos?”

“Oh, no, my lord! You came just in time to spare me the conclusion of a most painful conversation.”

“Indeed! May I inquire the subject of it?”

“I had explained to M. d’Harville the line of conduct I had determined to pursue towards him for the future, assuring him of my future sympathy and affectionate attention to his happiness.”

“How happy you must have rendered him by such gratifying words!”

“He did, indeed, at first, seem most truly happy; and so was I, likewise; for his tears and his joys caused inme a feeling of delight I never before experienced. Once I fancied I did but indulge a just revenge each time I addressed to him a reproach or a sarcasm; but it was a weak and impotent mode of torture, which always recoiled upon myself, as my better judgment pointed out the unworthiness of such conduct; while just now how great was the difference! I had inquired of my husband if he were going out, to which he mournfully replied that he had no intention of so doing, but should pass the evening alone, as he most frequently did. Ah, my lord, could you but have seen his surprise when I offered to be his companion, and how suddenly did the gloomy expression of his features give place to a bright glow of happiness! Ah, you were quite right, there is nothing more really delightful than preparing happy surprises for those around us.”

“But how could so much kindness on your part have brought about the painful conversation you were alluding to just now?”

“Alas, my lord!” said Clémence, blushing deeply, “M. d’Harville, not satisfied with the hopes I felt myself justified in holding out, allowed himself to form others of a nature too tender to admit of their being realised, and in proportion to my consciousness of my utter inability to respond to such sentiments had been my anxiety not to arouse them; and, greatly as I had felt touched by the warmth of my husband’s gratitude for my proffered affection, I was even still more terrified and alarmed by the passionate ardour of his manner and expressions; and when, carried away by the impetuosity of his feelings, he pressed his lips upon my hand, a cold shudder pervaded my whole frame, and I found it impossible to conceal the disgust and alarm I experienced. Doubtless this manifestation of my invincible repugnance pained him deeply, and I much lament having been unable to prevent his perceiving my feelings. But now that the blow has fallen, it will, at least, serve toconvince M. d’Harville of the utter impossibility of my ever being more to him than the most tender and devoted friend.”

“I pity him most sincerely, without being able to blame you in the slightest degree for the part you have acted. There are certain feelings which must ever be held sacred. But poor Albert! With his noble, generous spirit, his frank, confiding nature, his warm, enthusiastic heart,—if you only knew how long I have been vainly trying to discover the cause of the hidden melancholy which was evidently preying upon his health. Well, we must trust to the soothing effects of time and reason. By degrees he will become more sensible of the value of the affection you offer him, and he will resign himself as he did before, when he had not the consolatory hopes you now present to his view.”

“Hopes which I solemnly assure you, my lord, it is my fixed determination to realise in their fullest extent.”

“And now let us turn our attention to others who are also called upon to suffer and taste of heavy sorrows. You know I promised to occupy you in a charitable work, which should have all the charm of a romance of real life; and I am here to perform my promise.”

“What, already, my lord? Indeed, you rejoice me greatly.”

“It was a most fortunate idea of mine to hire the small chamber I told you of in the Rue du Temple; you can scarcely imagine all the curious and interesting objects it has made me acquainted with. In the first place your poor protégées in the garrets are now enjoying that happiness your presence secured to them. They have still some severe trials to undergo; but I will not enter upon the painful details at the present moment. One of these days you shall learn how many direful evils may be heaped upon one unfortunate family.”

“How grateful they must feel towards you!”

“Nay, ‘tis your name is ever on their lips, loaded with praises and blessings.”

“Ah, my lord, is it then in my name you have succoured them?”

“To increase the value of the gift, I confess I did presume to name you as their benefactress. Besides, what have I done more than carry out your promises?”

“I cannot allow of even this pious fraud, and to-morrow they shall learn from me whom they have to thank. I will tell them the extent of their obligations to you.”

“Oh, pray do no such thing, or you will spoil all my fine schemes. Remember that I have a small apartment in the house; that for the sake of much good I hope to effect, I am anxious to preserve a strict incognito there. Recollect, also, that the Morels are now beyond the reach of further distress; and, finally, let me remind you that there are other claimants for your benevolence. And now for the subject of our present intrigue. I want your generous aid and assistance in behalf of a mother and daughter, who from former affluence are at this moment reduced to the most abject penury, in consequence of having been most villainously despoiled of their just rights.”

“Poor things! And where do these unfortunate beings reside, my lord?”

“I do not know.”

“Then how did you become acquainted with their misfortunes?”

“Yesterday I was at the Temple,—perhaps, Madame la Marquise, you do not know what sort of place the Temple is?”

“Indeed, my lord, I do not.”

“It is a bazaar of the most amusing description. Well, I went there for the purpose of making several purchases in company with a female lodger who occupies an apartment adjoining my own—”

“Indeed! A female neighbour?”

“Yes, my next-door neighbour on the fourth floor. Don’t you recollect I told you I had a chamber in the Rue du Temple?”

“Pardon me, my lord, I had quite forgotten that circumstance.”

“I must tell you that this same neighbour is one of the prettiest little mantua-makers you ever saw. She is called Rigolette, is for ever laughing, and never was in love.”

“Upon my word, a most uncommon specimen of her class!”

“She even admits that her indifference to the tender passion arises less from prudence than because she has not time to think about love or lovers, both of which she says would take up too much of her time; as, working from twelve to fifteen hours daily, it is with difficulty she manages to earn twenty-five sous a day, yet on that trifling sum she lives contentedly.”

“Is it possible?”

“Possible! Why, she even launches out into luxuries,—has a couple of birds, who consume as much food as herself, arranges her chamber with the most scrupulous and pretty neatness, while her dress would make a modern belle grow pale with envy.”

“And all this effected upon five and twenty sous a day? It is almost difficult to believe it.”

“I assure you my fair neighbour is a pattern of industry, order, economy, and practical philosophy; and as such I beg to recommend her to your notice in her capacity of dressmaker, in which she is reported to have much skill. If you will honour her with your commands, her fortune will be surely made; although there is no occasion for your carrying your beneficence so far as to wear the dresses you permit her to make.”

“Oh, I will take care to give her employment immediately.Poor girl! living honestly and contentedly upon a sum squandered by the rich for the most trifling whim or caprice.”

“Well, now then that you have undertaken to interest yourself in my deserving young neighbour, let us proceed to the little adventure I was about to relate to you. I went, as I told you, to the Temple with Mlle. Rigolette in order to purchase many articles necessary for the comfort of the poor family in the garret, when, accidentally examining the drawers of an old secrétaire exposed for sale, I found the fragment of a letter in a female hand, in which the writer bitterly deplored the destitution to which herself and daughter were exposed in consequence of the villainy of the person in whose hands their money had been placed. I inquired of the mistress of the shop how she became possessed of the piece of furniture in question. She told me it was part of a lot of very common household goods she purchased of a person still young, who had evidently disposed of all her effects from stern necessity, and being without any other means of raising money. Both mother and daughter, continued my informant, seemed much superior to their condition, and each bore their distress with a proud yet calm fortitude.”

“And do you not know where these poor ladies can be found, my lord?”

“I do not, unfortunately, at the present moment, but I have given directions to M. de Graün to use every effort to discover them, and, if needs must be, even to apply to the police for assistance. It is just probable that the unfortunate parent and child, finding themselves stripped of their little stock of furniture, may have sought refuge in some obscure lodging; and if so, there is every chance of discovering their abode, since the keepers of lodging-houses are obliged to write a daily report of every fresh inmate they receive.”

“What a singular combination of events!” saidMadame d’Harville, much astonished: “Your account is, indeed, a most interesting one.”

“You have not heard all yet. In a corner of the fragment of writing found in the old secrétaire, are these words, ‘To write to Madame de Lucenay.’”

“Oh, how fortunate!” exclaimed Madame d’Harville, with much animation. “No doubt the duchess can tell me all about these unfortunate ladies. But then,” added she, thoughtfully, “I do not see, after all, how we shall be able to describe them, as we do not even know their name.”

“Nay, it will be easy to inquire whether she is acquainted with a widow still in the prime of life, whose air and manner indicate her being far superior to her present circumstances, and who has a daughter about sixteen years of age named Claire. I am sure it was Claire the woman told me the younger female was called.”

“How very strange! That is my child’s name; and furnishes an additional reason for my interesting myself in their misfortunes.”

“I forgot to tell you that the brother of this unhappy widow died by his own hands a very few months ago.”

Madame d’Harville was silent for some minutes, as though reflecting deeply; at length she said:

“If Madame de Lucenay be in any way acquainted with this unfortunate family, these particulars will be quite sufficient to identify them; besides which the lamentable end of the brother must have fixed every circumstance connected with them more strongly in her memory. How impatient I feel to question the duchess on the subject! I will write her a note this very evening, begging of her not to go out to-morrow till I have seen her. Who can these interesting people be? From your account, my lord, I should say they certainly belong to the higher class of society, and must, therefore, feel their present distress so much the morekeenly. Alas, to such as they the falling into such utter destitution must inflict a deeper, keener sting!”

“And all their sufferings have arisen from the knavery of an unprincipled scoundrel,—a notary, named Jacques Ferrand. But I am in possession of other acts of villainy on his part equally black with this.”

“That is the name of the person acting as the legal adviser both of my husband and mother-in-law,” exclaimed Clémence; “and, indeed, my lord, I think you must be mistaken in your opinion of him, for he is universally regarded as a person of the strictest honour and probity.”

“I assure you I have the most irrefragable proofs of what I assert. Meanwhile let me beg of you to be perfectly silent as to the character I assign this man, who is as subtle as unprincipled; and the better to unmask his nefarious practices, it is necessary he should be allowed to think himself secure from all danger; a few days will enable me to perfect my schemes for bringing him to a severe reckoning. He it was who brought such unmerited affliction upon the interesting females I have been telling you of, by defrauding them of a large sum, which, it appears, was consigned to his care by the brother of the unfortunate widow.”

“And this money?”

“Was their sole dependence.”

“This is, indeed, a crime of the most heinous description!”

“‘Tis, indeed, of blackest die,” exclaimed Rodolph, “having nothing to extenuate it, and originating neither in passion nor necessity. The pangs of hunger will often instigate a man to commit a theft, the thirst for revenge lead on to murder; but this legal hypocrite is passing rich, and invested, by common consent, with a character of almost priestly sanctity, while his countenance and manners are moulded with such studious art as to inspireand command universal confidence. The assassin kills you at a blow,—this villain tortures, prolongs your sufferings, and leaves you, after the death-blow has been inflicted, to sink under the gnawing agonies of want, misery, and despair. Nothing is safe from the cupidity of such a man as Ferrand: the inheritance of the orphan, the hard-earned savings of the laborious poor,—all excite alike his unprincipled avarice; and that which in other men arises out of the impulse of the moment is with this wretch the result of a cold and unrelenting calculation. You entrust him with your wealth,—to see it is to covet it, and with him to desire is to possess himself, without the smallest scruple. Totally unheeding your future wretchedness, the grasping deceiver deprives you of your property, and without a pang consigns you to beggary and destitution. Suppose that, by a long course of labour and privations, you have contrived to amass a provision against the wants and infirmities of old age; well, no sooner is this cold-blooded hypocrite made the depositary of your little treasure, than he unhesitatingly appropriates it, leaving you to drag on a miserable existence, without a morsel of bread but such as the hand of charity doles out to you. Nor is this all. Let us consider the fearful consequences of these infamous acts of spoliation. Take the case of the widow of whom we were speaking just now,—imagine her dying of grief and a crushed spirit, the results of her heavy afflictions; she leaves a young and helpless girl to struggle alone in the world,—a weak and delicate being, whose very loveliness increases her dangers and difficulties. Without friends or support, unaccustomed to the rough realities of life, the poor orphan has but to choose between starvation and dishonour. In an evil hour she falls, and becomes a lost, degraded creature. And thus Jacques Ferrand, by his dishonest appropriation of the things committed to his charge, occasions not only the death of the mother, but the dishonour of the child; he destroys the body ofthe one and the soul of the other,—and again, I say, not with the merciful despatch of the assassin’s dagger, but by the slow tortures of lingering cruelty!”

Clémence listened in profound silence, not unmixed with surprise, at hearing Rodolph express himself with so much indignation and bitterness. Accustomed only to witness the most urbane suavity in the tone and manner of her guest, she felt more than ordinarily struck by his vehement and excited language; which, however, seemed to show his intense abhorrence of all crooked and nefarious dealings.

“I must entreat your pardon, madame,” said the prince, after a pause, “for having permitted myself to use so much warmth in the presence of a lady; but, in truth, I could not restrain my indignation when I reflected on all the horrible dangers which may overwhelm your future protégées. But, be assured, it is quite impossible to exaggerate those fearful consequences brought about by ruin and misery.”

“Indeed! Indeed, my lord, you rather merit my thanks, for having so powerfully and energetically augmented, if possible, the tender pity I feel for this unfortunate parent, whose heart is, doubtless, wrung with anguish rather for her young and innocent daughter than for herself. It is, in truth, a fearful situation. But we shall soon be enabled to relieve her mind, and rescue her from her present misery, shall we not, my lord? Oh, yes, I feel assured we shall,—and henceforward their happiness shall be my care. I am rich,—though not so much so as I could wish, now that I perceive how worthily wealth may be employed; but should there be occasion for further aid than I am enabled to afford, I will apply to M. d’Harville in their behalf. I will render him so happy, that he shall find it impossible to refuse any of my new caprices, and I foresee that I shall have plenty of them. You told me, did you not, my lord, that our protégées are proud? So much thebetter. I am better pleased to find them so; for pride under unmerited misfortune always betokens a great and elevated mind. But I shall be able to overreach them, for I will so contrive that they shall be relieved from their present misery without ever guessing to what channel they owe their deliverance from misery. You think I shall find it difficult to deceive them? So much the better. Oh, I have my own plans of action, I can assure you, my lord; and you will see that I shall be deficient neither in cunning nor address.”

“I fully anticipate the most Machiavelian system of ruse and deep combination,” said Rodolph, smiling.

“But we must, first of all, discover where they are. Oh, how I wish to-morrow were come! When I leave Madame de Lucenay, I shall go directly to their old residence, make inquiries of their late neighbours, collect all the information I can, and form my own conclusions from all I see and hear. I should feel so proud and delighted to work out all the good I intend to these poor ladies, without being assisted by any person; and I shall accomplish it,—I feel sure I shall. This adventure affects me greatly. Poor things! I seem even to feel a livelier interest in their misfortunes when I think of my own child.”

Deeply touched at this charitable warmth, Rodolph smiled with sincere commiseration at seeing a young creature of scarcely twenty years of age, seeking to lose, amid occupations so pure and noble, the sense of the severe domestic afflictions which bore so heavily upon her. The eyes of Clémence sparkled with enthusiasm, a delicate carnation tinged her pale cheek, while the animation of her words and gestures imparted additional beauty to her lovely countenance.

The close and silent scrutiny of Rodolph did not escape the notice of Madame d’Harville. She blushed, looked down for a few minutes, then, raising her eyes in sweet confusion, said:

“I see, my lord, you are amused at my girlish eagerness. But, in truth, I am impatient to taste those sources of delight which are about to gild an existence hitherto so replete with grief and sadness, and, unfortunately, so useless to every one. Alas, this was not the life my early dreams had pictured to me,—the one great passion of life I must for ever renounce! Though young, I must live, and act, and think, as though scores of years had passed over my head. Alas, alas!” continued Clémence, with a sigh, “to me is denied the dear domestic joys my heart could so fondly have prized.” After a minute’s pause she resumed: “But why should I dwell on such vain and fruitless regrets? Thanks to you, my lord, charity will replace the void left in my heart by disappointed affection. Already have I owed to your counsels the enjoyment of the most touching emotions. Your words, my lord, affect me deeply, and exercise unbounded influence over me. The more I meditate on what you have advanced, the more I search into its real depth and value, the more I am struck by its vast power and truth, the more just and valuable does it appear to me. Then, when I reflect that, not satisfied with sympathising with sufferings of which you can form no idea from actual experience, you aid me with the most salutary counsels, and guide me, step by step, in the new and delightful path of virtue and goodness pointed out by you to relieve a weary and worn-out heart, oh, my lord, what treasure of all that is good must your mind contain! From what source have you drawn so large a supply of tender pity for the woes of all?”

“Nay, the secret of my sincere commiseration with the woes of others consists in my having deeply suffered myself,—nay, in still sighing over heavy sorrows none can alleviate or cure.”

“You, my lord! Surely you cannot have tasted thus bitterly of grief and misfortune?”

“Yes, ‘tis even so. I sometimes think that I have been made to taste of nearly every bitter which fills our cup of worldly sorrows, the better to fit me for sympathising with all descriptions of worldly trials. Wounded and sorely afflicted as a friend, a husband, and a parent, what grief can there be in which I am not qualified to participate?”

“I always understood, my lord, that your late wife, the grand duchess, left no child?”

“True; but, before I became her husband, I was the father of a daughter, who died quite young. And, however you may smile at the idea, I can with truth assert that the loss of that child has poisoned all my subsequent days. And this grief increases with my years. Each succeeding hour but redoubles the poignancy of my regrets, which, far from abating, appear to grow,—strengthen, even as my daughter would have done had she been spared me. She would now have been in her seventeenth year.”

“And her mother,” asked Clémence, after a trifling hesitation, “is she still living?”

“Oh, name her not, I beseech you!” exclaimed Rodolph, whose features became suddenly overcast at this reference to Sarah. “She to whom you allude is a vile, unworthy woman, whose feelings are completely buried beneath the cold selfishness and ambition of her nature. Sometimes I even ask myself whether it is not better that my child has been removed by death than for her to have been contaminated by the example of such a mother.”

Clémence could not restrain a feeling of satisfaction at hearing Rodolph thus express himself. “In that case,” said she, “I can imagine how doubly you must bewail the loss of your only object of affection!”

“Oh, how I should have doted on my child! For it seems to me that, among princes, there is always mixed up with the affection we bear a son, a sort of interestedregard for the being destined to perpetuate our race,—a kind of political calculation. But a daughter!—oh, she is loved for herself alone! And when, alas! one is weary of witnessing the many fearful pictures of fallen humanity an intercourse with the world compels us to behold, what joy to turn from the dark pictures of guilt and crime to refresh ourselves by the contemplation of a young and innocent mind, and to delight in watching the unfolding of all those pure and tender feelings so guilelessly true to nature! The proudest, the happiest mother feels not half the exquisite joy of a father in observing the gradual development of a daughter’s character. A mother will dwell with far greater rapture on the bold and manly qualities of a son. For have you never remarked that the cause which still further cements the doting affection of a mother for her son, or a father for his daughter, is the feeling of either requiring or bestowing aid and protection? Thus, the mother looks upon her son in the light of a future support and protection; while the father beholds in his young and helpless daughter a weak and fragile creature, clinging to him for safety, counsel, and protection from all the storms of life.”

“True, my lord,—most true!”

“But what avails it thus to dwell on sources of delight for ever lost to me?” cried Rodolph, in a voice of the deepest dejection. His mournful tones sunk into the very heart of Clémence, who could not restrain a tear, which trickled slowly down her cheek. After a short pause, during which the prince, making a powerful effort to restrain himself, and feeling almost ashamed of allowing his feelings thus to get the better of him in the presence of Madame d’Harville, said, with a smile of infinite sadness, “Your pardon, madame, for thus allowing myself to be drawn away by the remembrance of my past griefs!”

“I beseech you, my lord, make no apology to me;but, on the contrary, believe that I most sincerely sympathise with your very natural regrets. Have I not a right to share your griefs, for have I not made you a participator in mine? My greatest pain is, that the only consolation I could offer you would be vain and useless to assuage your grief.”

“Not so; the very expression of your kind commiseration is grateful and beneficial to me; and I find it a relief to disburden my mind, and tell you all I suffer. But, courage!” added Rodolph, with a faint and melancholy smile; “the conversation of this evening entirely reassures me on your account. A safe and healthful path is opened to you, by following which you will escape the trials and dangers so fatal to many of your sex, and, still more so, for those as highly endowed as yourself. You will have much to endure, to struggle against, and contend with; but in proportion to the difficulties of your position will be your merit in overcoming them. You are too young and lovely to escape without a severe ordeal; but, should your courage ever fail you, the recollection, not only of the good you have done, but also that you propose to effect, will serve to strengthen your virtuous resolutions, and arm you with fresh courage.”

Madame d’Harville melted into tears.

“At least,” said she, “promise me your counsels and advice shall never fail me. May I depend on this, my lord?”

“Indeed, indeed, you may. Whether near or afar off, believe that I shall ever feel the most lively interest in your welfare and well-doing; and, so far as in me lies, will I devote my best services to promote your happiness, or that of the man whom I glory in calling my dearest friend.”

“Thanks, my lord,” said Clémence, drying her tears, “for this consoling promise. But for your generous aid, I feel too well that my own strength would fail me.Still I bind myself now, and in your presence, faithfully and courageously to perform my duty, however hard or painful that duty may be.”

As Clémence uttered these last words, a small door, concealed by the hangings, suddenly opened; and M. d’Harville, pale, agitated, and evidently labouring under considerable excitement, appeared before Madame d’Harville and Rodolph. The latter involuntarily started, while a faint cry escaped the lips of the astonished wife.

The first surprise over, the marquis handed to Rodolph the letter received from Sarah, saying:

“Here, my lord, is the letter I but just now received in your presence. Have the kindness to cast your eyes over it, and afterwards commit it to the flames.”

Clémence gazed on her husband with utter astonishment.

“Most infamous!” exclaimed Rodolph, indignantly, as he finished the perusal of the vile scrawl.

“Nay, my lord, there is an act more dastardly even than the sending an anonymous letter; and that act I have committed.”

“For the love of heaven, explain yourself!”

“Instead of at once fearlessly and candidly showing you this letter, I concealed its contents from you. I feigned calmness and tranquillity, while jealousy, rage, and despair filled my heart. Nor is this all. To what detestable meanness do you suppose, my lord, my ungoverned passions led me? Why, to enact the part of a spy,—to hide myself basely and contemptibly behind this door, to overhear your conversation and espy your actions. Yes, hate me, despise me as you will, I merit all for having insulted you by a suspicion. Oh, the writer of these fiendish letters knew well the culpable weakness of him to whom they were addressed. But, after all I have heard,—for not a word has escaped me, and I now know the nature of the interest which attracts you to frequent the Rue du Temple,—after having, by mymean and unworthy jealousy, given support to the base calumny by believing it even for an instant, how can I hope for pardon, though I sue for it upon my knees? Still, still, I venture to implore from you, so superior to myself in nobleness and generosity of soul, pity, and, if you can, forgiveness for the wrong I have done you!”

“No more of this, my dear Albert,” said Rodolph, extending his hands towards his friend with the most touching cordiality; “you have nothing to ask pardon for. Indeed, I feel quite delighted to find you have discovered the secrets of Madame d’Harville and myself. Now that all further restraint is at an end, I shall be able to lecture you as much and as frequently as I choose. But, what is better still, you are now installed as the confidant of Madame d’Harville,—that is to say, you now know what to expect from a heart so pure, so generous, and so noble as hers.”

“And you, Clémence,” said M. d’Harville, sorrowfully, to his wife, “can you forgive me my last unworthy act, in addition to the just causes you already have to hate and despise me?”

“On one condition,” said she, extending her hand towards her husband, which he warmly and tenderly pressed, “that you promise to aid me in all my schemes for promoting and securing your happiness!”

“Upon my word, my dear marquis,” exclaimed Rodolph, “our enemies have shown themselves bunglers after all! They have afforded you an opportunity you might never otherwise have obtained, of rightly appreciating the tender devotion of your incomparable wife, whose affection for you, I venture to say, has shone out more brightly and steadily under the machinations of those who seek to render us miserable, than amidst all the former part of your wedded life; so that we are enabled to take a sweet revenge for the mischief intended to be effected: that is some consolation, while awaiting a fuller atonement for this diabolical attempt.I strongly suspect the quarter from which this scheme has emanated; and however patiently I may bear my own wrongs, I am not of a nature to suffer those offered to my friends to remain unpunished. This, however, is my affair. Adieu, madame,—our intrigue is discovered; and you will be no more at liberty to work alone in befriending your protégées. But, never mind! Before long we will get up some mysterious enterprise, impossible to be found out; and we will even defy the marquis, with all his penetration, to know more than we choose to tell him.”

After accompanying Rodolph to his carriage with reiterated thanks and praises, the marquis retired to his apartments without again seeing Clémence.

CHAPTER VII.
REFLECTIONS.

It would be difficult to describe the tumultuous and opposing sentiments that agitated M. d’Harville when alone. He reflected with delight on the detection of the unworthy falsehood charged upon Rodolph and Clémence; but he was, at the same time, thoroughly convinced that he must for ever forego the hope of being loved by her. The more Clémence had proved herself, in her conversation with Rodolph, resigned, full of courage, and bent on acting rightly, the more bitterly did M. d’Harville reproach himself for having, in his culpable egotism, chained the lot of his unhappy young wife to his own. Far from being consoled by the conversation he had overheard, he fell into a train of sorrowful thought and indescribable anguish.

Riches, without occupation, bring with them this wretchedness. Nothing can divert it, nothing relieve it, from the deepest feelings of mental torture. Not being compulsorily preoccupied by cares for the future or daily toil, it is utterly exposed to heavy moral affliction. Able to acquire all that money can purchase, it desires or regrets with intense violence—

“What gold could never buy.”

The mental torture of M. d’Harville was intense, for, after all, what he desired was only what was just, and actually legal,—the society, if not the love, of his wife.

But, when placed beside the inexorable refusal ofClémence, he asked himself if there was not the bitterest derision in these words of the law: The wife belongs to her husband.

To what influence, to what means could he have recourse to subdue this coldness, this repugnance, which turned his whole existence into one long punishment, since he could not—ought not—would not love any woman but his wife?

He could not but see in this, as in many other positions of conjugal life, the simple will of the husband or the wife imperatively substituted, without appeal or possibility of prevention, for the sovereign will of the law.

To the paroxysms of vain anger there succeeded a melancholy depression. The future weighed him down, heavy, dull, and chill. He only saw before him the grief that would doubtless render more frequent the attacks of his fearful malady.

“Oh,” he exclaimed, at once in tears and despair, “it is my fault,—it is my fault! Poor, unhappy girl! I deceived her,—shamefully deceived her! She must,—she ought to hate me; and yet but now she displayed the deepest interest in me, and, instead of contenting myself with that, my mad passion led me away, and I became tender. I spoke of my love, and scarcely had my lips touched her hand than she became startled, and bounded with fright. If I could for a moment have doubted the invincible repugnance with which I inspire her, what she said to the prince must for ever destroy that illusion. Ah, it is frightful,—frightful! By what right has she confided to him this hideous secret? It is an unworthy betrayal! By what right?—alas, by the right the victim has to complain of its executioner! Poor girl! So young,—so loving! All she could find most cruel to say against the horrid existence I have entailed upon her was, that such was not the lot of which she had dreamed, and that she was very young to renounce all hopes of love! I know Clémence, and the word shegave me,—the word she gave to the prince,—she will abide by for ever. She will be to me the tenderest of sisters! Well, is not my position still most enviable? To the cold and constrained demeanour which existed between us will succeed affectionate and gentle intercourse, whilst she might have treated me always with icy disdain of which it was impossible that I could complain. So, then, I will console myself by the enjoyment of what she offers to me. Shall I not be too happy then?—too happy? Ah, how weak I am! How cowardly! Is she not my wife, after all? Is she not mine and mine only? Does not the law recognise my right over her? My wife refuses, but is not the right on my side?” he interrupted himself, with a burst of sardonic laughter.

“Oh, yes,—be violent, eh? What, another infamy? But what can I do? For I love her yet,—love her to madness! I love her and her only! I want but her,—her love, and not the lukewarm regard of a sister. Ah, at last she must have pity; she is so kind, and she will see how unhappy I am! But no, no! Never! Mine is a case of estrangement which a woman never can surmount. Disgust,—yes, disgust,—I cannot but see it,—disgust! I must convince myself that it is my horrid infirmity that frightens her, and always must,—always must!” exclaimed M. d’Harville, in his fearful excitement.

After a moment of gloomy silence, he continued:

“This anonymous attack, which accused the prince and my wife, comes from the hand of an enemy; and yet, but an hour ago, before I saw through it, I suspected him. Him!—to believe him capable of such base treachery! And my wife, too, I included in the same suspicion! Ah, jealousy is incurable! And yet I must not abuse myself. If the prince, who loves me as his best and dearest friend, has made Clémence promise to occupy her mind and heart in charitable works, if he promises her his advice, his support, it is because she requires advice, needs support.And, indeed, lovely and young, and surrounded as she is, and without that love in her heart which protects and even almost excuses her wrongs through mine, which are so atrocious, must she not fall? Another torturing thought! What I have suffered when I thought her guilty,—fallen,—Heaven knows what agony! But, no; the fear is vain! Clémence has sworn never to fail in her duties, and she will keep her promise,—strictly keep it! But at what a price! At what a price! But now, when she turned towards me with affectionate language, what agony did I feel at the sight of her gentle, sad, and resigned smile! How much this return to me must have cost! Poor love! how lovely and affecting she seemed at that moment! For the first time I felt a fierce remorse, for, up to that moment, her haughty coldness had sufficiently avenged her. Oh, wretch!—wretch that I am!”

After a long and sleepless night, spent in bitter reflections, the agitation of M. d’Harville ceased, as if by enchantment. He had come to an unalterable resolution. He awaited daybreak with excessive impatience.

Early in the morning he rang for his valet de chambre.

When old Joseph entered his master’s room, to his great surprise he heard him hum a hunting song,—a sign, as rare as certain, that M. d’Harville was in good humour.

“Ah, M. le Marquis,” said the faithful old servant, quite affected, “what a charming voice you have! What a pity that you do not sing more frequently!”

“Really, Joseph, have I a charming voice?” said M. d’Harville, smiling.

“If M. le Marquis had a voice as hoarse as a night raven or as harsh as a rattle, I should still think he had a charming voice.”

“Be silent, you flatterer!”

“Why, when you sing, M. le Marquis, it is a sign you are happy, and then your voice sounds to me the most beautiful music in the world.”

“In that case, Joseph, my old friend, prepare to open your long ears.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“You may enjoy every day the music which you call charming, and of which you seem so fond.”

“What! You will be happy every day, M. le Marquis?” exclaimed Joseph, clasping his hands with extreme delight.

“Every day, my old Joseph, happy every day. Yes, no more sorrow,—no more sadness. I can tell you, the only and discreet confidant of my troubles, that I am at the height of happiness. My wife is an angel of goodness, and has asked my forgiveness for her past estrangement, attributing it (can you imagine?) to jealousy.”

“To jealousy?”

“Yes, absurd suspicions, excited by anonymous letters.”

“How shameful!”

“You understand? Women have so much self-love,—a little more and we should have been separated; but, fortunately, last evening she explained all frankly to me, and I disabused her mind. To tell you her extreme delight would be impossible, for she loves me,—oh, yes, she loves me! The coldness she evinced towards me lay as cruelly on herself as on me, and now, at length, our distressing separation has ended. Only conceive my delight!”

“Can it be true?” cried Joseph, with tears in his eyes. “Can it really be true, M. le Marquis? And now your life will be happy, for it was only my lady’s love that you required, or, rather, since her estrangement was your sole misery, as you told me.”

“And to whom but you should I have told it, myworthy old Joseph? Do not you possess, also, a still sadder secret? But do not let us say anything more of sorrows now,—it is too bright a time. You see, perhaps, that I have been weeping? It is because this happiness has come over me so suddenly, when I so little anticipated it! How weak I am!—am I not?”

“Well, well, M. le Marquis, you may weep for joy as much as you please, for you have wept long enough for pain; and now see, do not I do as you do? They are right sort of tears, and I would not give them for ten years more of life. I have now but one fear, and that is, not to be able to prevent myself from falling at the feet of Madame la Marquise the first time I see her.”

“Silly old fellow! Why you are as weak as your master. And now I have but one fear.”

“And what is that?”

“That this will not last; I am too happy. What now is wanting to me?”

“Nothing,—nothing, M. le Marquis,—absolutely nothing.”

“That is why I mistrust such perfect happiness,—too complete.”

“Alas! If that is all, why, M. le Marquis—But no, I dare not.”

“I understand you. Well, I believe your fears are vain. The change which my happiness causes me is so intense, so complete, that I am almost sure of being nearly cured.”

“How?”

“My doctor has told me a hundred times that a violent emotion is frequently sufficient either to bring on or to cure this terrible malady.”

“You are right, monsieur,—you are cured, and what a blessing that is! Ah, as you say, M. le Marquis, the marquise is a good angel come down from heaven; and I begin myself to be almost alarmed lest the happiness is too great; but now I think of it, if you only wanta small matter just to annoy you, thank God, I have just the very thing!”

“What is it?”

“One of your friends has very luckily had a sword-wound, very slight, to be sure; but that’s all the same, it is quite enough for you, as you desire to make a small black spot in your too happy day.”

“What do you mean, and of whom do you speak?”

“The Duke de Lucenay.”

“Is he wounded?”

“A scratch in the arm. M. the Duke came yesterday to call on you, sir, and told me he should come again this morning, and invite himself to a cup of tea.”

“Poor Lucenay! And why did you not tell me this?”

“I could not see you last night, M. le Marquis.”

After a moment’s reflection, M. d’Harville resumed:

“You are right, this slight regret will, doubtless, satisfy jealous Fate. But an idea has come across me; I should like to get up a bachelors’ breakfast this morning of all the friends of M. de Lucenay, to celebrate the fortunate result of his duel; not anticipating such a meeting, he will be delighted.”

“A capital idea, M. le Marquis. Vive la joie! Let us make up for lost time. For how many shall I desire the maître d’hôtel to lay covers?”

“For six, in the small winter dining-room.”

“And the invitations?”

“I will write them. Let a groom get his horse ready, and take them instantly. It is very early, and he will find everybody at home. Ring.”

Joseph rang the bell.

M. d’Harville entered into his cabinet, and wrote the following letter, with no other alteration than the name of each invited guest.

“My dear ——: This is a circular, and is also an impromptu. Lucenay is coming to breakfast with me this morning, expecting only a tête-à-tête. Will you join me and several friends, whom I also invite, in giving him an agreeable surprise?

“Twelve punctually.

“M. d’Harville.”

A servant entered.

“Desire some one to get on horseback, and deliver these notes directly,” said M. d’Harville; and then, addressing Joseph, “Write the addresses: M. le Vicomte de Saint-Remy,—Lucenay cannot get on without him,” said M. d’Harville to himself; “M. de Monville, one of the duke’s travelling companions; Lord Douglas, his beloved partner at whist; the Baron de Sézannes, one of the friends of his childhood. Have you done?”

“Yes, M. le Marquis.”

“Send them off, then, without losing a minute’s time,” said M. d’Harville.

“Ah, Philippe, request M. Doublet to come and speak to me.”

Philippe left the room.

“Well, what is the matter with you?” inquired M. d’Harville of Joseph, who looked at him with astonishment.

“I cannot get over it, sir; I never saw you in such spirits,—so lively; and then you, who are usually so pale, have got such a colour, and your eyes sparkle.”

“Happiness, my old friend,—happiness, and nothing else; and you must assist me in my little plot. You must go and learn of Mlle. Juliette, Madame d’Harville’s waiting-woman, who has the care of her diamonds.”

“Yes, M. le Marquis, it is Mlle. Juliette who has the charge of them, for it is not eight days since I helped her to clean them.”

“Ask her to tell you the name of her lady’s jeweller, but not to say a word on the subject to her mistress.”

“Ah, I understand,—a surprise.”

“Go as quickly as possible. Here is M. Doublet.”

And the steward entered as Joseph quitted the apartment.

“I have the honour to attend the orders of M. le Marquis.”

“My dear M. Doublet, I am going to alarm you,” said M. d’Harville, smiling; “I shall compel you to utter fearful cries of distress.”

“Me, sir?”

“You.”

“I will endeavour to give satisfaction to M. le Marquis.”

“I am going to spend an enormous sum, M. Doublet.”

“Why not, M. le Marquis? We are well able to do so.”

“I have been planning a considerable extent of building. I propose to annex a gallery in the garden, on the right wing of the hôtel. After having hesitated at this folly, of which I have not before spoken to you, I have made up my mind on the point, and I wish you to send to-day to my architect, desiring him to come and talk over the plans with me. Well, M. Doublet, you do not seem to object to the outlay.”

“I can assure your lordship that I have no objection whatsoever.”

“This gallery is destined for fêtes, and I wish to have it erected as though by enchantment; and, as enchantments are very dear, we must sell fifteen or twenty thousand livres of income in order to meet the expenditure, for I wish the work to be begun as speedily as possible.”

“I have always said there is nothing which M. le Marquis wants, unless it be a certain taste. That for building has the advantage of having the buildings always left; as to money, M. le Marquis need not alarm himself, and he may, if he pleases, build the gallery.”

Joseph returned.

“Here, M. le Marquis, is the address of the jeweller, whose name is M. Baudoin,” said he to M. d’Harville.

“My dear M. Doublet, will you go to this jeweller’s, and desire him to bring here in an hour a river of diamonds, worth, say, two thousand louis? Women never have too many jewels, now they wear gowns decorated with them. You can arrange with the jeweller as to the payment.”

“Yes, M. le Marquis; and I do not even yet begin to groan. Diamonds are like buildings,—they remain. And then, no doubt, the surprise will greatly please Madame la Marquise, without counting the pleasure that you yourself will experience. It is as I had the honour of saying the other day, there is not in the world any person whose existence can be more delightful than that of M. le Marquis.”

“My dear M. Doublet,” said M. d’Harville, with a smile, “your congratulations are always so peculiarly apropos.”

“That is their only merit, M. le Marquis; and they possess that merit, perhaps, because they proceed from the heart. I will run to the jeweller.”

As soon as he was alone, M. d’Harville began to pace up and down his cabinet, with his arms folded, and his eye fixed and meditative. His features suddenly changed, and no longer expressed that somewhat feverish contentment of which the steward and his old servant had been the dupes, but assumed a calm, sad, and chilling resolution. Afterwards, having paced up and down for a short time, he sunk into a chair heavily, and, as though weighed down with sorrow, placed his elbows on his desk, and hid his face in his hands. After a moment he rose suddenly, wiped a tear which moistened his red eyelid, and said with effort:

“Come, come! Courage, courage!”

He then wrote to several persons on very trifling matters, and postponed various meetings for some days. Themarquis had concluded this correspondence when Joseph again entered, so gay, and so forgetful of himself, as to hum a tune in his turn.

“M. Joseph, what a charming voice you have!” said his master, jestingly.

“Ma foi! so much the worse, M. le Marquis, for I don’t care about it. I am singing so merrily within, that my music must be heard without.”

“Send these letters to the post.”

“Yes, M. le Marquis; but where will you receive the gentlemen who are expected this morning?”

“Here, in my cabinet; they will smoke after breakfast, and then the smell of the tobacco will not reach Madame d’Harville.”

At this moment the noise of carriage wheels was heard in the courtyard of the hôtel.

“It is Madame la Marquise going out; she ordered her carriage very early this morning,” said Joseph.

“Run and request her to be so kind and come here before she goes out.”

“Yes, M. le Marquis.”

The domestic had scarcely left the room when M. d’Harville approached a mirror, and looked at himself attentively.

“Well, well,” said he, in a hoarse voice, “it is there,—the flushed cheeks—the bright look—joy or fever, it is little consequence which, so that they are deceived; now, then, for the smile on the lips,—there are so many sorts of smiles! But who can distinguish the false from the true? Who can peep beneath the false mask, and say, ‘That laugh hides a dark despair, that noisy gaiety conceals a thought of death?’ Who could guess that? No one,—fortunately, no one,—no one! Ah, yes, love would never be mistaken; his instinct would enlighten him. But I hear my wife,—my wife! Now, then, sinister actor, play thy part.”

Clémence entered M. d’Harville’s apartment.

“Good morrow, dear brother Albert,” she said, in a tone full of sweetness. Then, observing the smiling expression of her husband’s countenance, “But what is it, my dear, that gives you such a smiling air?”

“It was because, when you entered, my dear sister, I was thinking of you, and, moreover, I was under the influence of an excellent resolution.”

“That does not surprise me.”

“What took place yesterday,—your extreme generosity, the prince’s noble conduct,—has given me much food for reflection, and I am converted,—entirely converted to your ideas.”

“Indeed! That is a happy change!” exclaimed Madame d’Harville. “Ah! I was sure that, when I appealed to your heart, to your reason, you would understand me; and now I have no doubt about the future.”

“Nor I either, Clémence, I assure you. Yes, since my resolution last night, the future, which seemed so vague and sombre, is singularly brightened and simplified.”

“Nothing can be more natural, my dear. Now we both go towards the same end, like a brother and sister, mutually dependent on each other; at the end of our career we shall find each other what we are to-day. The feeling will be unalterable. In a word, I wish you to be happy; and you shall be, for I have resolved it there,” said Clémence, placing her finger on her forehead. Then she added, with charming emphasis, lowering her hand to her heart, “No, I mistake, it is here. That is the good thought that will watch over you incessantly, and myself also; and you shall see, my brother, in what the obstinacy of a devoted heart consists.”

“Dear Clémence!” said M. d’Harville with repressed emotion; then, after a moment’s silence, he continued, in a gay tone:

“I sent to beg you to come here before you went out,to tell you that I could not take tea with you this morning. I have some friends to breakfast,—a sort of impromptu,—to celebrate the fortunate result of a duel of poor Lucenay, who, by the way, was only very slightly wounded by his adversary.”

Madame d’Harville blushed when she reflected on the origin of this duel,—an absurd remark addressed in her presence by the Duke de Lucenay to M. Charles Robert. It reminded her of an erreur of which she was ashamed, and, to escape from the pain she felt, she said to her husband:

“What a singular chance! M. de Lucenay is coming to breakfast with you, and I am going, perhaps rather indiscreetly, to invite myself this morning to Madame de Lucenay’s; for I have a great deal to say to her about my two unknowns. From her, it is my intention to go to the prison of St. Lazare with Madame de Blinval, for you do not know all my projects; at this time I am intriguing to get admittance into the workroom of the young prisoner-girls.”

“You are really insatiable,” said M. d’Harville, with a smile; and then he added, with a painful emotion, which, despite his efforts, betrayed itself a little, “Then I shall see you no more to-day.”

“Does it annoy you that I should go out so early?” asked Clémence, quickly, astonished at the tone of his voice. “If you wish it, I can put off my visit to Madame de Lucenay.”

The Marquis had nearly betrayed himself, but continued, in an affectionate tone:

“Yes, my dear little sister, I am as annoyed to see you go out, as I shall be impatient to see you return, and these are faults of which I shall never be corrected.”

“And you are quite right, dear; for if you did I should be very, very sorry.”

The sound of a bell, announcing a visit, was now heard.

“Here is one of your guests, no doubt,” said Madame d’Harville. “I leave you; but, by the way, what are you going to do in the evening? If you have no better engagement, I require you to accompany me to the Italian Opera; perhaps now you will like the music better.”

“I am at your orders with the utmost pleasure.”

“Are you going out by and by? Shall I see you before dinner?”

“I shall not go out; you will find me here.”

“Well, then, on my return, I shall come and inquire if your bachelors’ breakfast has been amusing.”

“Adieu, Clémence!”

“Adieu, dear! We shall soon meet again. I leave you a clear house, and wish you may be as merry as possible. Be very gay and lively, mind.”

Having cordially shaken her husband’s hand, Clémence went out of one door as M. de Lucenay entered by another.

“She wished me to be as merry as possible, and bade me be gay! In the word adieu, in that last cry of my soul in its agony, in that word of complete and eternal separation, she has understood that we should meet again soon,—this evening,—and leaves me tranquilly, and with a smile! It does honour to my dissimulation. By heaven, I did not think that I was so good an actor! But here is Lucenay.”

CHAPTER VIII.
THE BACHELORS’ BREAKFAST.

M. de Lucenay came into the room.

The duke’s wound had been so slight, that he did not even carry his arm in a sling. His countenance was, as usual, mirthful, yet proud; his motion perpetual; and his restlessness, as usual, unconquerable. In spite of his awkwardness, his ill-timed pleasantries, and in spite of his immense nose, which gave his face a grotesque and odd character, M. de Lucenay was not, as we have already said, a vulgar person, thanks to a kind of natural dignity and bold impertinence, which never forsook him.

“How indifferent you must think me to what concerns you, my dear Henry!” said M. d’Harville, extending his hand to M. de Lucenay; “but it was only this morning that I heard of your unfortunate adventure.”

“Unfortunate! Pooh—pooh, marquis! I had my money’s worth, as they say. I really never laughed so in my life. The worthy M. Robert was so religiously determined to maintain that he never had a phlegmy cough, in all his life,—but you do not know! This was the cause of the duel. The other evening at the —— embassy, I asked him, before your wife and the Countess Macgregor, how his phlegmy cough was? Inde iræ! for, between ourselves, he had nothing of the kind; but it was all the same, and, you may suppose, to have such a thing alluded to before pretty women was very provoking.”

“How foolish! Yet it is so like you! But who is this M. Robert?”

“Ma foi! I have not the slightest idea in the world. He is a person whom I met at the Spas; he passed by us in the winter garden at the embassy, and I called to him to play off this foolish jest, to which he gallantly replied the next day by giving me a touch with his sword-point. This is the history of our acquaintance. But let us speak no more of such follies. I have come to ask you for a cup of tea.”

So saying, M. de Lucenay flung himself down full length on the sofa; after which, poking the point of his cane between the wall and the frame of a picture hanging over his head, he began to move it about, and try and balance the frame.

“I expected you, my dear Henry; and I have got up a surprise for you,” said M. d’Harville.

“Ah, bah! and in what way?” exclaimed M. de Lucenay, giving to the picture a very doubtful kind of balance.

“You will unquestionably unhook that picture, and let it down on your head.”

“Pardieu! I believe you are right. What an eagle’s eye you have! But, tell me, what is this surprise of yours?”

“I have invited some of our friends to come and breakfast with us!”

“Really! Well, that is capital! Bravo, marquis,—bravissimo! ultra-bravissimo!” exclaimed M. de Lucenay, in a lusty voice, and beating the sofa cushions with his cane with all his might. “And who shall we have,—Saint-Remy? No, I recollect; he has been in the country for some days. What the devil can he be pattering about in the country in the mid-winter for?”

“Are you sure he is not in Paris?”

“Quite sure; for I wrote to him to go out with me,and learned he was absent; and so I fell back upon Lord Douglas, and Sézannes.”

“Nothing can be better; they breakfast with us.”

“Bravo! bravo! bravo!” exclaimed M. de Lucenay again, with lusty lungs; and then, wriggling and twisting himself on the sofa, he accompanied his cries with a series of fishlike bounds and springs, which would have made a boatman envious. The acrobatic exercises of the Duke de Lucenay were interrupted by the arrival of M. de Saint-Remy.

“There was no occasion to ask if Lucenay was here,” said the viscount, gaily; “one could hear him below stairs.”

“What! Is it you, graceful sylvan, country swain,—wolf of the woods?” exclaimed the duke, in his surprise, and sitting up suddenly. “I thought you were in the country!”

“I came back yesterday; and, having this instant received D’Harville’s invitation, I have hastened hither, quite delighted to make one in so pleasant a surprise.” And M. de Saint-Remy extended his hand to M. de Lucenay, and then to the marquis.

“Let me thank you for your speed, my dear Saint-Remy. Is it not natural? The friends of Lucenay ought to rejoice in the fortunate result of this duel, which, after all, might have had very serious results.”

“But,” resumed the duke, doggedly, “what on earth have you been doing in the country in the middle of winter, Saint-Remy? It mystifies me.”

“How inquisitive he is!” said the viscount, addressing M. d’Harville; and then, turning to the duke, “I am anxious to wean myself gradually from Paris, as I am soon to quit it.”

“Ah, yes, the beautiful idea of attaching you to the legation from France to Gerolstein! Pray leave off those silly ideas of diplomacy! You will never go. My wife says so, everybody says the same.”

“I assure you that Madame de Lucenay is mistaken, as well as all the rest of the world.”

“She told you, in my presence, that it was a folly.”

“How many have I committed in my life?”

“Yes, elegant, charming follies, true;—such as people said would ruin you in your Sardanapalian magnificences,—that I admit. But to go and bury yourself alive in such a court,—at Gerolstein! What an idea! Psha! It is a folly, an absurdity; and you have too much good sense to commit absurdities.”

“Take care, my dear Lucenay. When you abuse this German court, you will get up a quarrel with D’Harville, the intimate friend of the grand duke regnant, who, moreover, received me with the best possible grace at the embassy, where I was presented to him.”

“Really, my dear Henry,” said M. d’Harville, “if you knew the grand duke as I know him, you would understand that Saint-Remy could have no repugnance to passing some time at Gerolstein.”

“I believe you, marquis, although they do say that he is very haughty and very peculiar, your grand duke; but that will not hinder a don like Saint-Remy, the finest sifting of the finest flour, from being unable to live anywhere but in Paris. It is in Paris only that he is duly appreciated.”

The other guests of M. d’Harville now arrived, when Joseph entered, and said a few words in a low voice to his master.

“Gentlemen,” said the marquis, “will you allow me?—it is my wife’s jeweller, who has brought some diamonds to select for her,—a surprise. You understand that, Lucenay? We are husbands of the old sort, you and I.”

“Ah, pardieu! If it is a surprise you mean,” shouted the duke, “my wife gave me one yesterday, and a famous one too!”

“Some magnificent present?”

“She asked me for a hundred thousand francs (4,000l.).”

“And you are such a magnifico—you—”

“Lent them to her; they are advanced as mortgage on her Arnouville estate. Right reckonings make good friends,—but that’s by the by. To lend in two hours a hundred thousand francs to a friend who requires that sum is what I call pretty, but rare. Is it not prodigal, you who are a connoisseur in loans?” said the duke, laughingly, to Saint-Remy, little thinking of the cutting purport of his words.

In spite of his effrontery, the viscount blushed slightly, and then replied, with composure:

“A hundred thousand francs?—that is immense! What could a woman ever want with such a sum as a hundred thousand francs? As for us men, that is quite a different matter.”

“Ma foi! I really do not know what she could want with such a sum as that. But that’s not my affair. Some arrears for the toilet, probably? The tradespeople hungry and annoying,—that’s her affair. And, as you know very well, my dear Saint-Remy, that, as it was I who lent my wife the money, it would have been in the worst possible taste in me to have inquired the purpose for which she required it.”

“Yet,” said the viscount, with a laugh, “there is usually a singular curiosity on the part of those who lend money to know what is done with it.”

“Parbleu! Saint-Remy,” said M. d’Harville, “you have such exquisite taste, that you must help me to choose the ornament I intend for my wife. Your approbation will consecrate my choice; your decisions are sovereign in all that concerns the fashion.”

The jeweller entered, bringing with him several caskets of gems in a large leather bag.

“Ah, it is M. Baudoin!” said M. de Lucenay.

“At your grace’s service.”

“I am sure that it is you who ruined my wife with your dazzling and infernal temptations,” said M. de Lucenay.

“Madame la Duchesse has only had her diamonds reset this winter,” said the jeweller, slightly embarrassed; “and now, as I came to M. le Marquis, I left them with her grace.”

M. de Saint-Remy knew that Madame de Lucenay, to aid him, had changed her jewels for false stones. He was disagreeably embarrassed at this rencontre, but said, boldly:

“How curious these husbands are!—don’t answer any inquisitive interrogatories, M. Baudoin.”

“Curious; ma foi! no,” said the duke; “it is my wife who pays. She can afford all her whims, for she is much richer than I am.”

During this conversation, M. Baudoin had displayed on a table several superb necklaces of rubies and diamonds.

“What a fine water, and how exquisitely those stones are cut!” said Lord Douglas.

“Alas, sir!” said the jeweller, “I employed in this work one of the most skilful lapidaries in Paris, named Morel; but, unfortunately, he has become insane, and I shall never find such another workman. My matcher of stones says that, in all probability, it was his wretched condition that deprived the man of his senses, poor fellow!”

“Wretched condition! What! do you trust diamonds to people in distress?”

“Certainly, sir; and there is no instance of a lapidary having ever pilfered anything, however miserable and destitute his condition.”

“How much for this necklace?” inquired M. d’Harville.

“M. le Marquis will observe that the stones are of a splendid water and cut, and nearly all of a size.”

“These oratorical prefaces threaten your purse,” said M. de Saint-Remy, with a laugh. “Now, my dear D’Harville, look out for a high price.”

“Come, M. Baudoin, have a conscience, and ask the price you mean to take!” said M. d’Harville.

“I will not haggle with your lordship. The lowest price is forty-two thousand francs (11,680l.).”

“Gentlemen,” exclaimed M. de Lucenay, “let us who are married admire D’Harville in silence. A man who contrives a surprise for his wife to the amount of forty-two thousand francs! Diable! we must not noise that abroad, or it would be a detestable precedent.”

“Laugh on, gentlemen, as much as you please,” said the marquis, gaily. “I love my wife, and am not ashamed to confess it; on the contrary, I boast of it.”

“It is plain enough to be seen,” said M. de Saint-Remy; “such a present speaks more eloquently than all the protestation in the world.”

“I will take this necklace, then,” said M. d’Harville, “if the setting of black enamel seems to you in good taste, Saint-Remy.”

“Oh, it sets off the brilliancy of the stones; it is exquisitely devised.”

“Then this it shall be,” said M. d’Harville. “You will settle, M. Baudoin, with M. Doublet, my man of business.”

“M. Doublet told me as much, my lord marquis,” said the jeweller, who quitted the apartment, after having packed up his bag without counting the jewels which he had brought (such was his confidence), and notwithstanding M. de Saint-Remy had for a long time and curiously handled and examined them during the interview.

M. d’Harville gave the necklace to Joseph, who was waiting, and said to him, in a low tone:

“Mlle. Juliette must put these diamonds cleverly away with those of her mistress, so that la marquisemay not suspect; and then her surprise will be the greater.”

At this moment the maître d’hôtel announced that the breakfast was ready; and the guests, passing into the dining-room, seated themselves.

“Do you know, my dear D’Harville,” said M. de Lucenay, “that this house is one of the most elegant and best arranged in Paris?”

“It is very convenient, certainly, but we want room; I have a plan to add a gallery on the garden. Madame d’Harville wishes to give some grand balls, and our salons are not large enough. Then, I think, nothing is more inconvenient than the encroachments of fêtes on the apartments one usually occupies, and from which, on such occasions, you are necessarily driven.”

“I am quite of D’Harville’s opinion,” said M. de Saint-Remy; “nothing is more wretched, more tradesmanlike, than these movings, compelled by the coming of balls and concerts. To give fêtes, really of the first class, without inconveniencing oneself, there must be devoted to their uses peculiar and special suites of apartments; and then vast and splendid rooms, devoted to a magnificent ball, ought to assume an appearance wholly distinct from that of ordinary salons. There is the same difference between these two sets of apartments as between a monumental fresco-painting and a sketch on a painter’s easel.”

“He is right,” said M. d’Harville. “What a pity, gentlemen, that Saint-Remy has not twelve or fifteen hundred thousand livres a year! What wonders he would create for our admiration!”

“Since we have the happiness to possess a representative government,” said the Duke de Lucenay, “the country ought to vote a million or two a year to Saint-Remy, and authorise him to represent in Paris the French taste and elegance, which should decide the taste and elegance of all Europe,—all the world.”

“Adopted!” cried the guests in chorus.

“And we would raise these annual millions as compulsory taxes on those abominable misers, who, being possessors of colossal fortunes, should be marked down, accused, and convicted of living like gripe-farthings,” added M. de Lucenay.

“And as such,” added M. d’Harville, “condemned to defray those splendours which they ought to display.”

“Not including that these functions of high priest, or, rather, grand master of elegance, which would devolve on Saint-Remy,” continued M. de Lucenay, “would have, by imitation, an enormous influence on the general taste.”

“He would be the type which all would seek to resemble.”

“That is evident.”

“And, in endeavouring to imitate him, taste would become purified.”

“At the time of the Renaissance taste became universally excellent, because it was modelled on that of the aristocracy, which was exquisite.”

“By the serious turn which the question has taken,” said M. d’Harville, gaily, “I see that we have only to address a petition to the Chambers for the establishment of the office of grand master of French elegance.”

“And as the Deputies have credit for possessing very elevated, very artistic, and very magnificent ideas, of course it will be voted by acclamation.”

“Whilst we are waiting the decision which shall establish as a right the supremacy which Saint-Remy exercises in fact,” said M. d’Harville, “I will ask him his opinion as to the gallery which I propose to erect; for I have been struck with his ideas as to the right splendour of fêtes.”

“My faint lights are at your service, D’Harville.”

“And when shall we commence our magnificences, my dear fellow?”

“Next year, I suppose, for I intend to begin my works without delay.”

“How full of projects you are!”

“Ma foi! I have others also; I contemplate an entire alteration of Val-Richer.”

“Your estate in Burgundy?”

“Yes; there is much that may be done there, if, indeed, God grants me life.”

“Poor old fellow!”

“Have you not recently bought a farm near Val-Richer to complete your ring-fence?”

“Yes, a very nice thing, to which I was advised by my notary.”

“And who is this rare and precious notary who advises such admirable purchases?”

“M. Jacques Ferrand.”

At this name a slight shudder came over M. de Saint-Remy, and he frowned imperceptibly.

“Is he really the honest man they call him?” he inquired, carelessly, of M. d’Harville, who then remembered what Rodolph had related to Clémence about the notary.

“Jacques Ferrand? What a question! Why, his honesty is a proverb,” said M. de Lucenay.

“As respected as respectable.”

“And very pious; which does him no harm.”

“Excessively stingy; which is a guarantee for his clients.”

“In fact, he is one of the notaries of the ‘old rock,’ who ask you whom you take them for when you ask them for a receipt for the money which you place in their hands.”

“That would have no effect on me; I would trust him with my whole fortune.”

“But where the deuce did Saint-Remy imbibe his doubts with respect to this honest man, whose integrity is proverbial?”

“I am but the echo of certain vague reports; besides, I have no reason for running down this phœnix of notaries. But to return to your plans, D’Harville, what is it you wish to build at Val-Richer? I have heard that the château is excessively beautiful.”

“Make yourself easy, my dear Saint-Remy, for you shall be consulted, and sooner than you expect, perhaps, for I take much pleasure in such works. I think that there is nothing more interesting than to have those affairs in hand, which expand as you examine them, and they advance, giving you occupation for years to come. To-day one project, next year another, after that something else springs up. Add to this a charming woman whom one adores, and who shares your every taste and pleasure, then, ma foi! life passes sweetly enough.”

“I think so, pardieu! Why, it then makes earth a perfect paradise.”

“Now, gentlemen,” said D’Harville, when the breakfast was finished, “if you will smoke a cigar in my cabinet, you will find some excellent Havannahs there.”

They rose from the table, and returned to the cabinet of the marquis. The door of his bedchamber, which communicated with it, was open. We have said the only decoration of the room consisted of two small racks of very beautiful arms.

M. de Lucenay, having lighted a cigar, followed the marquis into his room.

“You see, I am still a great lover of good weapons,” said D’Harville to him.

“Yes, and I see you have here some splendid English and French guns. Ma foi! I hardly know which to admire most. Douglas,” exclaimed M. de Lucenay, “come and see if these fowling-pieces are not equal to your crack Mantons.”

Lord Douglas, Saint-Remy, and the two other guests went into the marquis’s room to examine the arms.

M. d’Harville, taking down a duelling-pistol, cocked it, and said, laughingly:

“Here, gentlemen, is the universal panacea for all the ills,—spleen, disgust, weariness.”

And as he spoke, jestingly, he placed the muzzle to his lips.

“Ma foi! I prefer another specific,” said Saint-Remy; “that is only good in the most desperate cases.”

“Yes, but it is so speedy,” said M. d’Harville. “Click! and it is done!”

“Pray be cautious, D’Harville; these jokes are always so rash and dangerous; and accident happens in an instant,” said M. de Lucenay.

“My dear fellow, do you think I would do so if it were loaded?”

“Of course not, but it is always imprudent.”

“See, gentlemen, how it is done. You introduce the muzzle delicately between the teeth, and then—”

“How foolish you are, D’Harville, to place it so!” said M. de Lucenay.

“You place your finger on the trigger—” continued M. d’Harville.

“What a child! What folly at your age!”

“A small touch on the lock,” added the marquis, “and one goes—”

As he spoke the pistol went off. M. d’Harville had blown his brains out.

It is impossible to paint the horror,—the stupor, of M. d’Harville’s guests.

Next day the following appeared in one of the newspapers:

“Yesterday an event, as unforeseen as deplorable, put all the Faubourg St. Germain in a state of excitement. One of those imprudent acts, which every year produce such sad accidents, has caused this terrible misfortune. The following are the facts which we have gathered, the authenticity of which may be relied upon.

“The Marquis d’Harville, the possessor of an immense fortune, and scarcely twenty-six years of age, universally known for his kind-hearted benevolence, and married but a few years to a wife whom he idolised, had some friends to breakfast with him; on leaving the table, they went into M. d’Harville’s sleeping apartment, where there were several firearms of considerable value. Whilst the guests were looking at some choice fowling-pieces, M. d’Harville in jest took up a pistol which he thought was not loaded, and placed the muzzle to his lips. Though warned by his friends, he pressed on the trigger,—the pistol went off, and the unfortunate young gentleman dropped down dead, with his skull horribly fractured. It is impossible to describe the extreme consternation of the friends of M. d’Harville, with whom but a few instants before he had been talking of various plans and projects, full of life, spirits, and animation. In fact, as if all the circumstances of this sad event must be still more cruel by the most painful contrasts, that very morning M. d’Harville, desirous of agreeably surprising his wife, had purchased a most expensive ornament, which he intended as a present to her. It was at this very moment, when, perhaps, life had never appeared more smiling and attractive, that he fell a victim to this most distressing accident.

“All reflections on such a dreadful event are useless. We can only remain overwhelmed at the inscrutable decrees of Providence.”

We quote this journal in order to show the general opinion which attributed the death of Clémence’s husband to fatal and lamentable imprudence.

Is there any occasion to say that M. d’Harville alone carried with him to the tomb the mysterious secret of his voluntary death,—yes, voluntary and calculated upon, and meditated with as much calmness as generosity, in order that Clémence might not conceive the slightest suspicion as to the real cause of his suicide?

Thus the projects of which M. d’Harville had talked with his steward and his friends,—those happy confidences to his old servant, the surprise which he proposed for his wife, were all but so many precautions for the public credulity.

How could it be supposed that a man so preoccupied as to the future, so anxious to please his wife, couldthink of killing himself? His death was, therefore, attributed to imprudence, and could not be attributed to anything else.

As to his determination, an incurable despair had dictated that. By showing herself as affectionate towards him, and as tender as she had formerly been cold and disdainful, by again appearing to entertain a high regard, Clémence had awakened in the heart of her husband deep remorse.

Seeing her so sadly resigned to a long life without love, passed with a man visited by an incurable and frightful malady, and utterly persuaded that, after her solemn conversation, Clémence could never subdue the repugnance with which he inspired her, M. d’Harville was seized with a profound pity for his wife, and an entire disgust for himself and for life.

In the exasperation of his anguish, he said to himself:

“I only love,—I never can love,—but one woman in the world, and she is my own wife. Her conduct, full of noble-heartedness and high mind, would but increase my mad passion, if it be possible to increase it. And she, my wife, can never belong to me! She has a right to despise,—to hate me! I have, by base deceit, chained this young creature to my hateful lot! I repent it bitterly. What, then, should I do for her? Free her from the hateful ties which my selfishness has riveted upon her. My death alone can break those rivets; and I must, therefore, die by my own hand!”

This was why M. d’Harville had accomplished this great,—this terrible sacrifice.

The inexorable immutability of the law sometimes makes certain terrible positions irremediable, and, as in this case (as divorce was unattainable), only allows the injury to be effaced by an additional crime.

CHAPTER IX.
ST. LAZARE.

The prison of St. Lazare, especially devoted to female thieves and prostitutes, is daily visited by many ladies, whose charity, whose names, and whose social position command universal respect. These ladies, educated in the midst of the splendours of fortune,—these ladies, properly belonging to the best society,—come every week to pass long hours with the miserable prisoners of St. Lazare; watching in these degraded souls for the least indication of an aspiration towards good, the least regret for a past criminal life, and encouraging the good tendencies, urging repentance, and, by the potent magic of the words, Duty, Honour, Virtue, withdrawing from time to time one of these abandoned, fallen, degraded, despised creatures, from the depths of utter pollution.

Accustomed to delicacy and the most polished breeding of the highest circles, these courageous females quit their homes, after having pressed their lips on the virgin foreheads of their daughters, pure as the angels of heaven, and go into dark prisons to brave the coarse indifference or infamous language of these thieves and lost women.

Faithful to their tasks of high morality, they boldly plunge into the tainted soil, place their hands on those gangrened hearts, and, if any feeble pulsation of honour reveals to them a slight hope of recovery, they contend for and snatch from irrevocable perdition the wretched soul of which they have never despaired.

Having said so much by way of introduction to the new scenes to which we are about to direct attention, we will introduce the reader to St. Lazare, an immense edifice of imposing and repulsive aspect, situated in the Faubourg St. Denis.

Ignorant of the shocking drama that was passing at her own house, Madame d’Harville had gone to the prison, after having received certain information from Madame de Lucenay as to the two unhappy females whom the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand had plunged into misery. Madame de Blinval, one of the patronesses of the charity of the young prisoners, being on this day unable to accompany Clémence to St. Lazare, she had gone thither alone. She was received with great attention by the governor and the several female superintendents, who were distinguished by their black garments and the blue riband with the silver medal which they wore around their necks. One of these superintendents, a female of mature age, with a serious but kind expression of countenance, remained alone with Madame d’Harville, in a small room attached to the registry office.

We may easily suppose that there is often unrecognised devotion, understanding, commiseration, and sagacity amongst the respectable females who devote themselves to the humble and obscure function of superintendent of the prisoners. Nothing can be more excellent, more practical, than the notions of order, work, and duty which they endeavour to instil into the prisoners, in the hope that these instructions may survive their term of imprisonment. In turns indulgent and firm, patient and severe, but always just and impartial, these females, incessantly in contact with the prisoners, end, after the lengthened experience of years, by acquiring such a knowledge of the physiognomy of these unfortunates that they can judge of them almost invariably from the first glance, andcan at once classify them according to their degree of immorality.

Madame Armand, the inspectress who remained with Madame d’Harville, possessed in a remarkable degree this almost supernatural prescience as to the character of the prisoners; her words and decisions had very great weight in the establishment.

Madame Armand said to Clémence:

“Since madame wishes me to point out to her such of our prisoners as have by good conduct, or sincere repentance, deserved that an interest should be taken in them, I believe I can mention to her a poor girl whom I believe to be more unfortunate than culpable; for I am not deceived when I say that it is not too late to save this young girl, an unhappy creature of not more than sixteen or seventeen years of age.”

“And for what is she imprisoned?”

“She is guilty of being found in the Champs Elysées in the evening. As it is prohibited to such females, under very severe penalties, to frequent, by day or night, certain public places, and as the Champs Elysées are in the number of the forbidden promenades, she was apprehended.”

“And does she appear to you interesting?”

“I never saw features more regular, more ingenuous. Picture to yourself, my lady, the face of a Virgin; and what adds still more to the expression of modesty in her countenance is that, on coming here, she was dressed like a peasant girl of the environs of Paris.”

“She is, then, a country girl?”

“No, my lady; the inspectors knew her again. She had lived for some weeks in a horrible abode in the Cité, from which she has been absent for two or three months; but, as she had not demanded the erasure of her name from the police registries, she comes under the power of that body, which has sent her hither.”

“But, perhaps, she had quitted Paris to try and reinstate herself?”

“I think so, madame; and it is therefore I have taken such an interest in her. I have questioned her as to her past life, inquired if she came from the country, and told her to hope, as I did myself, that she might still return to a course of good life.”

“And what reply did she make?”

“Lifting her full and melancholy blue eyes on me, filled with tears, she said, with angelic sweetness, ‘I thank you, madame, for your kindness; but I cannot say one word as to the past; I was apprehended,—I was doing wrong, and I do not therefore complain.’ ‘But where do you come from? Where have you been since you quitted the Cité? If you went into the country to seek an honest livelihood, say so, and prove it. We will write to the prefect to obtain your liberty, your name will be scratched off the police register, and you will be encouraged in your good resolutions.’ ‘I beseech you, madame, do not ask me; I cannot answer you,’ she replied. ‘But, on leaving this house, would you return again to that place of infamy?’ ‘Oh, never!’ she exclaimed. ‘What, then, will you do?’ ‘God only knows!’ she replied, letting her head fall on her bosom.”

“Very singular! And she expresses herself—”

“In very excellent terms, madame; her deportment is timid and respectful, but without servility; nay, more, in spite of the extreme gentleness of her voice and look, there is in her accent and her attitude a sort of proud sorrow which puzzles me. If she did not belong to that wretched class of which she forms one, I should say that her haughtiness announces a soul which has a consciousness of dignity.”

“But this is all a romance!” exclaimed Clémence, deeply interested, and finding, as Rodolph had told her, that nothing was more interesting than to do good. “And how does she behave with the other prisoners? If she is endowed with that dignity of soul that you imagine, she must suffer excessively in the midst of her wretched associates.”

“Madame, for me, who observe all from my position, and from habit, all about this young girl is a subject of astonishment. Although she has been here only three days, yet she already possesses a sort of influence over the other prisoners.”

“In so short a time?”

“They feel for her not only interest, but almost respect.”

“What! these unhappy women—”

“Have sometimes the instinct of a remarkable delicacy in recognising and detecting noble qualities in others; only, they frequently hate those persons whose superiority they are compelled to admit.”

“But do they hate this poor girl?”

“Far from it, my lady; none of them knew her before she came here. They were at first struck with her appearance. Her features, although of singular beauty, are, if I may so express myself, covered with a touching and sickly paleness; and this melancholy and gentle countenance at first inspired them with more interest than jealousy. Then she is very silent, another source of surprise for these creatures, who, for the most part, always endeavour to banish thought by making a noise, talking, and moving about. In fact, although reserved and retiring, she showed herself compassionate, which prevented her companions from taking offence at her coldness of manner. This is not all: about a month since, an intractable creature, nicknamed La Louve (the she-wolf), such is her violent and brutal character, became a resident here. She is a woman of twenty years of age, tall, masculine, with good-looking but strongly marked features, and we are sometimes compelled to place her in the black-hole to subdue her violence. Theday before yesterday, only, she came out of the cell, still irritated at the punishment she had undergone; it was meal-time, the poor girl of whom I speak could not eat, and said, sorrowfully, to her companions, ‘Who will have my bread?’ ‘I will!’ said La Louve. ‘I will!’ then said a creature almost deformed, called Mont Saint-Jean, who is the laughing-stock and, sometimes in spite of us, the butt of the other prisoners, although several months advanced in pregnancy. The young girl gave her bread to this latter, to the extreme anger of La Louve. ‘It was I who asked you for the allowance first!’ she exclaimed, furiously. ‘That is true; but this poor woman is about to become a mother, and wants it more than you do,’ replied the young girl. La Louve, notwithstanding, snatched the bread from the hands of Mont Saint-Jean, and began to wave her knife about, and to vociferate loudly. As she is very evil-disposed and much feared, no one dared take the part of the poor Goualeuse, although all the prisoners silently sided with her.”

“What do you call her name, madame?”

“La Goualeuse; it is the name, or rather the nickname, under which they brought her here who is my protégée, and will, I hope, my lady, soon be yours. Almost all of them have borrowed names.”

“This is a very singular one.”

“It signifies in their horrid jargon ‘the singer,’ for the young girl has, they told me, a very delightful voice; and I believe it, for her speaking tones are sweetness itself.”

“But how did she escape from this wretch, La Louve?”

“Rendered still more furious by the composure of La Goualeuse, she rushed towards her, uttering menaces, and with her uplifted knife in her hand. All the prisoners cried out with fear; La Goualeuse alone, looking at this fierce creature without alarm, smiled at her bitterly and said, in her sweet voice, ‘Oh, kill me! Killme! I am willing to die. But do not make me suffer too great pain!’ These words, they told me, were uttered with a simplicity so affecting, that almost all the prisoners burst into tears.”

“I can imagine so,” said Madame d’Harville, deeply moved.

“The worst characters,” continued the inspectress, “have, fortunately, occasional good feelings. When she heard these words, bearing the stamp of such painful resignation, La Louve, touched (as she afterwards declared) to her inmost core, threw her knife on the ground, fell at her feet and exclaimed, ‘It was wrong—shameful to threaten you, Goualeuse, for I am stronger than you! You are not afraid of my knife; you are bold—brave! I like brave people; and now, from this day forth, if any dare to molest you, let them beware, for I will defend you.’”

“What a singular being!”

“This incident strengthened La Goualeuse’s influence still more and more. A thing almost unexampled here, none of the prisoners accost her familiarly. The majority are respectful to her, and even proffer to do for her all the little services that prisoners can render to one another. I spoke to some of the women of her dormitory, to learn the reason of this deference which was evinced towards her. ‘It is hardly explicable to ourselves,’ they replied; ‘but it is easy to perceive she is not one of us.’ ‘But who told you so?’ ‘No one told us; it is easy to discover it.’ ‘By what?’ ‘By a thousand things. In the first place, before she goes to bed, she goes down on her knees and says her prayers; and if she pray, as La Louve says, why, she must have a right to do so.’”

“What a strange observation!”

“These unhappy creatures have no religious feeling, and still they never utter here an impious or irreligious word. You will see, madame, in all our rooms small altars, where the statue of the Virgin is surrounded withofferings and ornaments which they have made. Every Sunday they burn a quantity of wax candles before them in ex-voto. Those who attend the chapel behave remarkably well; but generally the very sight of holy places frightens them. To return to La Goualeuse; her companions said to me, ‘We see that she is not one of us, by her gentle ways, her sadness, and the manner in which she talks.’ ‘And then,’ added La Louve (who was present at this conversation), abruptly, ‘it is quite certain that she is not one of us, for this morning, in the dormitory, without knowing why, we were all ashamed of dressing ourselves before her.’”

“What remarkable delicacy in the midst of so much degradation!” exclaimed Madame d’Harville.

“Yes, madame, in the presence of men, and amongst themselves, modesty is unknown to them, and yet they are painfully confused at being seen half dressed by us or the charitable visitors who come, like your ladyship, to the prison. Thus the profound instinct of modesty, which God has implanted in us, reveals itself even in these fallen creatures, at the sight of those persons whom they can respect.”

“It is at least consolatory to find some good and natural feelings, which are stronger even than depravity.”

“Assuredly it is; and these women are capable of devoted attachments which, were they worthily placed, would be most honourable. There is also another sacred feeling with them, who respect nothing, fear nothing, and that is maternity. They honour it, rejoice at it; and they are admirable mothers, considering nothing a sacrifice to keep their children near them. They will undergo any trouble, difficulty, or danger that they may bring them up; for, as they say, these little beings are the only ones who do not despise them.”

“Have they, then, so deep a sense of their abject condition?”

“They are not half so much despised by others as they despise themselves. With those who sincerely repent, the original blot of sin is ineffaceable in their own eyes, even if they should find themselves in a better position; others go mad, so irremediably is this idea imprinted in their minds; and I should not be surprised, madame, if the heartfelt grief of La Goualeuse is attributable to something of this nature.”

“If so, how she must suffer!—a remorse which nothing can soothe!”

“Fortunately, madame, this remorse is more frequent than is commonly believed. The avenging conscience is never completely lulled to sleep; or, rather, strange as it may appear, sometimes it would seem that the soul is awake whilst the body is in a stupor; and this remark I again made last night in reference to my protégée.”

“What! La Goualeuse?”

“Yes, madame.”

“In what way?”

“Frequently, when the prisoners are asleep, I walk through the dormitories. You would scarcely believe, my lady, how the countenances of these women differ in expression whilst they are slumbering. A good number of them, whom I have seen during the day, saucy, careless, bold, insolent, have appeared entirely changed when sleep has removed from their features all exaggeration of bravado; for, alas, vice has its pride! Oh, madame, what sad revelations on those dejected, mournful, and gloomy faces! What painful sighs, involuntarily elicited by some dream. I was speaking to your ladyship just now of the girl they call La Louve,—an untamed, untamable creature. It is but a fortnight since that she abused me in the vilest terms before all the prisoners. I shrugged up my shoulders, and my indifference whetted her rage. Then, in order to offend me more sorely, she began to say all sorts of disgraceful thingsof my mother, whom she had often seen come here to visit me.”

“What a shameful creature!”

“I confess that, although this attack was not worth minding, yet it made me feel uncomfortable. La Louve perceived this, and rejoiced in it. The same night, about midnight, I went to inspect the dormitories; I went to La Louve’s bedside (she was not to be put in the dark cell until next day) and I was struck with her calmness,—I might say the sweetness of her countenance,—compared with the harsh and daring expression which is habitual to it. Her features seemed suppliant, filled with regret and contrition; her lips were half open, her breast seemed oppressed, and—what appeared to me incredible, for I thought it impossible—two tears, two large tears, were in the eyes of this woman, whose disposition was of iron! I looked at her in silence for several minutes, when I heard her say, ‘Pardon! Pardon! Her mother!’ I listened more attentively, but all I could catch, in the midst of a murmur scarcely intelligible, was my name, ‘Madame Armand,’ uttered with a sigh.”

“She repented, during her sleep, of having uttered this bad language about your mother.”

“So I believe; and that made me less severe. No doubt she desired, through a miserable vanity, to increase her natural insolence in her companions’ eyes, whilst, perhaps, a good instinct made her repent in her sleep.”

“And did she evince any repentance for her bad behaviour next day?”

“Not the slightest, but conducted herself as usual, and was coarse, rude, and obstinate; but I assure your ladyship that nothing disposes us more to pity than the observations I have mentioned to you. I am persuaded (I may deceive myself, perhaps) that, during their sleep, these unfortunates become better, or rather return to themselves, with all their faults, it is true, but alsowith certain good instincts, no longer masked by the detestable assumption of vice. From all I have observed, I am led to believe that these creatures are generally less wicked than they affect to be; and, acting upon this conviction, I have often attained results it would have been impossible to realise, if I had entirely despaired of them.”

Madame d’Harville could not conceal her surprise at so much good sense, and so much just reasoning, joined to sentiments of humanity so noble and so practical, in an obscure inspectress of degraded women.

“But my dear madame,” observed Clémence, “you must have a great deal of courage, and much strength of mind, not to be repulsed by the ungratefulness of the task, which must so very seldom reward you by satisfactory results!”

“The consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and encourages, and sometimes we are recompensed by happy discoveries; now and then we find some rays of light in hearts which have hitherto been supposed to be in utter darkness.”

“Yet, madame, persons like you are very rarely met with?”

“No, I assure your ladyship, others do as I do, with more success and intelligence than I have. One of the inspectresses of the other division of St. Lazare, which is occupied by females charged with different crimes, would interest you much more. She told me this morning of the arrival of a young girl accused of infanticide. I never heard anything more distressing. The father of the unhappy girl, a hard-working, honest lapidary, has gone mad with grief on hearing his daughter’s shame. It seems that nothing could be more frightful than the destitution of all this family, who lived in a wretched garret in the Rue du Temple.”

“The Rue du Temple!” exclaimed Madame d’Harville, much astonished; “what is the workman’s name?”

“His daughter’s name is Louise Morel.”

“‘Tis as I thought, then!”

“She was in the service of a respectable lawyer named M. Jacques Ferrand.”

“This poor family has been recommended to me,” said Clémence, blushing; “but I was far from expecting to see it bowed down by this fresh and terrible blow. And Louise Morel—”

“Declares her innocence, and affirms her child was born dead; and it seems as if hers were accents of truth. Since your ladyship takes an interest in this family, if you would be so good as to see the poor girl, perhaps this mark of your kindness might soothe her despair, which they tell me is really alarming.”

“Certainly I will see her; then I shall have two protégées instead of one, Louise Morel and La Goualeuse, for all you tell me relative to this poor girl interests me excessively. But what must be done to obtain her liberty? I will then find a situation for her. I will take care of her in future.”

“With your connections, madame, it will be very easy for you to obtain her liberty the day after to-morrow, for it is at the discretion of the Prefect of Police, and the application of a person of consequence would be decisive with him. But I have wandered from the observation which I made on the slumber of La Goualeuse; and, with reference to this, I must confess that I should not be astonished if, to the deeply painful feeling of her first error, there is added some other grief no less severe.”

“What mean you, madame?”

“Perhaps I am deceived; but I should not be astonished if this young girl, rescued by some circumstance from the degradation in which she was first plunged, has now some honest love, which is at the same time her happiness and her torment.”

“What are your reasons for believing this?”

“The determined silence which she keeps as to whereshe has passed the three months which followed her departure from the Cité makes me think that she fears being discovered by the persons with whom she in all probability found a shelter.”

“Why should she fear this?”

“Because then she would have to own to a previous life, of which they are no doubt ignorant.”

“True; her peasant’s dress.”

“And then a subsequent circumstance has confirmed my suspicions. Yesterday evening, when I was walking my round of inspection in the dormitory, I went up to La Goualeuse’s bed. She was in a deep sleep, and, unlike her companions, her features were calm and tranquil. Her long, light hair, half disengaged from their bands, fell in profusion down her neck and shoulders. Her two small hands were clasped, and crossed over her bosom, as if she had gone to sleep whilst praying. I looked for some moments with interest at her lovely face, when, in a low voice, and with an accent at once respectful, sad, and impassioned, she uttered a name.”

“And that name?”

After a moment’s silence, Madame Armand replied, gravely:

“Although I consider that anything learnt during sleep is sacred, yet you interest yourself so generously in this unfortunate girl, madame, that I will confide this name to your secrecy. It was Rodolph.”

“Rodolph!” exclaimed Madame d’Harville, thinking of the prince. Then, reflecting that, after all, his highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein could have no connection with the Rodolph of the poor Goualeuse, she said to the inspectress, who seemed astonished at her exclamation:

“The name has surprised me, madame, for, by a singular chance, it is that of a relation of mine; but what you tell me of La Goualeuse interests me more and more. Can I see her to-day? now—directly?”

“Yes, madame, I will go, as you wish it, and ask her; I can also learn more of Louise Morel, who is in the other side of the prison.”

“I shall, indeed, be greatly obliged to you, madame,” replied Madame d’Harville, who the next moment was alone.

“How strange!” she said. “I cannot account for the singular impression which this name of Rodolph makes upon me! I am really quite insane! What connection can there be between him and such a creature?” Then, after a moment’s silence, the marchioness added, “He was right; how all this does interest me! The mind, the heart, expand when they are occupied so nobly! ‘Tis as he said; we seem to participate somewhat in the power of Providence when we aid those who deserve it; and, then, these excursions into a world of which we had no idea are so attractive,—so amusing, as he said so pleasantly! What romance could give me such deep feelings, excite my curiosity to such a pitch? This poor Goualeuse, for instance, has inspired me with deep pity, after all I have heard of her; and I will blindly follow up this commiseration, for the inspectress has too much experience to be deceived with respect to our protégée. And the other unhappy girl,—the artisan’s daughter, whom the prince has so generously succoured in my name! Poor people! their bitter suffering has served as a pretext to save me. I have escaped shame, perhaps death, by a hypocritical falsehood. This deceit weighs on my mind, but I will expiate my fault by my charity, though that may be too easy a mode. It is so sweet to follow Rodolph’s noble advice! It is to love as well as to obey him. Oh, I feel it with rapture! His breath, alone, animates and fertilises the new existence which he has given me in directing me to console those who suffer. I experience an unalloyed delight in acting but as he directs, in having no ideas but his; for I love him,—ah, yes, I love him! And yet he shall always be in ignorance of this, the lasting passion of my life.”

Whilst Madame d’Harville is waiting for La Goualeuse, we will conduct the reader into the presence of the prisoners.

CHAPTER X.
MONT SAINT-JEAN.

It was just two o’clock by the dial of the prison of St. Lazare. The cold, which had lasted for several days, had been succeeded by soft, mild, and almost spring weather; the rays of the sun were reflected in the water of the large square basin, with its stone corners, formed in the centre of a courtyard planted with trees, and surrounded by dark, high walls pierced with a great many iron-barred windows. Wooden benches were fastened here and there in this large paved enclosure, which served for the walking-place of the prisoners. The ringing of a bell announcing the hour of recreation, the prisoners came in throngs by a thick wicket-door which was opened to them. These women, all clad alike, wore black skull-caps and long loose gowns of blue woollen cloth, fastened around the waist by a band and iron buckle. There were there two hundred prostitutes, sentenced for breach of the particular laws which control them and place them out of the pale of the common law. At first sight their appearance had nothing striking, but, after regarding them with further attention, there might be detected in each face the almost ineffaceable stigmas of vice, and particularly that brutishness which ignorance and misery invariably engender. Whilst contemplating these masses of lost creatures, we cannot help recollecting with sorrow that most of them have been pure and honest, at least at some former period. We say “most of them,” because there are some who have been corrupted, vitiated, depraved, not only from theiryouth, but from tenderest infancy,—even from their very birth, if we may say so; and we shall prove it as we proceed.

We ask ourselves, then, with painful curiosity, what chain of fatal causes could thus debase these unhappy creatures, who have known shame and chastity? There are so many declivities, alas, which verge to that fall! It is rarely the passion of the depraved for depravity; but dissipation, bad example, perverse education, and, above all, want, which lead so many unfortunates to infamy; and it is the poor classes alone who pay to civilisation this impost on soul and body.

When the prisoners came into the yard, running and crying out, it was easy to discern that it was not alone the pleasure of leaving their work that made them so noisy. After having hurried forth by the only gate which led to this yard, the crowd spread out and made a ring around a misshapen being, whom they assailed with shouts. She was a small woman, from thirty-six to forty years of age; short, round-shouldered, deformed, and with her neck buried between shoulders of unequal height. They had snatched off her black cap, and her hair, which was flaxen, or rather a pale yellow, coarse, matted, and mingled with gray, fell over her low and stupid features. She was clad in a blue loose gown, like the other prisoners, and had under her right arm a small bundle, wrapped up in a miserable, ragged, checked pocket-handkerchief. With her left elbow she endeavoured to ward off the blows aimed at her. Nothing could be more lamentably ludicrous than the visage of this unhappy woman. She was hideous and distorted in figure, with projecting features, wrinkled, tanned, and dirty, which were pierced with two holes for nostrils, and two small, red, bloodshot eyes. By turns wrathful and imploring, she scolded and entreated; but they laughed even more at her complaints than her threats.This woman was the plaything of the prisoners. One thing ought, however, to have protected her from such ill-usage,—she was evidently about to become a mother; but her ugliness, her imbecility, and the custom they had of considering her as a victim intended for common sport, rendered her persecutors implacable, in spite of their usual respect for maternity.

Amongst the fiercest enemies of Mont Saint-Jean (that was the unhappy wretch’s name), La Louve was conspicuous. La Louve was a strapping girl of twenty, active, and powerfully grown, with regular features. Her coarse black hair was varied by reddish shades, whilst her blood suffused her skin with its hue; a brown down shaded her thin lips; her chestnut eyebrows, thick and projecting, were united over her large and fierce eyes. There was something violent, savage, and brutal in the expression of this woman’s physiognomy,—a sort of habitual sneer, which curled her upper lip during a fit of rage, and, exposing her white and wide-apart teeth, accounted for her name of La Louve (the she-wolf). Yet in that countenance there was more of boldness and insolence than cruelty; and, in a word, it was seen that, rather become vicious than born so, this woman was still susceptible of certain good impulses, as the inspectress had told Madame d’Harville.

“Alas! alas! What have I done?” exclaimed Mont Saint-Jean, struggling in the midst of her companions. “Why are you so cruel to me?”

“Because it is so amusing.”

“Because you are only fit to be teased.”

“It is your business.”

“Look at yourself, and you will see that you have no right to complain.”

“But you know well enough that I don’t complain as long as I can help it; I bear it as long as I can.”

“Well, we’ll let you alone, if you will tell us why you call yourself Mont Saint-Jean.”

“Yes, yes; come, tell us all that directly.”

“Why, I’ve told you a hundred times. It was an old soldier that I loved a long while ago, and who was called so because he was wounded at the battle of Mont Saint-Jean; so I took his name. That’s it; now are you satisfied? You will make me repeat the same thing over, and over, and over!”

“If your soldier was like you, he was a beauty!”

“I suppose he was in the Invalids?”

“The remains of a man—”

“How many glass eyes had he?”

“And wasn’t his nose of block tin?”

“He must have been short of two arms and two legs, besides being deaf and blind, if he took up with you.”

“I am ugly,—a monster, I know that as well as you can tell me. Say what you like,—make game of me, if you choose, it’s all one to me; only don’t beat me, that’s all, I beg!”

“What have you got in that old handkerchief?” asked La Louve.

“Yes, yes! What is it?”

“Show it up directly!”

“Let’s see! Let’s see!”

“Oh, no, I beg!” exclaimed the miserable creature, squeezing up the little bundle in her hands with all her might.

“What! Must we take it from you?”

“Yes, snatch it from her, La Louve!”

“Oh, you won’t be so wicked? Let it go! Let it go, I say!”

“What is it?”

“Why, it’s the beginning of my baby linen; I make it with the old bits of linen which no one wants, and I pick up. It’s nothing to you, is it?”

“Oh, the baby linen of Mont Saint-Jean’s little one! That must be a rum set out!”

“Let’s look at it.”

“The baby clothes! The baby clothes!”

“She has taken measure of the keeper’s little dog, no doubt.”

“Here’s your baby clothes,” cried La Louve, snatching the bundle from Mont Saint-Jean’s grasp.

The handkerchief, already torn, was now rent to tatters, and a quantity of fragments of stuff of all colours, and old pieces of linen half cut out, flew around the yard, and were trampled under feet by the prisoners, who holloaed and laughed louder than before.

“Here’s your rags!”

“Why, it is a ragpicker’s bag.”

“Patterns from the ragman’s.”

“What a shop!”

“And to sew all that rubbish!”

“Why, there’s more thread than stuff.”

“What nice embroidery!”

“Here, pick up your rags and tatters, Mont Saint-Jean.”

“Oh, how wicked! Oh, how cruel!” exclaimed the poor ill-used creature, running in every direction after the pieces, which she endeavoured to pick up in spite of pushes and blows. “I never did anybody any harm,” she added, weeping. “I have offered, if they would let me alone, to do anything I could for anybody, to give them half my allowance, although I am always so hungry; but, no! no! it’s always so. What can I do to be left in peace? They haven’t even pity of a poor woman in the family way. They are more cruel than the beasts. Oh, the trouble I had to collect these little bits of linen! How else can I make the clothes for my baby, for I have no money to buy them with? What harm was there in picking up what nobody else wanted when it was thrown away?” Then Mont Saint-Jean exclaimed suddenly, with a ray of hope, “Oh, there you are, Goualeuse! Now, then, I’m safe; do speak to them for me; they will listen to you, I am sure, for they love you as much as they hate me.”

La Goualeuse was the last of the prisoners who entered the enclosure.

Fleur-de-Marie wore the blue woollen gown and black skull-cap of the prisoners; but even in this coarse costume she was still charming. Yet, since her carrying off from the farm of Bouqueval (the consequences of which circumstance we will explain hereafter), her features seemed greatly altered; her pale cheeks, formerly tinged with a slight colour, were as wan as the whiteness of alabaster; the expression, too, of her countenance had changed, and was now imprinted with a kind of dignified grief. Fleur-de-Marie felt that to bear courageously the painful sacrifices of expiation is almost to attain restored position.

“Ask a favour for me, Goualeuse,” said poor Mont Saint-Jean, beseechingly, to the young girl; “see how they are flinging about the yard all I had collected, with so much trouble, to begin my baby linen for my child. What good can it do them?”

Fleur-de-Marie did not say a word, but began very actively to pick up, one by one, from under the women’s feet, all the rags she could collect. One prisoner ill-temperedly kept her foot on a sort of little bed-gown of coarse woollen cloth. Fleur-de-Marie, still stooping, looked up at the woman, and said to her in a sweet tone:

“I beg of you let me pick it up. I ask it in the name of this poor woman who is weeping.”

The prisoner removed her foot. The bed-gown was rescued, as well as most of the other scraps, which La Goualeuse acquired piece by piece. There remained to obtain a small child’s cap, which two prisoners were struggling for, and laughing at. Fleur-de-Marie said to them:

“Be all good, pray do. Let me have the little cap.”

“Oh, to be sure! It’s for a harlequin in swaddling-clothes this cap is! It is made of a bit of gray stuff,with points of green and black fustian, and lined with a bit of an old mattress cover.”

The description was exact, and was hailed with loud and long-continued shoutings.

“Laugh away, but let me have it,” said Mont Saint-Jean; “and pray do not drag it in the mud as you have some of the other things. I’m sorry you’ve made your hands so dirty for me, Goualeuse,” she added, in a grateful tone.

“Let me have the harlequin’s cap,” said La Louve, who obtained possession of it, and waved it in the air as a trophy.

“Give it to me, I entreat you,” said Goualeuse.

“No! You want to give it back to Mont Saint-Jean.”

“Certainly I do.”

“Oh, it is not worth while, it is such a rag.”

“Mont Saint-Jean has nothing but rags to dress her child in, and you ought to have pity upon her, La Louve,” said Fleur-de-Marie, in a mournful voice, and stretching out her hand towards the cap.

“You sha’n’t have it!” answered La Louve, in a brutal tone; “must everybody always give way to you because you are the weakest? You come, I see, to abuse the kindness that is shown to you.”

“But,” said La Goualeuse, with a smile full of sweetness, “where would be the merit of giving up to me, if I were the stronger of the two?”

“No, no; you want to wheedle me over with your smooth, canting words; but it won’t do,—you sha’n’t have it, I tell you.”

“Come, come, now, La Louve, do not be ill-natured.”

“Let me alone! You tire me to death!”

“Oh, pray do!”

“I will not!”

“Yes, do,—let me beg of you!”

“Now, don’t put me in a passion,” exclaimed La Louve, thoroughly irritated. “I have said no, and I mean no.”

“Take pity on the poor thing, see how she is crying!”

“What is that to me? So much the worse for her; she is our pain-bearer” (souffre douleur).

“So she is,” murmured out a number of the prisoners, instigated by the example of La Louve. “No, no, she ought not to have her rags back! So much the worse for Mont Saint-Jean.”

“You are right,” said Fleur-de-Marie, with bitterness; “it is so much the worse for her; she is your pain-bearer, she ought to submit herself to your pleasure,—her tears and sighs amuse and divert you!—and you must have some way of passing your time. Were you to kill her on the spot, she would have no right to say anything. You speak truly, La Louve, this is just and fair, is it not? Here is a poor, weak, defenceless woman; alone in the midst of so many, she is quite unable to defend herself, yet you all combine against her! Certainly your behaviour towards her is most just and generous!”

“And I suppose you mean to say we are all a parcel of cowards?” retorted La Louve, carried away by the violence of her disposition and extreme impatience at anything like contradiction. “Answer me, do you call us cowards, eh? Speak out, and let us know your meaning,” continued she, growing more and more incensed.

A murmur of displeasure against La Goualeuse, not unmixed with threats, arose from the assembled crowd. The offended prisoners thronged around her, vociferating their disapprobation, forgetting, or remembering but as a fresh cause of offence, the ascendency she had until the present moment exercised over them.

“She calls us cowards, you see!”

“What business has she to find fault with us?”

“Is she better than we are, I should like to know?”

“Ah, we have all been too kind to her!”

“And now she wants to give herself fine lady airs, and to domineer over us! If we choose to torment Mont Saint-Jean, what need has she to interfere?”

“Since it has come to this, I tell you what, Mont Saint-Jean, you shall fare the worse for it for the future.”

“Take this to begin with!” said one of the most violent of the party, giving her a blow.

“And if you meddle again with what does not concern you, La Goualeuse, we will serve you the same.”

“Yes, that we will.”

“But that is not all!” said La Louve. “La Goualeuse must ask our pardon for having called us cowards. She must and she shall! If we don’t put a stop to her goings on, she will soon leave us without the power of saying our soul is our own, and we are great fools not to have seen this sooner.”

“Make her ask our pardon.”

“On her knee.”

“On both knees.”

“Or we will serve her precisely the same as we did her protégée, Mont Saint-Jean!”

“Down on her knees! Down with her!”

“Lo! we are cowards, are we?”

“Dare to say it again!”

Fleur-de-Marie allowed this tumult to pass away, ere she replied to the many furious voices that were raging around her. Then, casting a mild and melancholy glance at the exasperated crowd, she said to La Louve, who persisted in vociferating, “Will you dare to call us cowards again?”

“You? Oh, no, not you! I call this poor woman, whom you have so roughly treated, whom you have dragged through the mud, and whose clothes you have nearly torn off, a coward. Do you not see how she trembles, and dares not even look at you? No, no! I say again, ‘tis she who is a coward, for being thus afraid of you.”

Fleur-de-Marie had touched the right chord; in vain might she have appealed to their sense of justice and duty, in order to allay their bitter irritation against poorMont Saint-Jean; the stupid or brutalised minds of the prisoners would alike have been inaccessible to her pleadings; but, by addressing herself to that sentiment of generosity, which is never wholly extinct, even in the most depraved characters, she kindled a spark of pity, that required but skilful management to fan into a flame of commiseration, instead of hatred and violence. La Louve, amid their continued murmurings against La Goualeuse and her protégée, felt, and confessed, that their conduct had been both unwomanly and cowardly.

Fleur-de-Marie would not carry her first triumph too far. She contented herself with merely saying:

“Surely, if this poor creature, whom you call yours, to tease, to torment, to ill-use,—in fact, your souffre douleur,—be not worthy of your pity, her infant has done nothing to offend you. Did you forget, when striking the mother, that the unborn babe might suffer from your blows? And when she besought your mercy, ‘twas not for herself, but her child. When she craves of you a morsel of bread, if, indeed, you have it to spare, ‘tis not to satisfy her own hunger she begs it, but that her infant may live; and when, with streaming eyes, she implored of you to spare the few rags she had with so much difficulty collected together, it arose from a mother’s love for that unseen treasure her heart so loves and prizes. This poor little patchwork cap, and the pieces of old mattresses she has so awkwardly sewed together, no doubt appear to you fit objects of mirth; but, for my own part, I feel far more inclined to cry than to laugh at seeing the poor creature’s instinctive attempts to provide for her babe. So, if you laugh at Mont Saint-Jean, let me come in for my share of your ridicule.”

Not the faintest attempt at a smile appeared on any countenance, and La Louve continued, with fixed gaze, to contemplate the little cap she still held in her hand.

“I know very well,” said Fleur-de-Marie, drying hereyes with the back of her white and delicate hand,—“I know very well that you are not really ill-natured or cruel, and that you merely torment Mont Saint-Jean from thoughtlessness. But consider that she and her infant are one. If she held it in her arms, not only would you carefully avoid doing it the least injury, but I am quite sure, if it were cold, you would even take from your own garments to cover it. Would not you, La Louve? Oh, I know you would, every one of you!”

“To be sure we would,—every one pities a tender baby.”

“That is quite natural.”

“And if it cried with hunger, you would take the bread from your own mouth to feed it with. Would not you, La Louve?”

“That I would, and willingly, too! I am not more hard-hearted than other people!”

“Nor more are we!”

“A poor, helpless, little creature!”

“Who could have the heart to think of harming it?”

“They must be downright monsters!”

“Perfect savages!”

“Worse than wild beasts!”

“I told you so,” resumed Fleur-de-Marie. “I said you were not intentionally unkind; and you have proved that you are good and pitying towards Mont Saint-Jean. The fault consisted in your not reflecting that, although her child is yet unborn, it is still liable to harm from any mischief that befalls its mother. That is all the wrong you have done.”

“All the wrong we have done!” exclaimed La Louve, much excited. “But I say it is not all. You were right, La Goualeuse. We acted like a set of cowards; and you alone deserve to be called courageous, because you did not fear to tell us so, or shrink from us after you had told us. It is nonsense to seek to denythe fact that you are not a creature like us,—it is no use trying to persuade ourselves you are like such beings as we are, so we may as well give it up. I don’t like to own it, but it is so; and I may just as well confess it. Just now, when we were all in the wrong, you had courage enough, not only to refuse to join us, but to tell us of our fault.”

“That is true enough; and the fair-faced girl must have had a pretty stock of courage to tell us the truth so plainly to our faces.”

“But, bless you, these blue-eyed people, who look so soft and gentle, if once they are worked up—”

“They become courageous as lions.”

“Poor Mont Saint-Jean! She has good reason to be thankful to her!”

“What she says is true enough. We could not injure the mother without harming the child also.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Nor I either.”

“But you see La Goualeuse did,—she never forgets anything.”

“The idea of hurting an infant! horrible! Is it not?”

“I’m sure there is not one of us would do it for anything that could be offered us.”

Nothing is more variable than popular passion, or more abrupt than its rapid transition from bad to good, and even the reverse. The simple yet touching arguments of Fleur-de-Marie had effected a powerful reaction in favour of Mont Saint-Jean, who shed tears of deep joy. Every heart seemed moved; for, as we have already said, the womanly feelings of the prisoners had been awakened, and they now felt a solicitude for the unhappy creature in proportion as they had formerly held her in dislike and contempt. All at once, La Louve, violent and impetuous in all her actions, twisted the little cap she held in her hand into a sort of purse, and feeling in her pocket brought out twenty sous, whichshe threw into the purse; then presenting it to her companions, exclaimed:

“Here is my twenty sous towards buying baby clothes for Mont Saint-Jean’s child. We will cut them out and make them ourselves, in order that the work may cost nothing.”

“Oh, yes, let us.”

“To be sure,—let us all join!”

“I will for one.”

“What a capital idea!”

“Poor creature!”

“Though she is so frightfully ugly, yet she has a mother’s feelings the same as another.”

“La Goualeuse was right. It is really enough to make one cry one’s eyes out, to see what a wretched collection of rags the poor creature has scraped together for her baby.”

“Well, I’ll give thirty sous.”

“And I ten.”

“I’ll give twenty sous.”

“I’ve only got four sous, but I’ll give them.”

“I have no money at all; but I’ll sell my allowance for to-morrow, and put whatever any one will give for it into the collection. Who’ll buy my to-morrow’s rations?”

“I will,” said La Louve. “So, here I put in ten sous for you; but you shall keep your rations. And now, Mont Saint-Jean shall have baby clothes fit for a princess.”

To express the joy and gratitude of Mont Saint-Jean would be wholly impossible. The most intense delight and happiness illumined her countenance, and rendered even her usual hideous features interesting. Fleur-de-Marie was almost as happy, though compelled to say, when La Louve handed to her the collecting-cap:

“I am very sorry I have not a single sou of money, but I will work as long as you please at making the clothes.”

“Oh, my dear heavenly angel!” cried Mont Saint-Jean, throwing herself on her knees before La Goualeuse, and striving to kiss her hand. “What have I ever done to merit such goodness on your part, or the charity of these kind ladies? Gracious Father! Do I hear aright? Baby things! and all nice and comfortable for my child! A real, proper set of baby clothes! Everything I can require! Who would ever have thought of such a thing? I am sure I never should. I shall lose my senses with joy! Only to think that a poor, miserable wretch like myself, the make-game of everybody, should all at once, just because you spoke a few soft, sweet words out of that heavenly mouth, have such wonderful blessings! See how your words have changed those who meant to harm me, but who now pity me and are my friends; and I feel as though I could never thank them enough, or express my gratitude! Oh, how very, very kind of them! How wrong of me to be offended and angry with what they said! How stupid and ungrateful I must have been not to perceive that they were only playing with me,—that they had no intention of harming me. Oh, no! It was all meant for my good. Here is a proof of it. Oh, for the future, if they like to knock me about ever so, I will not so much as cry out! Oh, I was too impatient when I complained before; but I will make up for it next time!”

“Eighty-eight francs seven sous!” said La Louve, finishing her reckoning of the collection gathered by handing about the little bonnet. “Who will be treasurer till we lay out the money? We must not entrust it to Mont Saint-Jean, she is too simple.”

“Let La Goualeuse take charge of it!” cried a unanimous burst of voices.

“No,” said Fleur-de-Marie; “the best way will be to beg of the inspectress, Madame Armand, to take charge of the sum collected, and to buy the necessary articles for Mont Saint-Jean’s confinement; and then,—who knows?—perhaps Madame Armand may take notice of the good action you have performed, and report it, so as to be the means of shortening the imprisonment of all whose names are mentioned as being concerned in it. Tell me, La Louve,” added Fleur-de-Marie, taking her companion by the arm, “are you not better satisfied with yourself than you were just now, when you were throwing about all Mont Saint-Jean’s poor baby’s things?”

La Louve did not immediately reply. To the generous excitement which a few moments before animated her features, succeeded a sort of half savage air of defiance. Unable to comprehend the cause of this sudden change, Fleur-de-Marie looked at her with surprise.

“Come here, La Goualeuse,” said La Louve at last, with a gloomy tone; “I want to speak to you.”

Then abruptly quitting the other prisoners, she led Fleur-de-Marie to a reservoir of water, surrounded by a stone coping, which had been hollowed out in the midst of an adjoining meadow. Near the water was a bench, also of stone, on which La Louve and La Goualeuse placed themselves, and were thus, in a manner, beyond the observation or hearing of their companions.

CHAPTER XI.
LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE.

We firmly believe in the influence of certain master minds so far sympathising with the masses, so powerful over them as to impose on them the bias of good or evil. Some, bold, enthusiastic, indomitable, addressing themselves to the worst passions, will rouse them, as the storm raises the foam of the sea; but, like all tempests, these are as ephemeral as they are furious; to these terrible effervescences will succeed the sullen reversion of sadness and restlessness, which will obtain supremacy over the most miserable conditions. The reaction of violence is always severe; the waking after an excess is always painful.

La Louve, if you will, personifies this fatal influence.

Other organisations, more rare, because their generous instincts must be fertilised by intelligence, and with them the mind is on an equality with the heart,—others, we say, will inspire good, as well as some inspire evil. Their wholesome influence will gently penetrate into the soul, as the warm rays of the sun penetrate the body with invigorating heat, as the arid and burning earth imbibes the fresh and grateful dew of night.

Fleur-de-Marie, if you will, personifies this benevolent influence.

The reaction to good is not so sudden as the reaction to evil; its effects are more protracted. It is something delicious, inexplicable, which gradually extends itself,calms and soothes the most hardened heart, and gives it the feeling of inexpressible serenity. Unfortunately the charm ceases.

After having seen celestial brightness, ill-disposed persons fall back into the darkness of their habitual life; the recollections of sweet emotions which have for a moment surprised them are gradually effaced. Still they sometimes seek vaguely to recall them, even as we try to murmur out the songs with which our happy infancy was cradled. Thanks to the good action with which she had inspired them, the companions of La Goualeuse had tasted of the passing sweetness of these feelings, in which even La Louve had participated; but this latter, for reasons we shall describe hereafter, remained a shorter time than the other prisoners under this benevolent feeling. If we are surprised to hear and see Fleur-de-Marie, hitherto so passively, so painfully resigned, act and speak with courage and authority, it was because the noble precepts she had imbibed during her residence at the farm at Bouqueval had rapidly developed the rare qualities of her admirable disposition. Fleur-de-Marie understood that it is not sufficient to bewail the irreparable past, and that it is only in doing or inspiring good that a reinstatement can be hoped for.

We have said that La Louve was sitting on a wooden bench, beside La Goualeuse. The close proximity of these two young girls offered a singular contrast.

The pale rays of a winter sun were shed over them; the pure sky was speckled in places with small, white, and fleecy clouds; some birds, enlivened by the warmth of the temperature, were warbling in the black branches of the large chestnut-trees in the yard; two or three sparrows, more bold than their fellows, came and drank in a small rivulet formed by the overflow of the basin; the green moss covered the stones of the fountain, and between their joints, here and there, were tufts of grassand some small creepers, spared by the frost. This description of a prison-basin may seem puerile; but Fleur-de-Marie did not lose one of the details, but with her eyes fixed mournfully on the little verdant corner, and on this limpid water in which the moving whiteness of the clouds over the azure of the heavens was reflected, in which the golden rays of a lovely sun broke with beautiful lustre, she thought with a sigh of the magnificence of the Nature which she loved, which she admired so poetically, and of which she was still deprived.

“What did you wish to say to me?” asked La Goualeuse of her companion, who, seated beside her, was gloomy and silent.

“We must have an explanation,” said La Louve, sternly; “things cannot go on as they are.”

“I do not understand you, La Louve.”

“Just now, in the yard, referring to Mont Saint-Jean, I said to myself, ‘I won’t give way any more to La Goualeuse,’ and yet I do give way now.”

“But—”

“But I tell you it cannot continue so.”

“In what have I offended you, La Louve?”

“Why, I am not the same person I was when you came here; no, I have neither courage, strength, nor boldness.”

Then suddenly checking herself, La Louve pulled up the sleeve of her gown, and showing La Goualeuse her white arm, powerful, and covered with black down, she showed her, on the upper part of it, an indelible tattooing, representing a blue dagger half plunged in a red heart; over this emblem were these words:

MORT AUX LÂCHES!
MARTIAL
P. L. V. (pour la vie.)
(DEATH TO COWARDS!
MARTIAL
FOR LIFE!)

“Do you see that?” asked La Louve.

“Yes; and it is so shocking, it quite frightens me,” said La Goualeuse, turning away her head.

“When Martial, my lover, wrote, with a red-hot needle, these words on my arm, ‘Death to Cowards!’ he thought me brave; if he knew my behaviour for the last three days, he would stick his knife in my body, as this dagger is driven into this heart,—and he would be right, for he wrote here, ‘Death to Cowards!’ and I am a coward.”

“What have you done that is cowardly?”

“Everything.”

“Do you regret the good resolution you made just now?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot believe you.”

“I say I do regret it,—for it is another proof of what you can do with all of us. Didn’t you understand what Mont Saint-Jean meant when she went on her knees to thank you?”

“What did she say?”

“She said, speaking of you, that with nothing you turned us from evil to good. I could have throttled her when she said it, for, to our shame, it was true. Yes, in no time you change us from black to white. We listen to you,—give way to our first feelings, and are your dupes, as we were just now.”

“My dupe! for having generously succoured this poor woman?”

“Oh, it has nothing to do with all that,” exclaimed La Louve, with rage. “I have never till now stooped my head before a breathing soul. La Louve is my name, and I am well named: more than one woman bears my marks, and more than one man, too; and it shall never be said that a little chit like you can place me beneath her feet.”

“Me! and in what way?”

“How do I know! You come here, and first begin by insulting me.”

“Insult you?”

“Yes,—you ask who’ll have your bread. I first say—I.Mont Saint-Jean did not ask for it till afterwards, and yet you give her the preference. Enraged at that, I rushed at you with my uplifted knife—”

“And I said to you, ‘Kill me, if you like, but do not let me linger long,’ and that is all.”

“That is all? Yes, that is all. And yet these words made me drop my knife,—made me—ask your pardon,—yes, pardon of you who insulted me. Is that natural? Why, when I recovered my senses, I was ashamed of myself. The evening you came here, when you were on your knees to say your prayers,—why, instead of making game of you, and setting all the dormitory on you, did I say, ‘Let her alone; she prays, and has a right to pray?’ Then the next day, why were I and all the others ashamed to dress ourselves before you?”

“I do not know, La Louve.”

“Indeed!” replied the violent creature, with irony. “You don’t know! Why, no doubt, it is because, as we have all of us said, jokingly, that you are of a different sort from us. You think so, don’t you?”

“I have never said that I thought so.”

“No, you have not said so; but you behave just as if it were so.”

“I beg of you to listen to me.”

“No, I have been already too foolish to listen to you—to look at you. Till now, I never envied any one. Well, two or three times I have been surprised at myself. Am I growing a fool or a coward? I have found myself envious of your face, so like the Holy Virgin’s; of your gentle and mournful look. Yes, I have even been envious of your chestnut hair and your blue eyes. I, who detest fair women, because I am darkmyself, wish to resemble you. I! La Louve! I! Why, it is but eight days since, and I would have marked any one who dared but say so. Yet it is not your lot that would tempt one, for you are as full of grief as a Magdalene. Is it natural, I say, eh?”

“How can I account to you for the impression I make upon you?”

“Oh, you know well enough what you do, though you look as if you were too delicate to be touched.”

“What bad design can you suppose me capable of?”

“How can I tell? It is because I do not understand anything of all this that I mistrust you. Another thing, too: until now I have always been merry or passionate, and never thoughtful, but you—you have made me thoughtful. Yes, there are words which you utter, that, in spite of myself, have shaken my very heart, and made me think of all sorts of sad things.”

“I am sorry, La Louve, if I ever made you sad; but I do not remember ever having said anything—”

“Oh,” cried La Louve, interrupting her companion with angry impatience, “what you do is sometimes as affecting as what you say! You are so clever!”

“Do not be angry, La Louve, but explain what you mean.”

“Yesterday, in the workroom, I noticed you,—you bent your head over the work you were sewing, and a large tear fell on your hand. You looked at it for a minute, and then you lifted your hand to your lips, as if to kiss and wipe it away. Is this true?”

“Yes,” said La Goualeuse, blushing.

“There was nothing in this; but at the moment you looked so unhappy, so very miserable, that I felt my very heart turned, as it were, inside out. Tell me, do you find this amusing? Why, now, I have been as hard as flint on all occasions. No one ever saw me shed a tear,—and yet, only looking at your chit face, I felt my heart sinkbasely within me! Yes, for this is baseness,—pure cowardice; and the proof is, that for three days I have not dared to write to Martial, my lover, my conscience is so bad. Yes, being with you has enfeebled my mind, and this must be put an end to,—there’s enough of it; this will else do me mischief, I am sure. I wish to remain as I am, and not become a joke and despised thing to myself.”

“You are angry with me, La Louve?”

“Yes, you are a bad acquaintance for me; and if it continues, why, in a fortnight’s time, instead of calling me the She-wolf, they would call me the Ewe! But no, thank ye, it sha’n’t come to that yet,—Martial would kill me; and so, to make an end of this matter, I will break up all acquaintance with you; and that I may be quite separated from you, I shall ask to be put in another room. If they refuse me, I will do some piece of mischief to put me in wind again, and that I may be sent to the black-hole for the remainder of my time here. And this was what I had to say to you, Goualeuse.”

Timidly taking her companion’s hand, who looked at her with gloomy distrust, Fleur-de-Marie said:

“I am sure, La Louve, that you take an interest in me, not because you are cowardly, but because you are generous-hearted. Brave hearts are the only ones which sympathise in the misfortunes of others.”

“There is neither generosity nor courage in it,” said La Louve, coarsely; “it is downright cowardice. Besides, I don’t choose to have it said that I sympathise with any one. It ain’t true.”

“Then I will not say so, La Louve; but since you have taken an interest in me, you will let me feel grateful to you, will you not?”

“Oh, if you like! This evening, I shall be in another room than yours, or alone in the dark hole, and I shall soon be out, thank God!”

“And where shall you go when you leave here?”

“Why, home, to be sure, to the Rue Pierre-Lescat. I have my furniture there.”

“And Martial?” said La Goualeuse, who hoped to keep up the conversation with La Louve, by interesting her in what she most cared for; “shall you be glad to see him again?”

“Yes, oh, yes!” she replied, with a passionate air. “When I was taken up, he was just recovering from an illness,—a fever which he had from being always in the water. For seventeen days and seventeen nights I never left him for a moment, and I sold half my kit in order to pay the doctor, the drags and all. I may boast of that, and I do boast of it. If my man lives, it is I who saved him. Yesterday I burnt another candle for him. It is folly,—a mere whim,—but yet it is all one, and we have sometimes very good effects in burning candles for a person’s recovery.”

“And, Martial, where is he now? What is he doing?”

“He is still on an island, near the bridge, at Asnières.”

“On an island?”

“Yes, he is settled there, with his family, in a lone house. He is always at loggerheads with the persons who protect the fishing; but when he is once in his boat, with his double-barrelled gun, why, they who approach him had better look out!” said La Louve, proudly.

“What, then, is his occupation?”

“He poaches in the night; and then, as he is as bold as a lion, when some coward wishes to get up a quarrel with another, why, he will lend his hand.”

“Where did you first know Martial?”

“At Paris. He wished to be a locksmith,—a capital business,—always with red-hot iron and fire around you; dangerous you may suppose, but then that suited him. But he, like me, was badly disposed, and could not agree with his master; and then, too, they were always throwinghis father and one of his brothers in his teeth. But that’s nothing to you. The end of it was, that he returned to his mother, who is a very devil in sin and wickedness, and began to poach on the river. He cannot see me at Paris, and in the daytime I go to see him in his island, the Ile du Ravageur, near Asnières. It’s very near; though if it were farther off, I would go all the same, even if I went on my hands and knees, or swam all the way, for I can swim like an otter.”

“You must be very happy to go into the country,” said La Goualeuse, with a sigh; “especially if you are as fond as I am of walking in the fields.”

“I prefer walking in the woods and large forests with my man.”

“In the forests! Oh, ain’t you afraid?”

“Afraid! Oh, yes, afraid! I should think so! What can a she-wolf fear? The thicker and more lonely the forest, the better I should like it. A lone hut in which I should live with Martial as a poacher, to go with him at night to set the snares for the game, and then, if the keepers came to apprehend us, to fire at them, both of us, whilst my man and I were hid in underwood,—ah, that would indeed be happiness!”

“Then you have lived in the woods, La Louve?”

“Never.”

“Who gave you these ideas, then?”

“Martial.”

“How did he acquire them?”

“He was a poacher in the forest of Rambouillet; and it is not a year ago that he was supposed to have fired at a keeper who had fired at him, the vagabond! However, there was no proof of the fact, but Martial was obliged to leave that part of the country. Then he came to Paris to try and be a locksmith, and then I first saw him. As he was too wild to be on good terms with his master, he preferred returning to his relations at Asnières, and poach in the river; it is not so slavish.Still he always regrets the woods, and some day or other will return to them. From his talking to me of poaching and forests, he has crammed my head with these ideas, and I now think that is the life I was born for. But it is always so. What your man likes, you like. If Martial had been a thief, I should have been a thief. When one has a man, we like to be like him.”

“And where are your own relations, La Louve?”

“How should I know?”

“Is it long since you saw them?”

“I don’t know whether they are dead or alive.”

“Were they, then, so very unkind to you?”

“Neither kind nor unkind. I was about eleven years old, I think, when my mother went off with a soldier. My father, who was a day-labourer, brought home a mistress with him into our garret, and two boys she had,—one six, and the other my own age. She was a barrow-woman. She went on pretty well at first, but after a time, whilst she was out with her fruit, a fish-woman used to come and drink with my father, and this the apple-woman found out. Then, from this time, every evening, we had such battles and rows in the house that I and the two boys were half dead with fright. We all three slept together, for we had but one room. One day,—it was her birthday, Sainte Madeleine’s fête,—and she scolded him because he had not congratulated her on it. From one word another arose, and my father concluded by breaking her head with the handle of the broom. I really thought he had killed her. She fell like a lump of lead, but la mère Madeleine was hard-lived, and hard-headed also. After that she returned my father with interest all the blows he had given her, and once bit him so savagely in the hand that the piece of flesh remained between her teeth. I must say that these contests were what we may call thegrandes eaux at Versailles. On common and working-daysthe skirmishes were of a lighter sort,—there were bruises, but no blood.”

“Was this woman unkind to you?”

“Mère Madeleine? No; on the contrary. She was a little hasty, but, otherwise, a good sort of woman enough. But at last my father got tired, and left her and the little furniture we had. He came out of Burgundy, and most probably returned to his own country. I was fifteen or sixteen at this time.”

“And were you still with the old mistress of your father?”

“Where else should I be? Then she took up with a tiler, who came to lodge with us. Of the two boys of Mère Madeleine, one, the eldest, was drowned at the Ile des Cygnes, and the other went apprentice to a carpenter.”

“And what did you do with this woman?”

“Oh, I helped to draw her barrow, made the soup, and carried her man his dinner; and when he came home drunk, which happened oftener than was his turn, I helped Mère Madeleine to keep him in order, for we still lived in the same apartment. He was as vicious as a sandy-haired donkey, when he was tipsy, and tried to kill us. Once, if we had not snatched his axe from him, he would certainly have murdered us both. Mère Madeleine had a cut on the shoulder, which bled till the room looked like a slaughter-house.”

“And how did you become—what—we—are?” said Fleur-de-Marie, hesitatingly.

“Why, little Charley, Madeleine’s son, who was afterwards drowned at the Ile des Cygnes, was my first lover, almost from the time when he, his mother, and his brother, came to lodge with us when we were but mere children; after him the tiler was my lover, who threatened else to turn me out-of-doors. I was afraid that Mère Madeleine would also send me away if she discovered anything. She did, however; but as she wasreally a good creature, she said, ‘As it is so, and you are sixteen years old, and fit for nothing, for you are too self-willed to take a situation or learn a business, you shall go with me and be inscribed in the police-books; as you have no relations, I will answer for you, as I brought you up, as one may say; and that will give you a position authorised by the government, and you will have nothing to do but to be merry and dress smart. I shall have no uneasiness about you, and you will no longer be a charge to me. What do you say to it, my girl?’ ‘Why, I think indeed you are right,’ was my answer; ‘I had not thought of that.’ Well, we went to the Bureau des Mœurs. She answered for me, in the usual way, and from that time I was inscrite. I met Mère Madeleine a year afterwards. I was drinking with my man, and we asked her to join us, and she told us that the tiler had been sentenced to the galleys. Since then I have never seen her, but some one, I don’t remember who, declared that she had been seen at the Morgue three months ago. If it were true, really so much the worse, for Mère Madeleine was a good sort of woman,—her heart was in her hand, and she had no more gall than a pigeon.”

Fleur-de-Marie, though plunged young in an atmosphere of corruption, had subsequently breathed so pure an air that she experienced a deeply painful sensation at the horrid recital of La Louve. And if we have had the sad courage to make it, it has been because all the world should know that, hideous as it is, it is still a thousand times less revolting than other countless realities.

Ignorance and misery often conduct the lower classes to these fearful degradations, human and social.

Yes; there is a crowd of hovels and dens, where children and adults, girls and boys, legitimate children and bastards, lying pell-mell on the same mattress, have continually before their eyes these infamous examplesof drunkenness, violence, debauch, and murder. Yes, and too frequently unnatural crimes at the tenderest age add to this accumulation of horrors.

The rich may shroud their vices in shadow and mystery, and respect the sanctity of the domestic hearth, but the most honest artisans, occupying nearly always a single chamber with their family, are compelled, from want of beds and space, to make their children sleep together, sons and daughters, close to themselves, husbands and wives.

If we shudder at the fatal consequences of such necessity almost inevitably imposed on poor, but honest artisans, what must it be with workpeople depraved by ignorance or misconduct? What fearful examples do they not present to unhappy children, abandoned, or rather excited, from their tenderest youth to every brutal impulse and animal propensity? Have they even the idea of what is right, decent, and modest? Must they not be as strange to social laws as the savages of the New World? Poor creatures! Corrupted at their very birth, who in the prisons, whither their wanderings and idleness often lead them, are already stigmatised by the coarse and terrible metaphor, “Graines de Bagne” (Seeds of the Gaol)! and the metaphor is a correct one. This sinister prediction is almost invariably accomplished: the Galleys or the Bridewell, each sex has its destiny.

We do not intend here to justify any profligacy. Let us only compare the voluntary degradation of a female carefully educated in the bosom of a wealthy family, which has set her none but the most virtuous examples. Let us compare, we say, this degradation with that of La Louve, a creature, as it were, reared in vice, by vice, and for vice, and to whom is pointed out, not without reason, prostitution as a condition protected by the government! This is true. There is a bureau where she is registered, certificated, and signs her name. A bureau where a mother has a right to authorise the prostitution of her daughter; a husband the prostitution of his wife. This place is termed the “Bureau des Mœurs” (the Office of Manners). Must not society have a vice most deeply rooted, incurable in the place of the laws which regulate marriage, when power,—yes, power,—that grave and moral abstraction, is obliged, not only to tolerate, but to regulate, to legalise, to protect, to render it less injurious and dangerous, this sale of body and soul; which, multiplied by the unbridled appetites of an immense population, acquires daily an almost incalculable amount.

Goualeuse, repressing the emotion which this sad confession of her companion had made in her, said to her, timidly:

“Listen to me without being angry.”

“Well, what have you to say? I think I have gossiped enough; but it is no matter, as it is the last time we shall talk together.”

“Are you happy, La Louve?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does the life you lead make you happy?”

“Here,—at St. Lazare?”

“No; when you are at home and free.”

“Yes, I am happy.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

“You would not change your life for any other?”

“For any other? What—what other life can there be for me?”

“Tell me, La Louve,” continued Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment’s silence, “don’t you sometimes like to build castles in the air? It is so amusing in prison.”

“Castles in the air! About what?”

“About Martial.”

“About my man?”

“Yes.”

“Ma foi! I never built any.”

“Let me build one for you and Martial.”

“Bah! What’s the use of it?”

“To pass away time.”

“Well, let’s have your castle in the air.”

“Well, then, only imagine that a lucky chance, such as sometimes occurs, brings you in contact with a person who says, ‘Forsaken by your father and mother, your infancy was surrounded by such bad examples that you must be pitied, as much as blamed, for having become—’”

“Become what?”

“What you and I have become,” replied Goualeuse, in a soft voice; and then she continued, “Suppose, then, that this person were to say to you, ‘You love Martial; he loves you. Do you and he cease to lead an improper life,—instead of being his mistress, become his wife.’”

La Louve shrugged her shoulders.

“Do you think he would have me for his wife?”

“Except poaching, he has never committed any guilty act, has he?”

“No; he is a poacher in the river, as he was in the woods, and he is right. Why, now, ain’t fish like game, for those to have who can catch them? Where do they bear the proprietor’s mark?”

“Well, suppose that, having given up the dangerous trade of marauding on the river, he desires to become an honest man; suppose he inspires, by the frankness of his good resolutions, so much confidence in an unknown benefactor that he gives him a situation,—let us see, our castle is in the air,—gives him a situation—say as gamekeeper, for instance. Why, I should suppose that, as he had been a poacher, nothing could better suit his taste; it is the same occupation, but in the right way.”

“Yes, ma foi! it would be still to live in the woods.”

“Only he would not have the situation but on condition that he would marry you, and take you with him.”

“I go with Martial?”

“Yes; why, you said you should be so happy to live together in the depths of the forest. Shouldn’t you prefer, instead of the miserable hut of the poacher, in which you would hide like guilty creatures, to have a neat little cottage, which you would take care of as the active and hard-working housekeeper?”

“You are making game of me. Can this be possible?”

“Who knows what may happen? But it’s only a castle in the air.”

“Ah, if it’s only that, all very well!”

“La Louve, I think that I already see you established in your little home in the depths of the forest, with your husband and two or three children. Children,—what happiness! Are they not?”

“The children of my man!” exclaimed La Louve, with intense eagerness. “Ah, yes! They would be dearly loved,—they would!”

“How they would keep you company in your solitude! And, then, when they grew up they would be able to render you great service: the youngest would pick up the dead branches for fuel; the eldest would go into the grass of the forest to watch a cow or two, which they would give you as a reward for your husband’s activity, for as he had been a poacher he would make a better keeper.”

“To be sure; that’s true enough. But really your castles in the air are very amusing. Go on, Goualeuse.”

“They would be very much satisfied with your husband, and you would have some allowances from your master, a poultry-yard, a garden; and, in fact, you would have to work very hard, La Louve, from morning till night.”

“Oh, if that were all, if I once had my good man near me, I should not be afraid of work! I have stout arms.”

“And you would have plenty to employ them, I will answer for that. There is so much to do,—so much to do! There is the stable to clean, the meals to get ready, the clothes to mend; to-day is washing day, next day there’s the bread to bake, or perhaps the house to clean from top to bottom; and, then, the other keepers would say, ‘There is no such manager as Martial’s wife; from the cellar to the garret, in her house, it is a pattern of cleanliness, and the children are taken such care of! But then she is so very industrious, Madame Martial.’”

“Really though, La Goualeuse, is it true? I should call myself Madame Martial,” said La Louve, with a sort of pride,—“Madame Martial!”

“Which is better than being called La Louve,—is it not?”

“Pardieu! Why, there’s no doubt but I should rather be called by my man’s name than the name of a wild beast; but—bah!—bah! louve I was born, louve I shall die!”

“Who knows? Who can say? Not to shrink from a life that is hard, but honest, will ensure success. So, then, work would not frighten you?”

“Oh, certainly not! It is not a husband and four or five brats to take care of that would give me any trouble!”

“But then it would not be all work; there are moments for rest. In the winter evenings, when the children were put to bed, and your husband smoked his pipe whilst he was cleaning his gun or caressing his dogs, you would have a little leisure.”

“Leisure,—sit with my arms crossed before me!Ma foi! No, I would rather mend the linen, by the side of the fire in the evening. That is not a very hard job, and in winter the days are so short.”

As Fleur-de-Marie proceeded, La Louve forgot more and more of the present for the dreams of the future, as deeply interested as La Goualeuse had been before her, when Rodolph had talked to her of the rustic delights ofthe Bouqueval farm. La Louve did not attempt to conceal the wild tastes with which her lover had inspired her. Remembering the deep and wholesome impression which she had experienced from the smiling picture of Rodolph in relation to a country life, Fleur-de-Marie was desirous of trying the same means of action on La Louve, thinking, with reason, that, if her companion was so far affected at the sketch of a rude, poor, and solitary life, as to desire ardently such an existence, she merited interest and pity. Delighted to see her companion listen to her with attention, La Goualeuse continued, smiling:

“And then you see, Madame Martial,—let me call you so,—what does it matter—”

“Quite the contrary; it flatters me.” Then La Louve shrugged her shoulders, and, smiling, also added, “What folly to play at madame! Are we children? Well, it’s all the same; go on,—it’s quite amusing. You said—”

“I was saying, Madame Martial, that in speaking of your life, the winter in the thickest of the woods, we were only alluding to the worst of the seasons.”

“Ma foi! No, that is not the worst. To hear the wind whistle all night in the forest, and the wolves howl from time to time far off, very far off,—I shouldn’t tire of that; provided I was at the fireside with my man and my children, or even quite alone, if my man was going his rounds. Ah, I am not afraid of a gun! If I had my children to defend, I could do that,—the wolf would guard her cubs!”

“Oh, I can well believe you! You are very brave—you are; but I am a coward. I prefer spring to the winter, when the leaves are green, when the pretty wild flowers bloom, and they smell so sweet, so sweet that the air is quite scented; and then your children would roll about so merrily in the fresh grass; and then the forest would be so thick that you could hardly see your house in the midst of the foliage,—I can fancy that I see it now. In front of the house is a vine full of leaves, whichyour husband has planted, and which shades the bank of turf where he sleeps during the noonday heat, whilst you are going backwards and forwards desiring the children not to wake their father. I don’t know whether you have remarked it, but in the heat of summer about midday there is in the woods as deep silence as at midnight, you don’t hear the leaves shake, nor the birds sing.”

“Yes, that’s true,” replied La Louve, almost mechanically, who became more and more forgetful of the reality, and almost believed she saw before her the smiling pictures which the poetical imagination of Fleur-de-Marie, so instinctively amorous of the beauties of nature, presented before her.

Delighted at the deep attention which her companion lent her, La Goualeuse continued, allowing herself to be drawn on by the charm of the thoughts which she called up:

“There is one thing which I love almost as well as the silence of the woods, and that is the noise of the heavy drops of rain falling on the leaves; do you like that, too?”

“Oh, yes! I am very fond of a summer shower.”

“So am I; and when the trees, the moss, and the grass, are all moistened, what a delightfully fresh odour they give out! And then, how the sun, as it passes over the trees, makes all the little drops of water glisten as they hang from the leaves! Have you ever noticed that?”

“Yes; I remember it now because you tell me of it. Yet, how droll all this is! But, Goualeuse, you talk so well that one seems to see everything,—to see everything just as you talk; and then, I really do not know how to explain it all. But now, what you say seems good, it is quite pleasant,—just like the rain we were talking of.”

“Oh, don’t suppose that we are the only creatures who love a summer shower! The dear little birds, how delighted they are! How they shake their feathers, whilst they warble so joyously; not more joyously, though, than your children,—your children as free, and gay, and light-hearted as they! And then, look! as the day declines the youngest children run across the wood to meet the elder, who brings back the two heifers from pasture, for they have heard the tinkling of the bell in the distance!”

“Yes, Goualeuse, and I think I see the smallest and boldest, whom his brother has put astride on the back of one of the cows.”

“And one would say that the poor animal knows what burden she bears, she steps so carefully. But it is supper-time; your eldest child, whilst he has been tending the cows at pasture, has amused himself with gathering for you a basket of beautiful strawberries, which he has brought quite fresh under a thick covering of wild violets.”

“Strawberries and violets,—ah, what a lovely smell they have! But where the deuce did you find all these ideas, La Goualeuse?”

“In the woods, where the strawberries ripen and the violets blow, you have only to look and gather them—But let us go on with our housekeeping. It is night, and you must milk your heifers, prepare your supper under the shelter of the vine, for you hear your husband’s dogs bark, and then their master’s voice, who, tired as he is, comes home singing,—and who could not sing when on a fine summer’s eve with cheerful heart you return to the house where a good wife and five children are waiting for you?—eh, Madame Martial?”

“True, true; one could not but sing,” replied La Louve, becoming more and more thoughtful.

“Unless one weeps for joy,” continued Fleur-de-Marie, herself much touched, “and such tears are as sweet as songs. And then, when night has completely come, what a pleasure to sit in the arbour and enjoy the calmness of a fine evening, to breathe the sweet odour of theforest, to hear the prattle of the children, to look at the stars, then the heart is so full,—so full that it must pour out its prayer; it must thank him to whom we are indebted for the freshness of the evening, the sweet scent of the woods, the gentle brightness of the starry sky! After this thanksgiving or this prayer, we go to sleep tranquilly till the next day, and then again thank our Creator. And this poor, hard-working, but calm and honest life, is the same each and every day.”

“Every day!” repeated La Louve, with her head drooping on her chest, her look fixed, her breast oppressed, “for it is true the good God is good to give us wherewithal to live upon, and to make us happy with so little.”

“Well, tell me now,” continued Fleur-de-Marie, gently,—“tell me, ought not he to be blessed, after God, who should give you this peaceable and laborious life, instead of the wretched existence you lead in the mud of the streets of Paris?”

This word Paris suddenly recalled La Louve to reality.

A strange phenomenon had taken place in the mind of this creature.

The simple painting of a humble and rude condition—the mere recital by turns—lighted up by the soft rays from the domestic hearth, gilded by some joyful sunbeams, refreshed by the breeze of the great woods, or perfumed by the odour of wild flowers,—this narrative had made on La Louve a more profound or more sensible impression than could an exhortation of the most pious morality have effected.

In truth, in proportion as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La Louve had longed to be, and meant to be, an indefatigable manager, a worthy wife, an affectionate and devoted mother.

To inspire, even for an instant, a violent, immoral, and degraded woman with a love of home, respect for duty, a taste for labour, and gratitude towards her Creator; and that, by only promising her what God gives to all, the sun, the sky, and the depths of the forest,—what society owes to those who lack a roof and a loaf,—was, indeed, a glorious triumph for Fleur-de-Marie! Could the most severe moralist—the most overpowering preacher—have obtained more in threatening, in their monotonous and menacing orations, all human vengeances—all divine thunders?

The painful anger with which La Louve was possessed when she returned to the reality, after having allowed herself to be charmed by the new and wholesome reverie in which, for the first time, Fleur-de-Marie had plunged her, proved the influence of her words on her unfortunate companion. The more bitter were La Louve’s regrets when she fell back from this consoling delusion to the horrors of her real position, the greater was La Goualeuse’s triumph. After a moment’s silence and reflection, La Louve raised her head suddenly, passed her hand over her brow, and rose threatening and angry.

“See, see! I had reason to mistrust you, and to desire not to listen to you, because it would turn to ill for me! Why did you talk thus to me? Why make a jest of me? Why mock me? And because I have been so weak as to say to you that I should like to live in the depths of a forest with my man. Who are you, then, that you should make a fool of me in this way? You, miserable girl, don’t know what you have done! Now, in spite of myself, I shall always be thinking of this forest, the house, and—and—the children—and all that happiness which I shall never have—never—never! And if I cannot forget what you have told me, why, my life will be one eternal punishment,—a hell,—and that by your fault! Yes, by your fault!”

“So much the better! Oh, so much the better!” said Fleur-de-Marie.

“You say, so much the better!” exclaimed La Louve, with her eyes glaring.

“Yes,—so much the better! For if your present miserable life appears to you a hell, you will prefer that of which I have spoken to you.”

“What is the use of preferring it, since it is not destined for me? What is the use of regretting that I walk the streets, since I shall die in the streets?” exclaimed La Louve, more and more irritated, and taking in her powerful grasp the small hand of Fleur-de-Marie. “Answer—answer! Why do you try to make me desire that which I cannot have.”

“To desire an honest and industrious life is to be worthy of that life, as I have already told you,” replied Fleur-de-Marie, without attempting to disengage her hand.

“Well, and what then? Suppose I am worthy, what does that prove? How much the better off will that make me?”

“To see realised what you consider as a dream,” answered Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so serious and full of conviction that La Louve, again under control, let go La Goualeuse’s hand, and gazed at her in amazement.

“Listen to me, La Louve,” said Fleur-de-Marie, in a voice full of feeling; “do you think me so wicked as to excite such ideas and hopes in you, if I were not sure that, whilst I made you blush at your present condition, I gave you the means to quit it?”

“You! You can do this?”

“I! No; but some one who is good, and great, and powerful.”

“Great and powerful?”

“Listen, La Louve. Three months ago I was, like you, a lost, an abandoned creature. One day he of whom I speak to you with tears of gratitude,”—and Fleur-de-Marie wiped her eyes,—“one day he came to me, and he was not afraid, abased and despised as I was, to say comforting words to me, the first I had ever heard. I told him my sufferings, my miseries, my shame; I concealednothing from him, just as you have related to me all your past life, La Louve. After having listened to me with kindness, he did not blame, but pitied me; he did not even reproach me with my disgraceful position, but talked to me of the calm and pure life which was found in the country.”

“As you did just now?”

“Then my situation appeared to me the more frightful, in proportion as the future he held out to me seemed more beautiful.”

“Like me?”

“Yes, and so I said as you did,—What use, alas! is it to make me fancy this paradise,—me, who am chained to hell? But I was wrong to despair; for he of whom I speak is so good, so just, that he is incapable of making a false hope shine in the eyes of a poor creature who asked no one for pity, happiness, or hope.”

“And what did he do for you?”

“He treated me like a sick child. I was, like you, immersed in a corrupted air, and he sent me to breathe a wholesome and reviving atmosphere. I was also living amongst hideous and criminal beings, and he confided me to persons as good as himself, who have purified my soul and elevated my mind; for he communicates to all those who love and respect him a spark of his own refined intelligence. Yes, if my words move you, La Louve, if my tears make your tears flow, it is that his mind and thought inspire me. If I speak to you of the happier future which you will obtain by repentance, it is because I can promise you this future in his name, although, at this moment, he is ignorant of the engagement I make. In fact, I say to you, Hope! because he always listens to the voice of those who desire to become better; for God sent him on earth to make people believe in his providence!”

As she spoke, Fleur-de-Marie’s countenance became radiant, and her pale cheeks suffused with a delicate carnation;her beautiful eyes sparkled, and she appeared so touchingly beautiful that La Louve gazed on her with respectful admiration, and said:

“Where am I? Do I dream? Who are you, then? Oh, I was right when I said you were not one of us! But, then, you talk so well,—you, who can do so much, you, who know such powerful people, how is it that you are here, a prisoner with us?”

Fleur-de-Marie was about to reply, when Madame Armand came up and interrupted her, to conduct her to Madame d’Harville. La Louve remained overwhelmed with surprise, and the inspectress said to her:

“I see, with pleasure, that the presence of La Goualeuse in the prison has brought good fortune to you and your companions. I know you have made a subscription for poor Mont Saint-Jean; that is kind and charitable, La Louve, and will be of service to you. I was sure that you were better than you allowed yourself to appear. In recompense for this kind action, I think I can promise you that the term of your imprisonment shall be shortened by several days.”

Madame Armand then walked away, followed by Fleur-de-Marie.

We must not be astonished at the almost eloquent language of Fleur-de-Marie, when we remember that her mind, so wonderfully gifted, had rapidly developed itself, thanks to the education and instruction she had received at Bouqueval farm.

The young girl was, indeed, strong in her experience.

The sentiments she had awakened in the heart of La Louve had been awakened in her own heart by Rodolph, and under almost similar circumstances.

Believing that she detected some good instincts in her companion, she had endeavoured to lure her back to honesty, by proving to her (according to Rodolph’stheory, applied to the farm at Bouqueval) that it was her interest to become honest, by pointing out to her restitution to the paths of rectitude in smiling and attractive colours.

And here let us repeat that, in our opinion, an incomplete as well as stupid and inefficacious mode is employed to inspire the poor and ignorant classes with a hatred of evil and a love of good.

In order to turn them away from the bad path, they are incessantly threatened with divine and human vengeance; incessantly a sinister clank is sounded in their ears: prison-keep, fetters, handcuffs; and, in the distance, in dark shadow, at the extreme horizon of crime, they have their attention directed to the executioner’s axe glittering amidst the glare of everlasting flames. We observe that the intimidation is constant, fearful, and appalling. To him who does ill, imprisonment, infamy, punishment. This is just. But to him who does well does society award noble gifts, glorious distinctions? No.

Does society encourage resignation, order, probity, in that immense mass of artisans who are for ever doomed to toil and privation, and almost always to profound misery, by benevolent rewards? No.

Is the scaffold which the criminal ascends a protection for the man of integrity? No.

Strange and fatal symbol! Justice is represented as blind, bearing in one hand a sword to punish, and in the other scales in which she weighs accusation and defence. This is not the image of Justice. This is the image of Law, or, rather, of the man who condemns or acquits according to his conscience. Justice should hold in one hand a sword, and in the other a crown,—one to strike the wicked, and the other to recompense the good. The people would then see that, if there is a terrible punishment for evil, there is a brilliant recompense for good; whilst as it is, in their plain and simple sense, the peopleseek in vain for the contrary side of tribunals, gaols, galleys, and scaffolds. The people see plainly a criminal justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, enlightened men, always employed in searching out, detecting, and punishing the evil-doers. They do not see the virtuous justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, and enlightened men, always searching out and rewarding the honest man. All says to him, Tremble! Nothing says to him, Hope! All threatens him; nothing consoles him!

The state annually expends many millions for the sterile punishment of crimes. With this enormous sum it keeps prisoners and gaolers, galley-slaves and galley-sergeants, scaffolds and executioners. This is necessary? Agreed. But how much does the state disburse for the rewards (so salutary, so fruitful) for honest men? Nothing. And this is not all, as we shall demonstrate when the course of this recital shall conduct us to the state prison; how many artisans of irreproachable honesty would attain the summit of their wishes if they were assured of enjoying one day the bodily comforts of prisoners, always certain of good food, good bed, and good shelter? And yet, in the name of their dignity, as honest men, long and painfully tried, have they not a right to claim the same care and comforts as criminals,—such, for instance, as Morel, the lapidary, who had toiled for twenty years, industrious, honest, and resigned, in the midst of bitter misery and sore temptations? Do not such men deserve sufficiently well of society, that society should try and find them out, and if not recompense them, for the honour of humanity, at least support them in the painful and difficult path which they tread so courageously? Is the man of worth so modest that he finds greater security than the thief or assassin? and are not these always detected by criminal justice? Alas, it is a utopia, but it is consoling!

Suppose, for the moment, a society were so organised that it would hold an assizes of virtue, as we haveassizes of crime,—a public ministry pointing out noble actions, disclosing them to the view of all, as we now denounce crimes to the avenging power of the laws. We will give two instances—two justices—and let our readers say which is most fruitful in instruction, in consequences, in positive results. One man has killed another, for the purpose of robbing him; at break of day they stealthily erect the guillotine in an obscure corner of Paris and cut off the assassin’s head before the dregs of the populace, which laughs at the judge, the sufferer, and the executioner. This is the last resort of society. This is the chastisement she bestows on the greatest crime which can be committed against her. This is the most terrible, the most wholesome warning she can give to her population,—the only one, for there is no counterpoise to this keen axe, dripping with blood; no, society has no spectacle, mild and benevolent, to oppose to this funereal scene.

Let us go on with our utopia. Would it not be otherwise if almost every day the people had before their eyes some illustrious virtues greatly glorified and substantially rewarded by the state? Would it not be to encourage good continually, if we often saw an august, imposing, and venerable tribunal summon before it, in presence of an immense multitude, a poor and honest artisan, whose long, intelligent, and enduring life should be described, whilst he was thus addressed:

“For twenty years you have manfully struggled against misfortune, your family has been brought up by you in the principles of honour and rectitude, your superior virtues have greatly distinguished you,—you merit praise and recompense. Society, always vigilant, just, and all-powerful, never leaves in oblivion either good or evil. Every man is recompensed according to his works. The state assures to you a pension sufficient for your wants. Obtaining this deserved mark of public notice, you will end in leisure and ease a life which isan example to all; and thus are and will be exalted those who, like yourself, shall have struggled for many years with an admirable persistence in good, and given proof of rare and grand moral qualities. Your example will encourage a great many to imitate you; hope will lighten the painful burden which their destiny imposes on them for so many years of their life. Animated by a salutary emulation, they will energetically struggle to accomplish the most arduous duties, in order that one day they may be distinguished from the rest, and rewarded as you are.”

We ask, which of the two sights—the beheaded assassin, or the good man rewarded—would act on the million with more salutary and more fruitful effect?

No doubt many delicate minds will be indignant at the bare thought of these ignoble substantial rewards awarded to the most ethereal thing in the world,—Virtue! They will find all sorts of arguments, more or less philosophical, platonic, theological, and especially economic, against such a proposition; such as, “Virtue is its own reward;” “Virtue is a priceless gem;” “The satisfaction of the conscience is the noblest of recompenses;” and, finally, this triumphant and unanswerable objection, “The eternal happiness which awaits the just in another life ought to be sufficient to encourage mankind to do well.” To this we reply that society, in order to intimidate and punish the guilty, does not appear to us to rely entirely and exclusively on the divine vengeance, which they tell us will visit them in another world. Society anticipates the last judgment by human judgments. Awaiting the inexorable hour of the archangels in armour, with sounding trumpets and fiery swords, society modestly comforts herself with—gens-d’armes.

We repeat, to terrify the wicked, we materialise, or rather we reduce to human, perceptible, and visible proportions, the anticipated effects of divine wrath. Why should we not do the same with the divine rewards to worthy and virtuous people?

But let us leave these mad, absurd, stupid, impracticable utopianisms, like real utopianisms, as they are. Society is as well as it is. Ask those merry souls, who, with uncertain step, stupid look, and noisy laugh, have just quitted the gay banquet, if it is not.

CHAPTER XII.
THE PROTECTRESS.

The inspectress soon entered with Goualeuse into the little room where Clémence was staying. The pale cheek of the young girl was still slightly coloured in consequence of her conversation with La Louve.

“Madame la Marquise, pleased with the excellent character I have given of you,” said Madame Armand to Fleur-de-Marie, “has desired to see you, and will, perhaps, be so good as to have you released from here before the expiration of your time.”

“I thank you, madame,” replied Fleur-de-Marie, timidly, to Madame Armand, who left her alone with the marchioness.

The latter, struck by the candid expression of her protégée’s features, and by her carriage, so full of grace and modesty, could not help remembering that La Goualeuse had pronounced the name of Rodolph in her sleep, and that the inspectress believed the youthful prisoner to be a prey to deep and hidden love. Although perfectly convinced that it could not be a question as to the Grand Duke Rodolph, Clémence acknowledged to herself that, with regard to beauty, La Goualeuse was worthy of a prince’s love.

At the sight of her protectress, whose physiognomy, as we have said, displayed excessive goodness, Fleur-de-Marie felt herself sympathetically attracted towards her.

“My girl,” said Clémence to her, “whilst commendingthe gentleness of your disposition and the discreetness of your behaviour, Madame Armand complains of your want of confidence in her.”

Fleur-de-Marie bowed her look, but did not reply.

“The peasant’s dress in which you were clad when you were apprehended, your silence on the subject of the place where you resided before you were brought here, prove that you conceal certain particulars from us.”

“Madame—”

“I have no right to your confidence, my poor child, nor would I ask you any question that would distress you; but, as I am assured that if I request your discharge from prison it will be accorded to me, before I do so I should wish to talk to you of your own plans, your resources for the future. Once free, what do you propose to do? If, as I doubt not, you decide on following the good path you have already entered upon, have confidence in me, and I will put you in the way of gaining an honest subsistence.”

La Goualeuse was moved to tears at the interest which Madame d’Harville evinced for her. After a moment’s hesitation, she replied:

“You are very good, madame, to show so much benevolence towards me,—so generous, that I ought, perhaps, to break the silence which I have hitherto kept on the past, to which I was forced by an oath—”

“An oath?”

“Yes, madame, I have sworn to be secret to justice, and the persons employed in this prison, as to the series of events by which I was brought hither. Yet, madame, if you will make me a promise—”

“Of what nature?”

“To keep my secret. I may, thanks to you, madame, without breaking my oath, comfort most worthy persons who, no doubt, are excessively uneasy on my account.”

“Rely on my discretion. I will only say what you authorise me to disclose.”

“Oh, thanks, madame! I was so fearful that my silence towards my benefactors would appear like ingratitude!”

The gentle accents of Fleur-de-Marie, and her well-selected phrases, struck Madame d’Harville with fresh surprise.

“I will not conceal from you,” said she, “that your demeanour, your language, all surprise me in a remarkable degree. How could you, with an education which appears polished,—how could you—”

“Fall so low, you would say, madame?” said Goualeuse, with bitterness. “Alas! It is but a very short time that I have received this education. I owe this benefit to a generous protector, who, like you, madame, without knowing me, without even having the favourable recommendation which you have received in my favour, took pity upon me—”

“And who is this protector?”

“I do not know, madame.”

“You do not know?”

“He only makes himself known, they tell me, by his inexhaustible goodness. Thanks be to Heaven, he found me in his path!”

“And when did you first meet?”

“One night,—in the Cité, madame,” said Goualeuse, lowering her eyes, “a man was going to beat me; this unknown benefactor defended me courageously; this was my first meeting with him.”

“Then he was one of the people?”

“The first time I saw him he had the dress and language; but afterwards—”

“Afterwards?”

“The way in which he spoke to me, the profound respect with which he was treated by the persons to whom he confided me, all proved to me that he had only assumed the exterior disguise of one of the men who are seen about the Cité.”

“But with what motive?”

“I do not know.”

“And do you know the name of this mysterious protector?”

“Oh, yes, madame,” said La Goualeuse, with excitement; “thank Heaven! For I can incessantly bless and adore that name. My preserver is called M. Rodolph, madame.”

Clémence blushed deeply.

“And has he no other name,” she asked, quickly, of Fleur-de-Marie.

“I know no other, madame. In the farm, where he sent me, he was only known as M. Rodolph.”

“And his age?”

“Still young, madame.”

“And handsome?”

“Oh, yes! Handsome,—noble as his own heart.”

The grateful and impassioned accent with which Fleur-de-Marie uttered these words caused a deeply painful sensation in Madame d’Harville’s bosom. An unconquerable and inexplicable presentiment told her that it was indeed the prince. “The remarks of the inspectress were just,” thought Clémence. “Goualeuse loves Rodolph; that was the name which she pronounced in her sleep. Under what strange circumstance had the prince and this unfortunate girl met? Why did Rodolph go disguised into the Cité?”

The marquise could not resolve these questions. She only remembered what Sarah had wickedly and mendaciously told her as to the pretended eccentricities of Rodolph. Was it not, in fact, strange that he should have extricated from the dregs of society a girl of such excessive loveliness, and evidently so intelligent and sensible?

Clémence had noble qualities, but she was a woman, and deeply loved Rodolph, although she had resolved to bury that secret in her heart’s very core.

Without reflecting that this was unquestionably but one of those generous actions which the prince was accustomed to do by stealth, without considering that she was, perchance, confounding with love a sentiment that was but excess of gratitude, without considering that, even if this feeling were more tender, Rodolph must be ignorant of it, the marchioness, in the first moment of bitterness and injustice, could not help looking on Goualeuse as her rival. Her pride revolted when she believed she was suffering, in spite of herself, with such a humiliating rivalry; and she replied, in a tone so harsh as to contrast cruelly with the affectionate kindness of her first words:

“And how is it, then, mademoiselle, that your protector leaves you in prison? How comes it that you are here?”

“Oh, madame,” said Fleur-de-Marie, struck at this sudden change of tone, “have I done anything to displease you?”

“In what could you have displeased me?” asked Madame d’Harville, haughtily.

“It appeared to me just now that you spoke to me so kindly, madame.”

“Really, mademoiselle, is it necessary that I should weigh every word I utter? Since I take an interest in you, I have, I think, a right to ask you certain questions!”

Scarcely had Clémence uttered these words, than she regretted their severity; first from a praiseworthy return of generosity, and then because she thought by being harsh with her rival she might not learn any more of what she was so anxious to know. In fact, Goualeuse’s countenance, just now so open and confiding, became suddenly alarmed. Like the sensitive plant, which, on the first touch, curls up its leaves and withdraws within itself, the heart of Fleur-de-Marie became painfully contracted. Clémence replied, gently, in order that shemight not awaken her protégée’s suspicions by too sudden a return to a milder tone:

“Really I must repeat that I cannot understand why, having so much to praise your benefactor for, you are left here a prisoner. How is it that, after having returned with all sincerity to the paths of rectitude, you could have been apprehended, at night, in a forbidden place? All this, I confess to you, appears to me very extraordinary. You speak of an oath, which has bound you to silence; but this very oath is so strange!”

“I have spoken the truth, madame—”

“I am sure of that; it is only to see and hear you to be convinced that you are incapable of falsehood; but what is so incomprehensible in your situation makes me the more curious and impatient to have it cleared up; and to this alone must you attribute the abruptness of my language just now. I was wrong, I feel I was, for, although I have no claim to your confidence beyond my anxious desire to be of service to you, yet you have offered to disclose to me what you have not yet told to any person; and I can assure you, my poor girl, that this proof of your confidence in the interest I feel for you touches me very nearly. I promise you to keep your secret most scrupulously, if you confide it to me, and I will do everything in my power to effect what you may wish to have done.”

Thanks to this skilful patching up (the phrase will be excused, we trust), Madame d’Harville regained La Goualeuse’s confidence, which had been for a moment repressed. Fleur-de-Marie, in her candour, reproached herself for having wrongly interpreted the words which had wounded her.

“Excuse me, madame,” she said to Clémence; “I was, no doubt, wrong not to tell you at once what you desired to know, but you asked me for the name of my preserver, and, in spite of myself, I could not resist the pleasure of speaking of him.”

“Nothing could be more praiseworthy, and it proves how truly grateful you are to him. Tell me how it was that you left the worthy people with whom you were, no doubt, placed by M. Rodolph? Is it to this event that the oath you were compelled to take, refers?”

“Yes, madame; but, thanks to you, I think I may still keep my word faithfully, and, at the same time, inform my benefactors as to my disappearance.”

“Now, then, my poor girl, I am all attention to you.”

“It is three months nearly since M. Rodolph placed me at a farm, which is situated four or five leagues from Paris—”

“Did M. Rodolph take you there himself?”

“Yes, madame, and confided me to the charge of a worthy lady, as good as she was venerable; and I loved her like my mother. She and the curé of the village, at the request of M. Rodolph, took charge of my education.”

“And M.—Rodolph,—did he often come to the farm?”

“No, madame, he only came three times during the whole time I was there.”

Clémence’s heart throbbed with joy.

“And when he came to see you that made you very happy, did it not?”

“Oh, yes, madame! It was more than happiness to me; it was a feeling mingled with gratitude, respect, adoration, and even a degree of fear.”

“Of fear?”

“Between him and me, between him and others, the distance is so great!”

“But what, then, was his rank?”

“I do not know that he had any rank, madame.”

“Yet you allude to the distance which exists between him and others.”

“Oh, madame, what places him above all the rest of the world is the elevation of his character, his inexhaustible generosity towards those who suffer, the enthusiasmwhich he inspires in every one. The wicked, even, cannot hear his name without trembling, and respect as much as they dread him! But forgive me, madame, for still speaking of him. I ought to be silent, for I seek to give you an adequate idea of him who ought to be adored in silence. I might as well try to express by words the goodness of Heaven!”

“This comparison—”

“Is, perhaps, sacrilegious, madame; but will it offend the good God to compare to him one who has given me the consciousness of good and evil, one who has snatched me from the abyss, one, in fact, to whom I owe a new existence?”

“I do not blame you, my child; I can understand all your noble exaggerations. But how was it that you abandoned this farm, where you must have been so happy?”

“Alas, not voluntarily, madame!”

“Who, then, forced you away?”

“One evening, some days since,” said Fleur-de-Marie, trembling even as she spoke, “I was going towards the parsonage-house in the village, when a wicked woman, who had used me very cruelly during my infancy, and a man, her accomplice, who had concealed themselves in a ravine, threw themselves upon me, and, after having gagged me, carried me off in a hackney-coach.”

“For what purpose?”

“I know not, madame. My ravishers, as I think, were acting in conformity to orders from some powerful personages.”

“What followed this?”

“Scarcely was the hackney-coach in motion, than the wicked creature, who is called La Chouette, exclaimed, ‘I have some vitriol here, and I’ll rub La Goualeuse’s face, to disfigure her with it!’”

“Oh, horrible! Unhappy girl! And who has saved you from this danger?”

“The woman’s confederate, a blind man called the Schoolmaster.”

“And he defended you?”

“Yes, madame, this and another time also. On this occasion there was a struggle between him and La Chouette: exerting his strength, the Schoolmaster compelled her to throw out of window the bottle which held the vitriol. This was the first service he rendered me, after having, however, aided in carrying me off. The night was excessively dark. At the end of an hour and a half the coach stopped, as I think, on the highroad which traverses the Plain St. Denis, and here was a man on horseback, evidently awaiting us. ‘What!’ said he, ‘have you got her at last?’ ‘Yes, we’ve got her,’ answered La Chouette, who was furious because she had been hindered from disfiguring me. ‘If you wish to get rid of the little baggage at once, it will be a good plan to stretch her on the ground, and let the coach wheels pass over her skull. It will appear as if she had been accidentally killed.’”

“You make me shudder.”

“Alas, madame, La Chouette was quite capable of doing what she said! Fortunately, the man on horseback replied that he would not have any harm done to me, and all he wanted was to have me confined somewhere for two months in a place whence I could neither go out nor be allowed to write to any one. Then La Chouette proposed to take me to a man’s called Bras Rouge, who keeps a tavern in the Champs Elysées. In this tavern there are several subterranean chambers, and one of these, La Chouette said, would serve me for a prison. The man on horseback agreed to this proposition; and he promised me that, after remaining two months at Bras Rouge’s, I should be properly taken care of, and not be sorry for having quitted the farm at Bouqueval.”

“What a strange mystery!”

“This man gave money to La Chouette, and promised her more when she should bring me from Bras Rouge’s, and then galloped away. Our hackney-coach continued its way on to Paris; and a short time before we reached the barrier the Schoolmaster said to La Chouette, ‘You want to shut Goualeuse up in one of Bras Rouge’s cellars, when you know very well that, being so close to the river’s side, these cellars are always under water in the winter! Do you wish to drown her?’ ‘Yes,’ replied La Chouette.”

“Poor girl! What had you ever done to this horrid woman?”

“Nothing, madame; and from my very infancy she had always been so full of hatred towards me. The Schoolmaster replied, ‘I won’t have Goualeuse drowned! She sha’n’t go to Bras Rouge’s!’ La Chouette was as astonished as I was, madame, to hear this man defend me thus, and she flew into a violent rage, and swore she would take me to Bras Rouge’s in spite of the Schoolmaster. ‘I defy you!’ said he, ‘for I have got Goualeuse by the arm, and I will not let go my hold of her; and, if you come near her, I’ll strangle you!’ ‘What do you mean, then, to do with her,’ cried La Chouette, ‘since she must be concealed somewhere for two months, so that no one may know where she is?’ ‘There’s a way,’ said the Schoolmaster. ‘We are going by the Champs Elysées; we will stop the coach a little way off the guard-house, and you shall go to Bras Rouge’s tavern. It is midnight, and you will be sure to find him; bring him here, and he shall lead La Goualeuse to the guard-house, declaring that she is a fille de la Cité, whom he has found loitering about his house. As girls are sentenced to three months’ imprisonment if found in the Champs Elysées, and as La Goualeuse is still on the police books, she will be apprehended and sent to St. Lazare, where she will be better taken care of and concealed than in Bras Rouge’s cellar.’ ‘But,’ answeredLa Chouette, ‘Goualeuse will not allow herself to be arrested even at the corps-de-garde. She will declare that we have carried her off, and give information against us; and, supposing even that she goes to prison, she will write to her protectors, and all will be discovered.’ ‘No, she will go to prison willingly,’ answered the Schoolmaster; ‘and she shall take an oath not to give any information against any person as long as she is in St. Lazare, nor afterwards, either. This is a debt she owes me, for I prevented you from disfiguring her, La Chouette, and saved her from being drowned at Bras Rouge’s; but if, after having sworn not to speak, she dares to do so, we will attack the farm at Bouqueval with fire and blood!’ Then, addressing me, the Schoolmaster added,‘Decide, then: take the oath I demand of you, and you shall get off for three months in prison; if not, I abandon you to La Chouette, who will take you to Bras Rouge’s, where you will be drowned, and we will set Bouqueval farm on fire. So, come, decide. I know, if you take the oath, you will keep it.’”

“And you did swear?”

“Alas, yes, madame! I was so fearful they would do my protectors at the farm an injury, and then I so much dreaded being drowned by La Chouette in a cellar, it seemed so frightful to me; another death would have seemed to me less horrid, and, perhaps, I should not have tried to escape it.”

“What a dreadful idea at your age!” said Madame d’Harville, looking at La Goualeuse with surprise. “When you have left this place, and have been restored to your benefactors, shall you not be very happy? Has not your repentance effaced the past?”

“Can the past ever be effaced? Can the past ever be forgotten? Can repentance kill memory, madame?” exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone so despairing that Clémence shuddered.

“But all faults are retrieved, unhappy girl!”

“And the remembrance of stain, madame, does not that become more and more terrible in proportion as the soul becomes purer, in proportion as the mind becomes more elevated? Alas, the higher we ascend, the deeper appears the abyss which we have quitted!”

“Then you renounce all hope of restoration—of pardon?”

“On the part of others—no, madame, your kindness proves to me that remorse will find indulgence.”

“But you will be pitiless towards yourself?”

“Others, madame, may not know, pardon, or forget what I have been, but I shall never forget it!”

“And do you sometimes desire to die?”

“Sometimes!” said Goualeuse, smiling bitterly. Then, after a moment’s silence, she added, “Sometimes,—yes, madame.”

“Still you were afraid of being disfigured by that horrid woman; and so you wish to preserve your beauty, my poor little girl. That proves that life has still some attraction for you; so courage! Courage!”

“It is, perhaps, weakness to think of it, but if I were handsome, as you say, madame, I should like to die handsome, pronouncing the name of my benefactor.”

Madame d’Harville’s eyes filled with tears. Fleur-de-Marie had said these last words with so much simplicity; her angelic, pale, depressed features, her melancholy smile, were all so much in accord with her words, that it was impossible to doubt the reality of her sad desire. Madame d’Harville was endued with too much delicacy not to feel how miserable, how fatal, was this thought of La Goualeuse: “I shall never forget what I have been!”—the fixed, permanent, incessant idea which controlled and tortured Fleur-de-Marie’s life. Clémence, ashamed at having for an instant misconstrued the ever disinterested generosity of the prince, regretted also that she had for a moment allowed herself to be actuated by anyfeeling of absurd jealousy against La Goualeuse, who, with such pure excitement, expressed her gratitude towards her protector. It was strange that the admiration which this poor prisoner felt so deeply towards Rodolph perhaps increased the profound love which Clémence must for ever conceal from him. She said, to drive away these thoughts:

“I trust that, for the future, you will be less severe towards yourself. But let us talk of this oath, for now I can explain your silence. You will not denounce these wretches?”

“Although the Schoolmaster shared in my carrying off, yet he twice defended me, and I would not be ungrateful towards him.”

“Then you lent yourself to the plans of these monsters?”

“Yes, madame, I was so frightened! The Chouette went to seek for Bras Rouge, who conducted me to the guard-house, saying he had found me roving near his cabaret. I did not deny it, and so they took me into custody and brought me here.”

“But your friends at the farm must be in the utmost anxiety about you!”

“Alas, madame, in my great alarm, I did not reflect that my oath would prevent me from assuring them of my safety. Now that makes me wretched! But I think (and hope you think so, too) that, without breaking my word, I may beg of you to write to Madame Georges at the farm of Bouqueval, and assure her that she need have no fears for me, without informing her where I am; for I have promised to be silent.”

“My child, these precautions will be useless if, at my recommendation, you are pardoned. To-morrow you will return to the farm without having betrayed your oath by that; and you may consult your friends hereafter to know how far you are bound by a promise which was extorted from you by a threat.”

“You believe then, madame, that, thanks to your kindness, I may hope to leave here very soon?”

“You deserve my interest so much that I am sure I shall succeed, and I have no doubt but that the day after to-morrow you may rely on going in person to your benefactors.”

“So soon! Madame, how have I deserved so much goodness on your part? How can I ever repay your kindness?”

“By continuing to behave as you have done. I only regret that I cannot do anything towards your future existence; that is a pleasure which your friends have reserved for themselves.”

At this moment Madame Armand entered abruptly, and with a troubled air.

“Madame la Marquise,” she said, addressing Clémence with hesitation, “I am deeply pained with a message I have to convey to you.”

“What do you mean, madame?”

“The Duke de Lucenay is below, just come from your house, madame.”

“La, how you frighten me! What’s the matter?”

“I do not know, madame; but M. de Lucenay has, he told me, some very distressing information to communicate to you. He learnt from the duchess, his lady, that you were here, and has come in great haste.”

“Distressing information!” said Madame d’Harville to herself; then she suddenly shrieked out, in agonised accents, “My daughter, my daughter, my daughter, perhaps! Oh, speak, madame!”

“I do not know, your ladyship.”

“Oh, for mercy’s sake—for mercy’s sake, take me to M. de Lucenay!” cried Madame d’Harville, rushing out with a bewildered air, followed by Madame Armand.

“Poor mother! She fears for her child!” said LaGoualeuse, following Clémence with her eyes. “Oh, no, it is impossible! At the very moment when she was so benevolent and kind to me such a blow could not strike her! No, no; once again I say it is impossible!”

CHAPTER XIII.
THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP.

We shall now conduct the reader to the house in the Rue du Temple, about three o’clock on the day in which M. d’Harville terminated his existence. At the time mentioned, the conscientious and indefatigable M. Pipelet sat alone in his lodge, occupied in repairing the boot which had, more than once, fallen from his hand during Cabrion’s last attack; the physiognomy of the delicate-minded porter was dejected, and exhibited a more than usually melancholy air.

All at once a loud and shrill voice was heard calling from the upper part of the house, exclaiming, in tones which reëchoed down the staircase:

“M. Pipelet! M. Pipelet! Make haste! Come up as fast as you can! Madame Pipelet is taken very ill!”

“God bless me!” cried Alfred, rising from his stool. “Anastasie ill!” But, quickly resuming his seat, he said to himself, “What a simpleton I must be to believe such a thing! My wife has been gone out more than an hour! Ah, but may she not have returned without my observing it? Certainly, such a mode of proceeding would be somewhat irregular, but I am not the less bound to admit that it is possible.”

“M. Pipelet!” called out the up-stairs voice again. “Pray come as quickly as you can; I am holding your wife in my arms!”

“Holloa!” said Pipelet, springing up abruptly. “Somebody got my wife in his arms!”

“I really cannot manage to unlace Madame Pipelet’s stays by myself!” screamed out the voice, in tones louder than before.

These words perfectly electrified Alfred, and the blush of offended modesty empurpled his melancholy features.

“Sir-r-r!” cried he in a stentorian voice, as he rushed frantically from his lodge. “Sir-r-r! I adjure you, in the name of Honour, to leave my wife and her stays alone! I come! I come!”

And so saying, Alfred dashed into the dark labyrinth called a staircase, forgetting, in his excitement, to close the door of the lodge after him.

Scarcely had he quitted it than an individual entered quickly, snatched from the table the cobbler’s hammer, sprung on the bed, and, by means of four small tacks, previously inserted into each corner of a thick cardboard he carried with him, nailed the cardboard to the back of the dark recess in which stood Pipelet’s bed; then disappeared as quickly as he had come. So expeditiously was the operation performed, that the porter, having almost immediately recollected his omission respecting the closing the lodge door, hastily descended, and both shut and locked it; then putting the key in his pocket, returned with all speed to succour his wife above-stairs, without the slightest suspicion crossing his mind that any foot had trod there since his own. Having taken this precautionary measure, Alfred again darted off to the assistance of Anastasie, exclaiming, with all the power of his lungs:

“Sir-r-r! I come! Behold me! I place my wife beneath the safeguard of your delicacy!”

But a fresh surprise awaited the worthy porter, and had well-nigh caused him to fall from the height he had ascended to the sill of his own lodge,—the voice of her he expected to find fainting in the arms of some unknown individual was now heard, not from the upperpart of the house, but at the entrance! In well-known accents, but sharper and shriller than usual, he heard Anastasie exclaim:

“Why, Alfred! What do you mean by leaving the lodge? Where have you got to, you old gossip?”

At this appeal, M. Pipelet managed to descend as far as the first landing, where he remained petrified with astonishment, gazing downwards with fixed stare, open mouth, and one foot drawn up in the most ludicrous manner.

“Alfred, I say!” screamed Madame Pipelet, a second time, in a voice loud enough to awake the dead.

“Anastasie down there? Then it is impossible she can be ill up-stairs,” said Pipelet, mentally, faithful to his system of close and logical argumentation. “Whose, then, was the manly voice that spoke of her illness, and of his undoing her stays? An impostor, doubtless, to whom my distraction and alarm have been a matter of amusement; but what motive could he have had in thus working upon my susceptible feelings? Something very extraordinary is going on here. However, as soon as I have been to answer my wife’s inquiry, I will return to clear up this mystery, and to discover the person whose voice summoned me in such haste.”

In considerable agitation did M. Pipelet descend, and find himself in his wife’s presence.

“It is you, then, this time?” inquired he.

“Of course it is me; who did you expect it was?”

“‘Tis you, indeed! My senses do not deceive me!”

“Alfred, what is the matter with you? Why do you stand there, staring and opening your mouth, as if you meant to swallow me?”

“Because your presence reveals to me that strange things are passing here, so strange that—”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense! Give me the key of the lodge! What made you leave it when I was out? I have just come from the office where the diligencestarts from for Normandy. I went there in a coach to take M. Bradamanti’s trunk, as he did not wish that little rascal, Tortillard, to know anything about it, since, it seems, he had rather no one should be acquainted with the fact of his leaving Paris this evening; and, as for his mistrusting the boy, why, I don’t wonder at it.”

Saying these words, Madame Pipelet took the key from her husband’s hand, opened the lodge, and entered it before her partner; but scarcely were they both safe within its dark recesses, than an individual, lightly descending the staircase, passed swiftly and unobserved before the lodge. This personage was Cabrion, who, having managed to steal up-stairs, had so powerfully worked upon the porter’s tender susceptibilities. M. Pipelet threw himself into his chair, saying to his wife, in a voice of deep emotion:

“Anastasie; I do not feel myself comfortable to-day; strange and mysterious things are going on in this house.”

“What! Are you going to break out again? What an old fool you are! Why, strange things happen in every house. What has come over you? Come, let’s look at you! Well, I declare, you are all of a sweat, just as if you had been dragged out of the water! What have you been doing since I left you? Overexerting yourself, I am sure, and I forbid you ever doing so. La! Look how the great drops pour from him, poor old chick!”

“And well they may!” exclaimed M. Pipelet, passing his hand over his face, bathed in its own dew; “well may I sweat,—ay, even blood and water,—for there are facts connected with this house past belief or comprehension. First, you summon me up-stairs, and, at the same moment, I find you waiting below! Oh, it is too, too much for my poor brain!”

“Deuce take me, if I can comprehend one word of allyou are saying! Lord, help us! It is to be hoped your poor old brain is not cracked. I tell you what, if you go on so, I shall just set you down for cracked; and all through that scamp of a Cabrion,—the devil take him! Ever since that last trick he played the other day, I declare you have not been yourself, so flustered and bewildered! Do you mean to live in fear and dread of that abominable painter all your days?”

But scarcely had Anastasie uttered these words than a fearful thing occurred. Alfred continued sitting, with his face turned towards the bed, while the lodge was dimly illumined by the faint glimmer of a winter’s afternoon and a lamp that stood burning on the table, near Alfred’s work. By these doubtful lights, M. Pipelet, just as his wife pronounced the name of Cabrion, imagined he saw, in the shadow of the recess, the half stolid, half chuckling features of his enemy. Alas! Too truly, there he was. His steeple-crowned hat, his flowing locks, thin countenance, sardonic smile, pointed beard, and look of fiendish malice, all were there, past all mistake. For a moment, M. Pipelet believed himself under the influence of a dream, and passed his hand across his eyes, in hopes that the illusion might disperse; but no; there was nothing illusive in what his eyes glared so fearfully upon,—nothing could be more real or positive. Yet, horror of horrors! This object seemed merely to possess a head, which, without allowing any part of the body to appear, grinned a satanic smile from the dark draperies of the recess in which stood the bed. At this horrific vision M. Pipelet fell back, without uttering a word. With uplifted arm he pointed towards the source of his terrors, but with so strong a manifestation of intense alarm that Madame Pipelet, spite of her usual courage and self-possession, could not help feeling a dread of—she knew not what. She staggered back a few steps, then, seizing Alfred by the hand, exclaimed:

“Cabrion!”

“I know it!” groaned forth M. Pipelet, in a deep, hollow voice, shutting his eyes to exclude the frightful spectre.

Nothing could have borne more flattering tribute to the talent which had so admirably delineated the features of Cabrion than the overwhelming terror his pasteboard likeness occasioned to the worthy couple in the lodge; but the first surprise of Anastasie over, she, bold as a lioness, rushed to the bed, sprang upon it, and, though not without some trepidation, tore the painting from the wall, against which it had been nailed; then, crowning her valiant deed by her accustomed favourite expression, the amazon triumphantly exclaimed:

“Get along with you!”

Alfred, on the contrary, remained with closed eyes and extended hands, fixed and motionless, according to his wont during the most critical passages of his life; the continued oscillation of his bell-crowned hat alone revealing, from time to time, the violence of his internal emotions.

“Open your eyes, my old duck!” cried Madame Pipelet, triumphantly. “It is nothing to be afraid of, only a picture, a portrait of that scoundrel Cabrion. Look here, lovey,—look at ‘Stasie stamping on it!” continued the indignant wife, throwing the painting on the ground, and jumping upon it with all her force; then added, “Ah, I wish I had the villain here, to serve the same! I’ll warrant I’d mark him for life!” Then, picking up the portrait, she said, “Well, I’ve served you out, anyhow! Just look, old dear, if I haven’t!”

But poor Alfred, with a disconsolate shake of the head, made signs that he had rather not, and further intimating, by expressive gestures, his earnest desire that his wife would remove the detested likeness of his bitter foe far from his view.

“Well,” cried the porteress, examining the portrait by the aid of the lamp, “was there ever such imperance? Why, Alfred, the vile feller has presumed to write in red letters at the bottom of the picture, ‘To my dear friend Pipelet; presented by his friend for life, Cabrion!’”

“For life!” groaned Pipelet; then, heaving a deep sigh, he added, “Yes, ‘tis my life he aims at; and he will finish by taking it. I shall exist, from this day forward, in a state of continual alarm, believing that the fiend who torments me is ever near,—hid, perhaps, in the floor, the wall, the ceiling, and thence watches me throughout the day; or even at night, when sleeping in the chaste arms of my wife, his eye is still on me. And who can tell but he is at this very instant behind me, gazing with that well-known sardonic grin; or crouched down in some corner of the room, like a deadly reptile! Say, you monster, are you there? Are you there, I demand?” cried M. Pipelet, accompanying this furious adjuration by a sort of circular motion of the head, as though wishing to interrogate every nook and corner of the lodge.

“Yes, dear friend, here I am!” answered the well-known voice of Cabrion, in blandly affectionate tones.

By a simple trick in ventriloquism, these words were made to appear as though issuing from the recess in which stood the bed; but the malicious joker was in reality close to the door of the lodge, enjoying every particular look and word that passed within. However, after uttering the last few words, he prudently disappeared with all haste, though not (as will be seen) without leaving his victim a fresh subject for rage, astonishment, and meditation.

Madame Pipelet, still skeptical and courageous, carefully examined under the bed, as well as in every corner of the lodge, but, discovering no trace of the enemy, actually went out into the alley to prosecute her researches; while M. Pipelet, completely crushed by thislast blow, fell back into his chair in a state of boundless despair.

“Never mind, Alfred!” said Anastasie, who always exhibited great determination upon all critical occasions. “Bless you! The villain had managed to hide himself somewhere near the door, and, while we were looking in one direction, he managed to slip out in another. But just wait a bit: I shall catch him one of these days, and then see if I don’t make him taste my broomstick! Let him take care, that’s all!”

The door opened as she concluded this animating address, and Madame Séraphin, the housekeeper of the notary, Jacques Ferrand, entered the lodge.

“Good day, Madame Séraphin,” said Madame Pipelet, who, in her extreme anxiety to conceal her domestic troubles from a stranger, assumed all at once a most gracious and winning manner; “what can I have the pleasure of doing for you?”

“Why, first of all, tell me what is the meaning of your new sign?”

“Our new sign?”

“Yes; the small printed board.”

“Printed board!”

“To be sure; that black board with red letters, hung over the door leading from the alley up to your lodge.”

“What, out in the street?”

“In the street, I tell you, precisely over your door.”

“I wish I may die if I understand a single word of what you are talking about! Do you, old dear?”

Alfred spoke not.

“Certainly,” continued Madame Séraphin, “since it relates to M. Pipelet, he can best explain to me what this board means.”

Alfred uttered a sort of heavy, inarticulate groan, while his bell-crowned hat recommenced its convulsive agitations. This pantomimic action was meantto express that Alfred was in no condition to explain anything to anybody, having his mind already sufficiently burdened with an infinity of problematical questions he sought in vain to solve.

“Don’t take any notice of poor dear Alfred, Madame Séraphin; he has got the cramp in his stomach, and that makes him so very—But what is this board of which you were speaking? Very likely it has just been put up by the man who keeps the wine-shop at the corner.”

“I tell you again it is no such thing. It is a small painted board, hung up over your door,—I mean the door leading from the alley to the street.”

“Ah, you are laughing at us!”

“Indeed I am not. I saw it just now, as I came in; on it is written, in large letters, ‘Pipelet and Cabrion, dealers in Friendship and similar Articles. Inquire of the Porter.’”

“Gracious goodness! Do you hear that, Alfred? Do you hear what is written up over our door?”

Alfred gazed at Madame Séraphin with a bewildered look, but he neither understood nor sought to understand her meaning.

“Do you mean to say,” continued Madame Pipelet, confounded by this fresh audacity, “that you positively saw a little board out in the street with all that about Alfred and Cabrion, and dealing in friendship?”

“I tell you I have just seen it, and read with my own eyes what I described to you. ‘Well,’ said I to myself, ‘this is droll enough! M. Pipelet is a shoemaker by trade, but here he writes up publicly that he is a dealer in friendship along with a M. Cabrion! What can all this mean? There is something meant more than meets the eye!’ Still, as the board further directed all persons desirous of knowing more to apply to the porter, ‘Oh,’ thinks I, ‘Madame Pipelet can explain all this to me!’ But, look, look!” cried Madame Séraphin, suddenlybreaking off in her remarks. “Your husband is taken ill! Mind what you are about, or he will fall backwards!”

Madame Pipelet flew to her afflicted partner, and was just in time to receive him, half fainting, in her arms. The last blow had been too overwhelming,—the man in the bell-crowned hat had but just strength left to murmur forth, “The scoundrel has, then, publicly placarded me!”

“I told you, Madame Séraphin, that poor Alfred was suffering dreadful with the cramp in his stomach, besides being worried to death by a crack-brained vagabond, who is at him night and day: he’ll be the death of my poor old duck at last. Never mind, darling, I’ve got a nice little drop of aniseed to give you; so drink it, and see if you can’t shake your old feathers and be yourself again!”

Thanks to the timely application of Madame Pipelet’s infallible remedy, Alfred gradually recovered his senses; but, alas, scarcely was he restored to full consciousness ere he was subjected to another and equally cruel trial of his feelings!

An individual of middle age, respectably dressed, and possessing a countenance so simple, or rather so silly, as to render it impossible to suspect him of any malice prepense or intended irony, opened the upper and glazed part of the lodge door, saying, with the most genuine air of mystification:

“I have just read on a small board placed over the door, at the entrance to the alley, the following words: ‘Pipelet and Cabrion, dealers in Friendship and similar Articles. Inquire of the Porter.’ Will you oblige me by explaining the meaning of those words, if you are, as I presume you to be, the porter in question?”

“The meaning!” exclaimed M. Pipelet, in a voice of thunder, and giving vent at length to his so long restrained indignation; “the meaning is simply, sir-r-r, that M. Cabrion is an infamous scoundrel,—an impostor!”

The simple-looking interrogator drew back, in dread of the consequences that might follow this sudden and furious burst of wrath, while, wrought up to a state of fury, Alfred leaned over the half door of the lodge, his glaring eyeballs and clenched hands indicating the intensity of his feelings; while the figures of Madame Séraphin and Anastasie were dimly revealed amid the murky shades of the small room.

“Let me tell you, sir-r-r!” cried M. Pipelet, addressing the placid-looking man at the door, “that I have no dealings with that beggar Cabrion, and certainly none in the way of friendship!”

“No, that I’m sure you have not!” screamed out Madame Pipelet, in confirmation of her husband’s words; adding, as she displayed her forbidding countenance over her husband’s shoulder, “and I wonder very much where that old dunderhead has come from to ask such a stupid question?”

“I beg your pardon, madame,” said the guileless-looking individual thus addressed, again withdrawing another step to escape the concentrated anger of the enraged pair; “placards are made to be read,—you put out a board, which I read,—now allow me to say that I am not to blame for perusing what you set up purposely to attract attention, but that you are decidedly wrong to insult me so grossly when I civilly come to you, as your own board desires, for information.”

“Oh, you old fool! Get along with you!” exclaimed Anastasie, with a most hideous distortion of visage.

“You are a rude, unmannerly woman!”

“Alfred, deary, just fetch me your boot-jack: I’ll give that old chatterer such a mark that his own mother shall not know her darling again!”

“Really, madame, I can’t say I understand receiving such rough treatment when I come, by your own directions, to make inquiries respecting what you or your husband have publicly notified in the streets.”

“But, sir-r-r—!” cried the unhappy porter.

“Sir!” interrupted the hitherto placid inquirer, now worked up into extreme rage, “Sir! You may carry your friendship with your M. Cabrion as far as you please, but, give me leave to tell you, you have no business to parade yourself or your friendships in the face of everybody in the streets. And I think it right, sir, to let you know a bit of my mind; which is, that you are a boasting braggart, and that I shall go at once and lay a formal complaint against you at the police office.” Saying which, the individual departed in an apparently towering passion.

“Anastasie,” moaned out poor Pipelet, in a dolorous voice, “I shall never survive all this! I feel but too surely that I am struck with death,—I have not a hope of escape! You hear my name is publicly exposed in the open streets, in company with that scoundrel’s! He has dared to placard the hideous tale of my having entered into a treaty of friendship with him! And the innocent, unsuspecting public will read the hateful statement—remember it—repeat it—spread the detestable report! Oh, monstrous, enormous, devilish invention! None but a fiend could have had such a thought. But there must be an end to this. The measure is full,—ay, to overflowing; and things have come to such a pass that either this accursed painter or myself must perish in the deadly struggle!” And, wrought up to such a state of vigorous resolution as to completely conquer his usual apathy, M. Pipelet seized the portrait of Cabrion and rushed towards the door.

“Where are you going, Alfred?” screamed the wife.

“To the commissary of police, and, at the same time, to tear down that vile board! Then, bearing the board in one hand and the portrait in the other, I will cry aloud to the commissary, ‘Defend, avenge an injured man! Deliver me from Cabrion!’”

“So do, old darling! There, hold up your head andpluck up courage! And I tell you what, if the board is too high for you to reach, ask the man at the wine-shop to lend you his small ladder. That blackguard of a Cabrion! I only wish I had him in my power, I’d fry him for half an hour in my largest stew-pan! Why, scores of people have been publicly executed who did not deserve death a quarter as much as he does! The villain! I should like to see him just ready to have the guillotine dropped upon his head. Wouldn’t I give him my blessing in a friendly way? A rascal!”

Alfred, amid all his woes, yet displayed a rare magnanimity, contrasting strongly with the vindictive spirit of his partner.

“No, no,” said he; “spite of the wrongs he has done me, I would not, even if his life were in my power, ‘demand his head!’”

“But I would! I would! I would!” vociferated the ferocious Anastasie. “If he had fifty heads, I would demand every one of them! I would not leave him one! But go along; make haste, Alfred, and set the commissary of police to work upon him.”

“No,” cried Alfred, “I desire not his blood; but I have a right to demand the perpetual imprisonment of this malicious being. My repose requires it,—my health peremptorily calls for it. The laws of my country must either grant me this reparation for all I have suffered, or I quit France. Yes, beautiful and beloved France! I turn my back on you for ever! And that is all an ungrateful nation would gain by neglecting to heal the wounds of my tortured mind;” and, bending beneath the weight of his grief, Alfred majestically quitted the lodge, like one of the ancient victims of all-conquering Fatality.

CHAPTER XIV.
CECILY.

Before we introduce the reader to the conversation between Madame Séraphin and Madame Pipelet, we must premise that Anastasie, without entertaining the very slightest suspicion of the virtue and piety of the notary, felt the greatest indignation at the severity manifested by him in the case both of Louise Morel and M. Germain; and, as a natural consequence, the angry porteress included Madame Séraphin in the same censure; but still, like a skilful politician, Madame Pipelet, for reasons we shall hereafter explain, concealed her dislike to the femme-de-charge under the appearance of the greatest cordiality. After having explicitly declared her extreme disapprobation of the conduct pursued by Cabrion, Madame Séraphin went on to say:

“By the way, what has become of M. Bradamanti Polidori? I wrote to him yesterday evening, but got no reply; this morning I came to see him, but he was not to be found. I trust I shall be more fortunate this time.”

Madame Pipelet affected the most lively regret.

“Really,” cried she, “you are doomed to be unlucky!”

“How so?”

“M. Bradamanti has not yet returned.”

“Upon my word, this is enough to tire a saint!”

“So it is, I declare, Madame Séraphin. I’m sure I’m as sorry about it as if it was my own self.”

“I had so much to say to him.”

“It is all for the world as though you were bewitched!”

“Why, yes, it is so much the more vexatious, because I have to find all manner of excuses to run down here; for, if once M. Ferrand were to find out that I came to consult a quack doctor, he who is so devout, so scrupulous in all things, we should have a fearful scene!”

“La! He is just like Alfred, who is so silly that really he is afraid of everything and everybody!”

“And you do not know, I suppose, when M. Bradamanti will return home?”

“No, not precisely; but I know very well that he expects some one about six or seven o’clock this evening, for he told me to request the person to call again, should he not be at home at the time mentioned. So, if you will call again in the evening, you will be sure to see him.”

But, as Anastasie said these words, she mentally added, “I would not have you too sure of that; in an hour’s time he will be on his road to Normandy!”

“Very well, then,” said Madame Séraphin, with an air of considerable chagrin. Then, pausing a brief space, she added, “I had also something to say to you, my dear Madame Pipelet. You know, I suppose, what happened to that girl, Louise Morel, whom everybody thought so good and virtuous—”

“Oh, pray don’t mention her!” replied Madame Pipelet, rolling her eyes with affected horror. “It makes one’s hair stand on end.”

“I merely alluded to her by way of saying that we are now quite without a servant, and that, if you should chance to hear of a well-disposed, honest, and industrious young person, I should take it as a favour if you would send her to us. Upon my word, girls of good character are so difficult to be met with that one had need search in twenty places at once to find one.”

“Depend upon it, Madame Séraphin, that, should I hear of anybody likely to suit you, I will let you know;but, in my opinion, good situations are more rare even than good servants.” Then, again relapsing into a fit of abstraction, Anastasie added, though mentally, “A likely story that I should send any young girl to be starved to death in your dungeon of a house; your master is too stingy and hard-hearted! The idea of throwing that poor Louise and M. Germain both in prison!”

“I need not tell you,” continued Madame Séraphin, “what a still, quiet house ours is; any young person must be improved by living in a family where there is continually something to be learned; and that Louise must have been naturally a depraved creature, to turn out badly spite of the good and religious advice bestowed on her by M. Ferrand.”

“No doubt; but depend upon it that, directly I hear of a young person likely to suit you, I will be sure to let you know.”

“There is just one thing more I should like to mention,” resumed Madame Séraphin, “and that is, that M. Ferrand would greatly prefer taking a person who had no relatives or friends, because then, you understand, having no motive for wishing to go out, she would be less exposed to danger, neither would her mind be so likely to be upset; so that, if you should happen to meet with an orphan, I think M. Ferrand would prefer taking her, in the first place, because it would be doing a good action; and, secondly, as, having neither friends nor followers, she could not have any excuse for wishing to go out. I assure you that wretched girl, Louise, gave M. Ferrand a severe lesson, I can tell you, Madame Pipelet, and one that will make him very careful what sort of a servant he engages. Only imagine such a scandalous affair occurring in a house like ours! Dreadful! Well, then, I will call again this evening to see M. Bradamanti, and, at the same time, I can have a little conversation with Mother Burette.”

“Then I will say adieu, Madame Séraphin, till thisevening, when you will be quite sure of finding M. Bradamanti.”

Madame Séraphin returned the salutation, and quitted the lodge.

“What a deuce of a worry she is in about Bradamanti!” said Madame Pipelet, when her visitor had disappeared. “I wonder what she wants with him? And then, too, M. Bradamanti is just as anxious to avoid seeing her before he starts for Normandy. I was dreadfully afraid she meant to stick here till he did return home, and that would have been the more awkward, as M. Bradamanti expects the same lady who came last night; I could not manage to have a squint at her then, but I am determined to-night to stare her regularly out of countenance, like I did the lady who came on the sly to visit my five-farthing commandant. Ah, the screw! the nipcheese! He has never ventured to show his face here since. However, by way of teaching him better, I shall make good use of his wood; yes, yes, my fine gentleman, it shall keep the lodge warm, as well as air your shut-up apartments. A disappointed puppy! Ha, ha, ha! Go, and be hanged with your paltry twelve francs a month! Better learn to pay people honest wages, than go flaunting about in a bright green dressing-gown, like a great lanky grasshopper! But who the plague can this lady of M. Bradamanti’s be, I wonder? Is she respectable, or t’other? I should like to know, for I am as curious as a magpie; but that is not my fault; I am as God made me, so I can’t help it. I know one’s disposition is born with us, and so the blame does not lie at my door. Stop a bit; I’ve just thought of a capital plan to find out who this lady really is; and, what’s more, I’ll engage it turns out successful. Who is that I see coming? Ah, my king of lodgers! Your servant, M. Rodolph!” cried Madame Pipelet, saluting him, after the military fashion, by placing the back of her left hand to her wig.

It was, in truth, Rodolph, who, as yet ignorant of the death of M. d’Harville, approached gaily, saying:

“Good day to you, Madame Pipelet! Can you tell me if Mlle. Rigolette is at home? I have something to say to her, if she is.”

“At home, poor girl! Why, when is she ever out? When does she lose an hour, or idle instead of working?”

“And how gets on Morel’s unfortunate wife? Does she appear more reconciled to her misfortunes?”

“Yes, M. Rodolph, I am glad to say she does; and how can she be otherwise, when, thanks to you, or the generous friend whose agent you are, she is supplied with every comfort, both for herself and her children, who are as happy as fishes in the sea? Why, they want for nothing; they have good air, good food, good fires, and good beds, with a nurse to take care of them, besides Mlle. Rigolette, who, although working like a little busy bee, and without seeming to take part in their proceedings, never loses sight of them, bless you! And they have had a black doctor to see them, who says he comes from you. ‘Well,’ says I, when I looked at him, ‘you are a funny one for a doctor, you are! I suppose, Mr. Nigger, you are physician to a company of charcoalmen, because there is no fear of your blacking your hands when you feel their pulse?’ But la, M. Rodolph, I’m only joking! For what difference does colour make? Leastways your blacky seems to be a first-rate clever man, spite of his dingy face, for the first thing he did was to order a composing draught for Morel’s wife, which did her a world of good!”

“Poor thing! I doubt not she is still very miserable?”

“Why, yes, M. Rodolph, naturally enough she is, for she has plenty of grief before her: her husband in a madhouse, and her daughter in prison! Ah, that poor Louise! That is the sorest of her heartaches; such a blow as that to an honest family, such as theirs has always been, is not to be got over so easily. And that Madame Séraphin, housekeeper to the notary, who has caused all this misery, has just been here, saying all manner of cruel things about the poor girl. If I had not had my own game to play, she should not have told the tale quite her own way; but I’ve got a pill for her to swallow by and by, so I’ll let her off easy. Why, only conceive her assurance in coming to ask me if I could not recommend her some young person to supply the place of Louise in the establishment of that old brute of a notary. What a blessed pair the master and his housekeeper are! Just fancy their preferring an orphan, if they can obtain one, to be their servant! Don’t you see through that, M. Rodolph? They pretend that their reason for wishing for an orphan is, because, having neither parents nor friends, she would never wish to go out, and would be more free from interruption; but that is not it, that is all a fudge; the truth is, they think that, if they could get a poor, friendless girl into their clutches, having nobody to see her righted, they could cheat her out of her wages as much as they liked. Now is not that true, M. Rodolph?”

“No doubt,” replied the person addressed, with the air of one who is thinking deeply on a subject.

The information thus afforded him as to Madame Séraphin seeking an orphan girl, to replace Louise as servant in the family of M. Ferrand, appeared to present the almost certain means of accomplishing the just punishment of the notary; and, while Madame Pipelet was yet speaking, he was arranging every point of the part he had mentally destined for Cecily, whom he purposed making the principal instrument in effecting the retributive justice he meant to inflict on the vile persecutor of Louise Morel.

“Oh, I was quite sure you would be of my opinion,” continued Madame Pipelet, “and that you would agree with me in thinking that their only reason for desiring to engage an orphan girl is, that they may do her out ofher wages; and, I can tell you, I would sooner drop down dead than send any poor, friendless creature to such a house! Certainly, I don’t happen to know of any one, but, if I knew of fifty, they should not enter into such a wretched house, if I could hinder them. Don’t you think I’m right, M. Rodolph?”

“Madame Pipelet, will you do me a great favour?”

“Do you a favour, M. Rodolph? Lord love your heart and soul! Just say what there is I can do for you, and then see whether I will or no. Come, what is it? Shall I jump into the fire? or curl my best wig with boiling oil? or is there anybody I can worry, bite, pinch, or scold for you? Only say the word. I am wholly at your service, heart and body, your most humble slave; always stipulating that in my service there shall be no offence to Alfred’s prior claims on me.”

“Oh, my dear Madame Pipelet, make yourself perfectly easy! I want you to manage a little affair for me, which is this: I have got to place out a young orphan girl, who is utterly a stranger to Paris; and I wish very much, with your assistance, to obtain for her the situation vacant in M. Ferrand’s establishment.”

“You don’t mean it? La, I never can think you are in earnest! What! Send a poor, friendless girl to live with such a miserly wretch as that hard-hearted old notary? No, no, M. Rodolph, that was not what you wanted me to do, I’m sure!”

“But, indeed, it is; why, a place is a place, and, if the young person I mentioned to you should not like it, she is not obliged to stay there; and then, don’t you see, she would at once be able to maintain herself, while I should have no further uneasiness about her?”

“Oh, as far as that goes, M. Rodolph, it is your affair, not mine; and, whatever happens, remember I warned you. If, after all you have heard, you still think the place would suit your young friend, why, of course, you can please yourself; and, then, to be sure, as far as regards the notary, there are always two sides to every picture, a for and against to every tale; he is hard-hearted as a flint-stone, obstinate as a jackass, bigoted as a Jesuit, that’s true enough; but then he is of the most scrupulous punctuality in all his affairs; he gives very low wages, but, then, he pays on the nail; the living is very bad at his house, still it is the same one day as another. In a word, though it is a house where a servant must work like a horse, yet, at the same time, it is one of those dull, quiet, stupid places, where there is certainly nothing to tempt a girl to get into mischief. Certainly, Louise managed to go wrong, but that was all a chance.”

“Madame Pipelet, I am going to confide a great secret to your honour.”

“Well, then, upon the word and honour of Anastasie Pipelet, whose maiden name was Gulimard, as true as there is a God and heaven, and that Alfred always wears green coats, I will be silent as a stockfish!”

“You must not breathe a word to M. Pipelet.”

“That I won’t, I swear by the head of that dear old duck himself, if it relates to a proper and correct affair.”

“Surely, Madame Pipelet, you have too good an opinion of me to suppose, for a minute, that I would insult your chaste ears with anything that was not?”

“Well, then, go it! Let’s know all about it, and, I promise you, Alfred shall never be the wiser, be it what it may. Bless you! he is as easy to cheat as a child of six years old.”

“I rely implicitly on you; therefore listen to my words.”

“I will, my king of lodgers; and remember that we are now sworn friends for life or for death. So go on with your story.”

“The young person I spoke to you about has, unfortunately, committed one serious fault.”

“I was sure of it! Why, Lord bless you, if I had not married Alfred when I was fifteen years of age, I dare say I should have committed, fifties and hundreds of faults! I? There, just as you see. I was like a barrel of gunpowder at the very sight or mention of a smart young fellow. Luckily for me, Pipelet extinguished the warmth of my nature in the coolness of his own virtue; if he had not, I can’t say what might have happened, for I did dearly love the gay deceivers! I merely mention this to say that, if the young person has only done wrong once, then there are great hopes of her.”

“I trust, indeed, she will atone for her past misconduct. She was living in service, in Germany, with a relation of mine, and the partner of her crime was the son of this relative. Do you understand?”

“Do I? Don’t I? Go along with you! I understand as well as though I had committed the fault myself.”

“The angry mistress, upon discovering her servant’s guilt, drove her from her house; but the young man was weak enough to quit his paternal roof, and to bring the unfortunate girl to Paris.”

“Well, la, M. Rodolph! What else could you expect? Why, young people will be young people. I’m sure I—”

“After this act of folly came stern reflection, rendered still more severe by the fact of the slender stock of money he possessed being exhausted. In this dilemma, my young relation applied to me; and I consented to furnish him with the means of returning home, on condition of his leaving behind him the companion of his flight, whom I undertook to place out in some respectable capacity.”

“Well, I declare, I could not have done more for a son, if it had pleased Heaven—and Pipelet—that I should have had one!”

“I am delighted that you approve of my conduct; still, as the young girl is a stranger, and has no one to give her a recommendation, I fear it will be rather difficultto get her placed. Now, if you would tell Madame Séraphin that a relation of yours, living in Germany, has sent her to you, with a very excellent character, the notary would, possibly, take her into his service; and I should be doubly delighted. Cecily (for that is her name), having only once gone astray, would, doubtless, soon regain the right path in a house as severe and saintly as that of the notary’s; and it is for that reason I am desirous of seeing the poor girl enter into the service of M. Ferrand; and, of course, if introduced by so respectable a person as yourself, Madame Pipelet, there would be no fear of her obtaining the place.”

“Oh, M. Rodolph!”

“Yes, indeed, my good madame, I am sure that one word from so justly esteemed an individual as you—”

“Oh, my king of lodgers!”

“I repeat that, if you would patronise the young girl so far as to introduce her to Madame Séraphin, I have no fears but that she would be accepted; whereas, you know, if I were to accompany her to the notary’s house—”

“I see what you mean; to be sure, it would look just as queer as if I were to introduce a young man. Well, I will do what you wish; it will be serving old Séraphin out as she deserves. I can tell you I have had a crow to pluck with her a long time, and this seems a famous way of serving her out; besides, it’s a good lark, any way. So look upon the thing as done, M. Rodolph. I’ll cram the old woman well. I will tell her that a relation of my own, long established in Germany, has just died, as well as her husband, leaving a daughter wholly dependent on me.”

“Capital! Well, then, without saying anything more to Madame Séraphin, you shall take Cecily to M. Ferrand. All you will have to say is, that, not having seen or heard anything of your relation during the last twenty years, you consider it best to let her speak for herself.”

“Ah, but then, if the girl only jabbers German?”

“I assure you she speaks French perfectly well. I will give her proper instructions, therefore you need do nothing more than strongly recommend her to Madame Séraphin,—or, stay, upon second thoughts, perhaps you had better not say any more than you have done on the subject, for fear she should suspect you want to force the girl upon her. You know that, frequently, the very asking a thing produces a refusal.”

“I should think I did, too! Why, that was the way I got rid of all the flattering lovers that came about me. If they had never asked me a favour, I don’t know what I might have done.”

“It is always the case; therefore say nothing more to Madame Séraphin than just this, that Cecily is an orphan, and a stranger here, very young and very pretty, that she will be a heavy burden to you, and that you are not particularly fond of her, in consequence of having long since quarrelled with her mother, and, consequently, not retaining a very great affection for the charge bequeathed to your care.”

“What a deep one you are! But never mind, there’s a pair of us! I say, M. Rodolph, is it not odd you and I should understand each other so well? Ah, we two should have suited one another to a hair! Gracious, M. Rodolph, when I think what might have happened, if we had chanced to have met when I was such a tender-hearted, susceptible young creature, and so fond of handsome young men,—don’t you fancy we should have seemed like made for one another,—eh, M. Rodolph?”

“Hush! Suppose M. Pipelet—”

“I forgot him, poor old duck! His brain is half turned since this last abominable prank of Cabrion’s; but I’ll tell you about that another time. As for your young relation, make yourself quite easy; I will undertake to play my part so well that old Séraphin shall come to me, and beg to have her as a servant.”

“And if you succeed, Madame Pipelet, I have one hundred francs quite at your service. I am not rich, but—”

“Are you making fun of me, M. Rodolph, or do you imagine I am doing what I do for the sake of gain? I declare to God it’s out of nothing but pure friendship! One hundred francs! That’s handsome, however!”

“Why, I consider it but an act of justice, as well as gratitude, to offer you a sum which, if left several months on my hands, the girl must soon have cost me.”

“Ah, well, then, since I can serve you by accepting your hundred francs, of course I have no further objection, M. Rodolph; but we drew a famous prize in the lottery when you came into the house, and I don’t care who hears me say it, for I’d as lief cry it on the housetops. You are the very prince and king of good lodgers! Halloa, there is a hackney-coach! No doubt, the lady M. Bradamanti expects; I could not manage to see her well when she came yesterday, but I’ll have a precious good stare at her this time; added to which, I’ve got a capital plan for finding out her name. Come, you shall see me go to work; it will be a famous lark for us!”

“No, I thank you, Madame Pipelet; I have not the slightest curiosity respecting either the name or features of this lady,” returned Rodolph, withdrawing to the very end of the lodge.

“Where do you wish to go, madame?” cried Anastasie, rushing towards the female, who was entering.

“I am going to M. Bradamanti’s,” returned the person addressed, visibly annoyed at having her progress thus arrested.

“He is not at home.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Oh, no, I am not!” said the porteress, skilfully contriving so to place herself as to command a perfect view of the stranger’s features. “M. Bradamanti has goneout, positively, absolutely gone out; that is to say, he is not at home, except to one lady.”

“‘Tis I, he expects me; and pray, my good woman, allow me to pass; you are really troublesome!”

“Your name, madame, if you please? I shall soon see if it is the name of the person M. Bradamanti desired me to admit. Should yours not be the right name, you don’t go up-stairs, unless you first trample on my body!”

“Is it possible he could be so imprudent as to tell you my name?” cried the female, with as much surprise as uneasiness.

“Certainly he did, madame, or how should I know it?”

“How very thoughtless!” murmured the stranger. Then, after a momentary hesitation, she said, impatiently, in a low voice, and as if fearful of being overheard, “My name is D’Orbigny.”

Rodolph started at the word, as it reached his ear, for it was the name of Madame d’Harville’s mother-in-law. Advancing, therefore, from the dark corner in which he stood, he managed, by the light of the lamp, to obtain a clear view of the stranger, in whose features he easily traced the portrait so skilfully drawn by Clémence of the author of all her sufferings.

“Madame d’Orbigny!” repeated Madame Pipelet, in a loud tone. “Ah, then you may go up-stairs; that is the name M. Bradamanti gave me.”

Madame d’Harville’s mother-in-law waited for no second bidding, but rapidly passed by the lodge.

“Well done us!” shouted the porteress, with a triumphant air; “I have caught my fish, done the great lady! Now, then, I know her name,—she is Madame d’Orbigny. That wasn’t a bad scheme of mine, was it, M. Rodolph? But what the plague is the matter with you? How sad and thoughtful you have grown all of a minute!”

“This lady has been to see M. Bradamanti before, has she not?”

“Yes, she was here yesterday evening; and, directly she was gone, M. Bradamanti went out, most probably, to take his place in the diligence for to-day, because, when he came back, he asked me to take his trunk to the coach office, as he could not trust that little rascal, Tortillard.”

“And do you know where M. Bradamanti is going?”

“To Normandy, by way of Alençon.”

Rodolph called to his remembrance that Aubiers, the seat of M. d’Orbigny, was situated in Normandy. There was no longer a doubt that the charlatan was proceeding to the paternal home of Clémence, and, as a matter of course, to aid and assist in some scheme of wickedness.

“The departure of M. Bradamanti will put old Séraphin out preciously!” resumed Madame Pipelet. “I can’t make out what she wants with him; but she seems as much bent upon seeing him as he is on avoiding her; for he charged me particularly not to tell her that he leaves Paris to-night at six o’clock. So, when she calls again, she will find nobody at home; that will give me an opportunity of talking to her about your young person. Let’s see, what is her name? Cissy—”

“Cecily!”

“Ah, I see! Just clap two more letters to the word I said,—that’ll do. I must tie a knot in the corner of my handkerchief, that I may be able to recollect this bother of a name. Ciss—Cissy—Cecily—I’ve got it!”

“Well, now, I think it is time for me to visit Mlle. Rigolette,” said Rodolph to Madame Pipelet, as he quitted the lodge.

“And when you come down-stairs, M. Rodolph, I hope you will just speak a word or two to my dear old darling of a husband. He has had a deal of trouble lately, and I know it will be a great relief to him to tell you allabout it. That beast of a Cabrion has been at his old tricks again!”

“Be assured, Madame Pipelet, I shall always be ready to sympathise with your worthy husband in all his troubles.”

And with these words Rodolph, strangely preoccupied with the recent visit of Madame d’Orbigny to Polidori, slowly pursued his way to the apartment of Mlle. Rigolette.

END OF VOLUME III.

ENDNOTES

Endnote 1: We shall hear more particulars of these worthies in another chapter.

Endnote 2: It is, perhaps, unnecessary to remind the reader that the child in question is Fleur-de-Marie, daughter of Rodolph and Sarah, and that the latter, in speaking of a pretended sister, tells a falsehood necessary for her plans, as will be seen. Sarah was convinced, as was Rodolph, also, of the death of the little girl.