A 1,079,369



1911. TA
A UNIV
RARIE
MICHIGA
CANSA


Dezy 70 yall!
Talume #17 245
No to available
& story invesnaplete
is voll





THE
MYSTERIES OF PARIS
BY
EUGENE SUE.
A. NEW REVISED TRANSLATION
BY
H. LLEWELLYN WILLIAMS.
COMPLETE IN TWO VOLUMES.
Volume I.
NEW yORK:
THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY,
Nos. 72-76 Walkee Street.


-RU
CAR


MHffHE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
Vol. I.
CHAPTER I.
THE MYSTERIOUS DEFENDER.
One cold, rainy October evening, a man of athletic build, wear*
ing an old broad-brimmed straw hat and a ragged serge "jumper"
or shirt which came down over trousers of the same coarse
stuff, well below the waistband, crossed the Pont-au-Change of
Paris, and plunged into the old part of the town, called the City,
a maze of dark, narrow and crooked streets, spreading from the
Palace of Justice to Notre Dame Cathedral. This district is the
haunt of malefactors, who swarm in the low drinking-dives.
These resorts for the dregs, such as returned or escaped felons,
thieves, burglars, and cut-throats, are usually kept by convicts
who have "done their time," worked out their term of imprison-
ment, known in the talk as an Ogre, or a woman of the same
grade, an Ogress. When a crime has been perpetrated, the
police cast the net into these mudholes, and almost always drag
out the guilty.
The wan and flickering light of the street-lamps danced by
reflection in the black water of the gutter.
The sooty house-fronts, broken by a few worm-eaten window-
frames, overhung as to almost touch, the streets being so narrow.
Dark and filthy alleys led to flights of steps even darker aird more
filthy, while so steep it was hard to climb up them even by help of
a. rope iron-clamped to the sweating walls.
Some of the ground-floors were stores; notwithstanding the
paltry show of stock, the fronts of the windows were nearly all
iron-barred, so much did the keepers dread the "snatches" of
boy-thieves.
The man slackened his pace on reaching the Rue aux Feves,
situated in the heart of the City,feeling that he was "at home."
It was very dark, and the strong gusts of rain lashed the
walls.
Ten o'clock rang from the Palace of Justice clock.
Women were ambushed under projecting windows, as in deep
and lightless caves; some hummed ends of popular songs, other*
(3)


4
THE MYSTERIOUS DEFENDER.
talked together in under-tones, and others again stood mute and
motionless, listlessly watching the rain fall. The serge-shirt man,
abruptly stopping in front of one of these unfortunates, who was
silent and sad, grabbed her by the arm.
"Good evening, Squaller (La Goualeuse)," he hailed her.
"G—good evening, Knifer (Chourineur)," faltered she, draw,
ing back. "Please don't hurt me."
This man, a returned convict, had been named as above ill
prison.
"Glad I come across you," said he ; "I'm down on my luck 1
You're the very girl to stand some redfire (brandy)—or, strike me
stiff! I'll make you dance without music!"
"I'm out of money," said the girl, trembling; for this was the
Terror of the neighborhood.
"If your purse is empty, the Ogress of the Redfire Saloon will
give you tick on the strength of your pretty face."
"Oh, no; I already owe her for the hire of the clothes I have
on!"
"Oh, you want to trick me out of it, do you? " exclaimed the
Knifer, darting furiously forward in pursuit of La Goualeuse, who
took refuge in a dark alley.
"No, you don't. I've you !" exclaimed the ruffian, after a few
seconds, as he seized in his powerful hand one as soft and slight.
"You shall dance for it," a masculine voice broke in.
out, if it is, and don't squeeze so infernally hard; I'm up your
passage, I know ; so I suppose it's you."
"It is not Red Arm," replied the voice.
"The d it ain't! As you are not one of my crowd, you'll
soon see something drop !" cried the Knifer. "But whose small
paw have I hold of here? I'll be blowed if it ain't a girl's!"
"The fellow to this!" replied the voice; and, under the soft,
delicate skin of the hand, suddenly and violently seizing him by the
throat, the Knifer felt nerves and muscles of iron.
La Goualeuse, sheltered at the bottom of the alley, had lightly
sprung up several stairs ; she now stopped an instant, and cried out
to her unknown defender—
"Thanks, thanks, sir, for having taken my part. The Knifer
struck me because I would not pay for his brandy ; but I think
he was only funning. Now I am safe. Let him go, I pray, and
beware of him—he is the Knifer."
"And suppose it is the Knifer; I'm a milling cove who
knuckles under to no buffer near my weight!" For some
seconds nothing was heard save the sounds of a deadly strife.
"S'help me, you must want me to do for you," exclaimed
the Knifer, making a fierce effort to throw off his adversary,
whom he found unusually powerful. "It's all right! you'll pay
for La Goualeuse and yourself together!" He gnashed his
teeth with rage.
"Hullo! a man.

Speak


THE MYSTERIOUS DEFENDER. j
"Pay 1 aye, that will I," said the Unknown; *' and it'll be in
hot punches!"
"If you don't let go my necktie I'll bite your nose off," gasped
the Knifer, choking.
"My nose is too short, my boy, and there is not light enough
for you to see it."
"Then come under the glim, and I'll show you."
"Come on, then," said the Unknown, "and let's have a squint
at the whites of each other's eyes."
Upon which, dragging the Knifer by his collar, the stranger
forced him through the head of the alley into the street, which
was barely lighted by a lonely lamp.
The Knifer staggered, but speedily recovering his balance,
he threw himself with fury upon the other, whose shapely and
slender figure by no means foretold the incredible strength he
had displayed.
The struggle was short, for the ruffian, although of athletic make
and of first-rate ability in rough-and-tumble fights, found he hid
met his master.
The stranger gave him the crook twice with marvelous dex«
terity, and he measured r.is '.ength each time on the ground.
Still unwilling to admit the superiority of his adversary, the
Knifer, burning with rage, returned to the charge. Thereupon
the defender of La Goualeuse, suddenly changing his mode of
attack, showered upon the cut-throat's head a succession of
fisticuffs, as weighty and crushing as though delivered in an
iron gauntlet.
These blows, worthy of the envy and admiration of the most
celebrated boxers, were, moreover, so completely out of the French
mode of fighting, that the Knifer was mentally as well as bodily
stunned by them, and for the third time he fell upon the pave-
ment, muttering—"I'm floored; I've had enough pork for my
money."
"If he gives up, don't punish him ; have pity upon him," said
La Goualeuse, who, during all this struggle, had kept her stand at
the steps at the court's head.
Then she added, in astonishment—"Oh, who are you? Ex-
cepting the Schoolmaster or the Skeleton, there is not a bruiser who
can stand up to the Knifer. I truly thank you, sir. Alas! but for
you he would have beaten me."
The stranger, instead of replying to the girl, listened attentivel)
to her voice. Never had he heard softer, fresher, or more silvery
tones; he endeavored to distinguish the speaker's features, but
the night was too dark, and the light afforded by the lamp too
feeble.
After remaining motionless for some time, the Knifer stretched
his arms and legs, and at length sat up.
"Look out," cried La Goualeuse, again seeking safety in the


6
THE MYSTER'OUS DEFENDER.
alley, and pulling her protector by the arm; "pray take care! h*
will try to be revenged."
"Don't be alarmed, my girl," said the other; "there's plenty
more beats in the same basket others came out of.'
The Knifer, who heard these words, replied, speaking to tha
stranger:
"Oh, no, thank'ee; I'm half choked, and have one peepet
bunged up quite enough for to-day; I had rather not call again,
thank you: if I meet you later, however"
"What! not satisfied? Do you grumble?" asked the stranger^
in a threatening tone.
"No, no; I don't grumble; you are a plucky cove," said the
ruffian, in a sulky tone, and yet with that respect which physical
strength always inspires in such men. "You have settled me:
and except the Skeleton with his iron bones and the Schoolmaster,
who could eat three of them big statues in the Park for breakfast,
no one until now could brag of having set his foot on my neck."
"What do you want to make of it?"
"What? Why, I have found my master, that's all. You will
meet yours some day or another; sooner or later every one has
his match. What is sure at all events is this, that now that you've
licked the Knifer you can ride your high horse in the City. AH
the girls of the town will be spooney on you—will be your slaves;
and neitner Ogre nor Ogress will dare refuse you tick and trust.
Oh, that's- something. But who are you, I say? You patter flash
like a Family man. If you are a prig I don't travel with you. I
have splashed, it is true, because when blood's up I see red, and I
must strike ; but I have paid for my slashing by my fifteener. My
time is out. I am no longer spotted, I owe nothing to the big-wigs,
and I have never been on the cotton-wiper lay. Ask La Goualeust
if I have."
"That is true," said the girl; "he is no thief."
"Well, come and drink a glass, and you shall know who I am,"
said the Unknown. "Come, don't- nurse a grudge against me;
come."
"That's the ticket! Bear malice? not a bit of it! Youarebesi
man, make no mistake ; you can handle your mawleys right
splittingly. Heavens! what a hail-storm of right and left handenj
that was last round! Thunder! how they rattled on my nut. I
never felt anything like it; your fists fell like sledge-hammers!
That's quite a new move to me ; you must put me up to that
dodge—will you?"
"Oh! I'll begin at this moment, if you choose?"
"Oh, no, not upon me again; not upon me, thank you all the
same. My head is dizzy yet. But are you in with Red Ann, be-
ing as you were in the alley to his crib?"
"Red Arm! " said the stranger, as if disagreeably surprised by
the question; but he only added, in a careless way, "Can't say I
know Red Arm; is he the only chap living in the house here? It


8 THE OGRESS.
door of a dark arched passage hung an oblong lamp, on the
cracked glass of which are the words, " Beds for Single Men,
three sous."
The Knifer, the stranger, and La Goualeuse entered a large,
low room, with a smoked ceiling, crossed with black rafters, and
lighted by the reddish flame of a dismal hanging lamp. The
cracked walls, once coated with plaster, were covered here and
there with odd and not very delicate designs and flash phrases.
The trodden-clay floor was splashed with mud; a heap of straw,
which did duty as a carpet, was strewed at the foot of the counter,
situated on the right of the door beyond the lamp.
On each side of this apartment stood six tables, which, with their
accompanying benches, were fastened at one end to the wall. At
the far end of the room was a door leading to the kitchen; on the
right, near the counter, was another, opening on a passage com-
municating with the wretched room in which the Ogress lodged
her customers at three cents per night.
A few words will serve to describe the Ogress and her guests.
Known by the name of Mother Ponisse, her triple profession con-
sisted in letting lodgings, keeping a groggery, and lending clothes
on hire to the wretched street-walkers of this vile neighborhood.
She was about forty years of age, tall, stout-built, robust, ruddy-
visaged, and gifted with a beard; to complete the picture, her
complexion was coppery, and inflamed by abuse of strong liquors.
The zinc-covered bar was ornamented with various pewter and
din measures, and on a shelf were glass bottles containing liquors,
tinted red, or green, and labelled with slang names, such as White
Tape (gin) Dutch Courage, Blue Ruin, etc.
The customers were shabby, tattered men and women, present-
ing no remarkable features, their expressions being brutish or
ferocious, their mirth vulgar or licentious, and their silence sullen
or stupid.
Such was the assemblage into which entered the Knifer, the
Squaller and the Unknown,
The Knifer was a man of tall stature and athletic make, with
light hair, approaching to white, bushy eyebrows, and enormous
red whiskers. Exposure to the weather, poverty, and the rude
labors of the prison ships had bronzed his countenance with
that dark sallowy tint peculiar to convicts. Notwithstanding his
terrible surname, the features of this man expressed rather brutal
hardihood and unconquerable boldness, than ferocity.
The Squaller was not over sixteen and a half years old. A fore-
head of the purest and whitest surmounted a perfectly oval face,
of angelic expression ; a fringe of eyelids, so long that they curled
slightly, half veiled large blue eyes of melancholy expression.
The down of early youth graced her cheeks, lightly colored with a
blush-red tinge. Her small, rosy mouth, which hardly ever
smiled—her nose, straight, and delicately chiselled—her rounded
chin, formed, in their combined expression, an outline of that


THE OGRESS.
9
perfect beauty in Raphael's Madonnas. On each side of her fair
temples was a band of hair of the most splendid auburn hue, which
descended in luxuriant ringlets half way down her cheeks, and
was then turned back behind the ear, a portion of which—ivory
shaded with carnation—was thus visible, and then lost itself under the
close folds of abroad blue-checkered cotton kerchief, its ends twisted
round and round so as to avoid making a bulging knot. Her
graceful neck, of dazzling whiteness, was encircled by a small
necklace of seed-coral. Her gown, of brown stuff, though much
too large, could not wholly conceal a charming form, supple and
round as a reed; a worn-out, small, orange-colored shawl, with
green fringe, was crossed over her bosom.
The melodious voice of LaGoualeusehad made a strong impres-
sion on her unknown defender. In truth, that voice, so gentle, so
harmoniously modulated, had an attraction so irresistible, that
even the gang of villains and '' soiled doves," among whom this
unfortunate girl lived, would often beg her to sing, listening to her
with rapture.
La Goualeuse had another name, given, doubtless, on account
of the maiden purity of her countenance; she was also called
Fleur-de-Marie, which in slang signifies the Virgin.
The defender of La Goualeuse (we shall name this person
Rudolf) appeared to be about thirty-six years of age ; his figure,
tall, graceful, and perfectly proportioned, did not, however, betray
the surprising vigor he had displayed in the struggle with the ath-
letic Knifer.
It would be difficult to assign a decided character to the counte-
nance. Certain wrinkles on his forehead betokened a man habit-
ually contemplative, and yet the firm mould of his mouth, the
haughty and imperious carriage of his head, indicated the man of
action, whose physical strength and prompt boldness would always
awe the mass.
In his struggle with the ruffian, Rudolf had shown neither anger
nor hatred. Confiding in his strength, address, and activity, he
had only shown disdain for the brutish animal he had vanquished.
We give the finishing touches to Rudolf's physical portrait by
saying, that his fine regular features seemed too beautiful for a
man's; his eyes were large, soft, brown ones, his nose aquiline, his
chin somewhat prominent, and his chestnut hair of the same shade
as his proudly arched brows and thin, silky moustache.
In other respects, the language and manners, which he sported
with incredible ease, gave him a complete resemblance to the
other guests of the Ogress. His slender neck, elegantly formed as
that of the Indian Bacchus, was encircled by a black neck-cloth,
negligently knotted, the ends of which fell upon the collar of a
blue blouse. A double row of hob-nails weighted his heavy shoes.
In fact, nothing except his hands, which were of a most aristocratic
shape, distinguished him from the ordinary customers here;


IO
THE OGRESS.
though, in a moral sense, his air of resolution and bold serenity
placed an immense distance between them.
On entering, the Knifer, clapping one of his heavy hands on
Rudolf's shoulder, exclaimed—" Three cheers for the chap that
made the Knifer a mouse in the pit! Yes, friends, this youngster
has mastered me, and no mistake. This is news for all who want
broken ribs or cracked crowns, including the Schoolmaster and
the Skeleton, who this time will find their match, and I'll back
him for what you like!"
On these words, from the Ogress to the lowest frequenter of the
tap, all present contemplated the conquerer with a fearful respect,
Some, moving their glasses and jugs to the end of the table at
which they were seated, hastened to make room for Rudolf, if he
should choose to sit beside them; others approached the Knifer to
question him in whispers concerning this Unknown, who had
made his entry into their circle in so triumphant a manner.
At length the Ogress, directing on Rudolf one of her most gra-
cious smiles, actually rose from the bar (a thing unheard of in the
annals of the White Rabbit) to take the orders of her guest, and
know what he desired to have for the refreshment of his party—an
attention which she did not bestow either on the Schoolmaster or
the Skeleton, two dyed-in-the-wool ruffians, who made even the
Knifer tremble.
"Good eqening Fleur-de-Marie," said the Ogress, drawing near
La Goualeuse, and scanning with a prying eye the young girl's
clothes which she had lent htr. After this scrutiny, she said, with
an air of coarse satisfaction: "It's quite a treat to lend things to
you; you are as clean as a trout; indeed I would never have
trusted that pretty orange shawl to dirty creatures; but then
haven't I brought you up since you came here six weeks ago? I
must say for you, there is not a tidier piece in all the City, though
you are too dumpish, too dismal, and too shame-faced, Miss
Icicle. You are such a fresh 'un as yet, that that's not to be
wondered at. Lord! wait till we see you three or four years
hence! when you're an old stager; then there won't be such ?.
dasher in the whole Rue aux Feves."
Goualeuse sighed, hung down her head, and said nothing.
"Come, now, ain't you going to sweeten us with one of your
little squalls?"
"We're first going to have supper, Mother Ponisse," said the
Knifer.
"Well, my brick, what can I serve you with?" said the Ogress
to Rudolf, whose favor she was desirous to obtain, and whose
support she might, perhaps, require.
"Ask the Knifer: he calls the score, and I pay."
"Well, then," said the Ogress, turning to the other, "what will
you have for supper, you bad lot?"
'' Three double-sixes of blood, triplets of soft busters, and a bag
of mystery," answered the Knifr. after luxuriously feasting his


THE OGRESS.
II
mind by mentally turning over the items of the White Rabbit's
bill of fare.
He meant by these strange terms thirty-six sous' worth of red
wine, three slack-baked rolls of bread, and a penny sausage, filled
with that medley of leav'ngs from gentlemen's kitchens and fash-
ionable restaurants, wnich, without the skin, are called Harle-
quins.
'' Whew! you've a jolly sweet tooth, anybody can see, an£
never get tired of Punch's puzzles."
"Punch's puzzle" is another nick-name for cheap Bologna sau.
sages, from that celebrated character making jokes on the edibl
during his play.
"Now then, Squaller," said the Knifer, "are you not wolfi\
yet?"
"No."
"Would you like something better than a sassinger, my girl?'
said Rudolf.
"Oh, no, thank you; I have no appetite."
"Why don't you look at my master, girl?" said the Knifer;
with a broad grin. "What! daren't you look at him between tbf.
eyes?"
The poor girl blushed, but did not look at Rudolf.
After a few moments the Ogress herself placed on the table f
pitcher of wine, bread, and a huge sausage, which appeared to bi
highly relished by the Kniter, who exclaimed—
"What a dish! what a glorious dish! it's a regular carload I
There is something in it to everybody's taste. Why don't you eat,
La Goualeuse? it is capital! You don't mean to say you've beei
to a wedding-feast to-day?"
"No more than on other days. 1 ate this morning, as usual,
my two sous' of milk and of bread."
In spite of his boldness, the Knifer showed a kind of deference
to Rudolf, and did not dare to treat him with familiarity.
"Upon my soul!" said he, "although I have had a cheap (un-
profitable) trip for it, I am glad to have met with you."
"Because you relish the sassidge?"
"Very like; but still more because I long to see you take down
the Schoolmaster. To see the bounce shaken out of him who has
always crowed over me would do my heart good."
"Oh, that's your little game, is it? Do you suppose that for
your sport I shall jump at the Schoolmaster like a bull-dog?"
"No, but he'll be at you in a jiffy when he is told that you are
a better man than he," chuckled the Knifer, rubbing his hands.
"Well, I have brass enough left to give him full change," said
Rudolf, in a careless tone. Then, he added: "It is not weather
fit for a dog: what say you to a go of rotgut, with a sprinkle of
powdered plaster?"
"That's my pison," returned the Knifer, knowing that bj-andy
with white sugar was meant.


12
THE OGRESS.
"And, that we may be better acquainted, we will let on to eacfc
other who we are," added Rudolf.
"The Albino, otherwise the Knifer, returned convict, lighter-
man on the rafts at St. Paul's Pier; frozen in the winter, roasted
in the summer, from twelve to fifteen hours a day in the water;
half man, half frog; that's my picter," said Rudolf s companion,
making him a military salute with his left hand. "Well, now, and
you, my master, being your first knockout in the City—I don'f.
mean anything offensive; but you ran at me like a bull, and made
a drum of my hide. But you have some other trade besides ham-
mering."
"I am a fan-painter, and my name is Rudolf."
"A fan-painter! Oh! that accounts for your having such white
hands," said the other. "Not that that matters; if you are a
specimen of your comrades, it would not be a bad spec, to learn
your trade. But, as you are a workman, what brings you to a
flash-ken, where there are only prigs and trulls and jailbirds like
me, who cannot show anywhere else? This is no place for you;
workmen have their own resorts, and don't know cant."
"I come here because I like choice company!"
"At-chou!" sneezed the Knifer, shaking his head with a doubt-
ful air. "I met you in Red Arm's court; but that's neither here
nor there. You say you don't know him?"
"What do you mean by sticking your Red Arm under my nose?
Confound Red Arm!"
"Hold, master! Perhaps you distrust me; but you are wrong.
If you like, I will tell you my history ; but it must be on condition
that you teach- me how to use my fists after the fashion you tackled
me. What s?.y you?"
"'Tis a bargain; you shall tell me your story, and LaGoualeuse
shall tell us hers."
"Very well," replied the Knifer. "It is not fit weather to keep
a cop (policeman) out, besides it will amuse us. Are you agree-
able, Goualeuse?"
"Oh, yes; but my story will not take long to tell," said she.
"And you will also spin us your yarn, friend Rudolf?" added
the Knifer.
"Yes, for I'll lead off!"
"Fan-painter!" said La Goualeuse; "that must be a very
pretty trade!"
"How murh can you earn at the crank if you stick close to it?"
asked the Kflifer.
"I am on piece-work," responded Rudolf; "my best days are
worth three francs, sometimes four; but that is in the summer,
when the days are long."
"And you take it easy sometimes—eh, lazy-bones?"
"Yes, so long as I have money, though 1 don't chuck it away.
First, I pay a fiver for my night's furnished lodging."
"Excuse vex,your highness, who'd a' thought I'd set eyes on a


THE SQUALLER'S STORY.
prince of a fippenny rope?" said the Knifer, raising his hand to
his cap.
The title, spoken in an ironical tone, caused Rudolf to smile
imperceptibly; and he replied: "Yes! I like to be clean and
comfortable."
"Here's a capitalist for ye! a bank president and no less,"
exclaimed the Chourineur, "just look at a blooming lord who
pays half-a-dime a night for his bed ?''
''Next," continued Rudolf, "there goes five cents for 'bacca;
early burnt sawdust and water (coffee) and toke and wheel-grease
(bread and butter); feed, about a small white 'un (dime); a two
(two cents worth) of rinsing (cheapest spirits), and now you have
it. 'Stands me as nigh twenty cents a day as you can fix it. I
don't have to keep my steam up all the seven days, but blow it off
when I like."
"But your family?" said La Goualeuse.
"The cholera downed 'em," replied Rudolf.
"And what were your parents? " asked La Goualeuse.
"Junk dealers, under the pillars of the Market-place."
"And what did you get, when you sold what they left you?"
aaid the Knifer.
"I was too young, so my keeper did that; and when I came of
age, he brought me in his debtor thirty francs; that was my in-
heritance."
"And who do you work for?" demanded the Knifer.
"His name is Gauthier, in the Rue des Bourdonnais—a beastly,
stingy thief: a miser! who would almost as soon lose his eyes as
pay his workmen fair. That's the best character I can give him;
if it is lost don't come to my office again for it! I learned my trade
under him from the age of fifteen; I have a good number in the
conscription, and my name is Rudolf Durand. That is my
history."
"And now it is your turn, Goualeuse," said the Knifer. "I
keep my story for the last, as a sort o' tit-bit!"
CHAPTER III.
THE SQUALLER'S STORY.
"Begin with the beginning," said the-Knifer, not to lose any-
thing.
"Yes, with your parents," added Rudolf.
"I never knew them," said Fleur-de-Marie.
"Ha, ha ! Goualeuse, that is rich," said the Knifer. "You and
I come of the same family."
"What, you too, Knifer, alone?"


14
THE SQUALLER'S STORY.
"Yes; an orphan of the streets, the same as you were, my
girl."
"Who brought you up, then, Goualeuse?" asked Rudolf.
"I do not know; as lar back as I can recollect, when I think
I was about seven or eight years of age, I lived with an old one-
eyed woman, whom they call the Owl, because she has a hooked
nose, a very round green eye, and altogether resembled an owl
who had lost an eye.'
"Ha! ha! ha! I think I see her now, the old owl!" laughed
the Knifer.
"This old one-eyed woman," resumed Fleur-de-Marie, "sent
me to sell barley-sugar at night on the Pont Neuf; but that was
only a cloak for begging: and when I did not bring her at least
ten cents, she gave me a beating instead of my supper."
"And are you certain that this female was not your mother?"
inquired Rudolf.
"I am quite certain ; for she often taunted me with having
neither father nor mother, and always said that she picked me up
in the street."
"So," said the Knifer, "you danced instead of eating, when
you did not pick up a trifle ?''
"Yes, and afterwards had to lie upon straw spread upon the
ground, where I almost perished with bitter cold."
"I don't doubt it," cried the Knifer; "straw is a regular
freezer! a dung heap is a hundred times better; but then people
don't like the smell of you, and have the cheek to say, 'Oh, the
nasty brute! kick him out, some 'un !'"
This joke made Rudolf smile, while Fleur-de-Marie resumed:
"The next morning the Owl gave me the same allowance for
breakfast as for supper, and sent me to Montfaucon to look for
worms for fish-bait; for during the day she kept her stall for sell-
ing fishing-tackle by the bridge of Notre Dame. For a child
seven years old, half dead with hunger and cold, it is a long way
from the Rue de la Mortellerie to Montfaucon."
"But the exercise has made you grow as straight as a lamp-
post, my girl, so you must not complain of that," said the Knifer,
striking a match to light his pipe.
*' Well," said Goualeuse, " I used to return very, very tired;
then about noon, the Owl would give me a little piece of dry
bread."
"There, again, short commons has made you as slender as a
wasp, my girl; so you must not find fault with that either,"
said the Knifer, taking some hasty whiffs at his pipe. '' But
what ails you, comrade?—I mean to say, Master Rudolf? you
look all over-ish. Is it because this girl has seen hard times? Oh,
we all know what it is to get a rub-down."
"Oh! it is impossible you could ever have been as wretched as
I was, Knifer?" said Fleur-de-Marie.
"What! not I, Goualeuse? Why, mv girL you were a queen


THE SQUALLER'S STORY.
compared to this child! At least, when you were little you had
straw to sleep on and bread to eat; for my part, I used to spend
my most comfortable nights in the kilns, like a gipsy tramp, and
feed upon cabbage-stumps and such like dainties, which I picked
up when and where I could; but as I was often too tired, after
my day's dance, to go so far as the Clichy-kilns, I slept under
the dark arches of the Louvre, but had beautiful white sheets—
whenever the snow fell!"
"Oh! a man is hardy; but I was a poor little girl," saic
Fleur-de-Marie. "Yet for all that, I was as plump as a robin."
"Do you remember that?"
"Oh, I remember well! When the Owl beat me, the first blow
always knocked me down; then she stamped upon me, muttering,
'Oh, the nasty little beast! she hasn't a farthing's-worth of strength;
she can't even bear a couple of thumps without falling!'
She called me the Fawning Kid: I never had any other appella-
tion; that was my baptismal name."
"Just like me; I had the same baptism they give to stray
dogs. I was called 'little hound!' 'pup,' or the 'Albino.' It
was astonishing how much we are like one another, my girl," said
the Knifer.
"That is true, in our misery," said Fleur-de-Marie, address-
ing the ruffian; for in spite of herself she almost always felt
a-shame before Rudolf, scarcely venturing to lift up her eyes,
although he seemed to belong to the class with whom she had
usually lived.
"And when you had fetched the worms for your Owl, what did
you do next?" asked the Knifer.
"Then the hag would send me to beg round where she kept
her stall, until night; for in the evening she went to the Pont
Neuf, to sell fried fish. Heavens! I used to think it a long
time to wait for a morsel of bread ; but if I was unlucky enough
to ask for something to eat, Owl would beat me and say,' Get a
coin, and you shall have your supper, kid.' Oh, me! then,
being hungry, and sore from the thumps and kicks she gave
me, I cried as if my heart would break; but the old woman
hung my tray of barley-sugar about my neck, and placed me
on the Pont Neuf, where in winter my teeth chattered with cold.
Yet sometimes, in spite of myself, I slept as I stood, but not
long, for Owl kicked me till I awoke. Then I remained on
the bridge till eleven o'clock, my tray of barley-sugar hanging
round my neck, and often crying bitterly. On seeing me cry,
the passengers would sometimes give me a trifle, and I often ob-
tained ten or twenty cents which I gave to my mistress.who searched
me all over, and even examined my mouth, to see if I had con-
cealed anything."
"But did not the barley-sugar tempt you, my poor Goua-
leuse ?''
"Oh, Knifer, that it did ;but I never tasted it, although I longed


i6
THE SQUALLER'S STORY.
to do so. Alas! that longing was my ruin. One day, returning
from Montfaucon, some boys beat me, and took away my basket.
I returned home, well knowing what was in store for me; I had a
merciless thumping, and no bread. In the evening, before she
took me to the bridge, the Owl, furious because I had brought
nothing home the evening before, instead of beating me as usual
to make me cry, tortured me by pulling the hair from the side of
my temples—a part most sensible to pain."
"Thunder! that was coming it too strong!" shouted the
ruffian, banging the table fiercely with his fist, and knitting his
brows.
"Go on, my girl," said Rudolf, without noticing the interrup-
tion.
'' I have told you how the hag beat me to make me cry. I
was then sent to the bridge with my barley-sugar. The old
woman was at the frying-pan, and from time to time she shook
her fist at me. However, as I had not broken my fast since
the night before, and was very hungry, at the risk of putting her
in a passion, I took a stick of barley-sugar, and began to eat
it."
"That's the style, my girl!"
"I ate a second piece"
"Go it!"
"I found it very nice, not so much from daintiness as from
real hunger. But an orange girl cried out to the one-eyed
woman, ' Holloa! Owley, the kid's eating your stock-in-trade !'"
'Oh, thunder and lightning! what a flare up!" said the
Knifer, uncommonly interested. "Poor litttle mouse, what a
fright you must have been in when she saw you!"
"How did you get out of the scrape, poor Goualeuse?"
asked Rudolf, with as much interest as the other.
"Oh ! it was a serious matter for me; but that was afterwards;
for the old woman, although boiling over with rage at seeing me
devour the barley-sugar, could not leave her frying-pan, for the
fat was boiling, too."
"Ha, ha, ha! Very true—that was a regular fix for the old gal,"
shouted the Knifer, roaring with laughter.
"At a distance she threatened me with her long iron fork. When
her fry was cooked she came up to me. I had only received a
couple of cents in charity, and I had eaten full six of barley-
sugar. She did not say a word but took me by the hand, and
pulled me away after her. At this moment I know not how it
was that I did not drop dead with fright. I remember it as well
as if it were but now; it was about New-year's Day, and there
were many shops on the Pont Neuf, all filled with toys, and I had
been looking at them all the evening with the greatest delight—
beautiful dolls, little furnished houses: you know how amusing
«ucJ? things are to a child."


THE SQUALLEK'S STORY. ij
"And had you never any playthings, Goualeuse ?" asked the
Knifer.
"Me? Good heavens! who was there to give me any play-
things?" said the girl in a sad tone. "However, the evening
passed away. Although it was in the depth of winter, I only had
on a short cotton gown—no stockings, and wooden shoes on my
feet; that was not enough to stifle one with heat, was it?
Well, when the one-eyed woman took me by the hand, I became
bathed in perspiration from head to foot. What frightened me
most was, that, instead of swearing as usual, she only kept On
muttering between her teeth. She never once let go my hand,
but made me walk so fast—so very fast—that I was obliged to
run to keep up with her, and in running I lost one of my
wooden shoes; and, as I did not dare to say so, I followed her
with one foot naked on the bare stones, and when we reached
home it was streaming with blood!"
"The old one-eyed cat," said the Knifer, again striking the
table in his rage. "It makes me shudder to think of the poor
child trotting along beside the old thief, with her poor little foot
all bloody."
"We lodged in a garret in the Rue de la Mortellerie ; adjoining
the entrance to our alley there was a saloon. The Owl went in,
still dragging me by the hand, and drank a half-pint of brandy at
the bar.
"Thunder! Why, I could not drink that without puffing out as
round as an apple."
"It was the old woman's regular allowance; perhaps that was
the reason she beat me so much. At length we got up into our
loft; Owl doubled-locked the door. I threw myself at her feet,
and begged her pardon for having eaten the barley-sugar. She
did not answer me, and I heard her mumbling to herself as she
walked about the room, 'What shall I do to-night to this greedy
kid—this little sugar thief? Let me see—how shall I serve her
out?' Then she stopped to look at me maliciously with her one
green eye, while I still knelt before her. Then suddenly the old
woman went to a shelf and took down a pair of pincers.
*' To strike you?" asked Rudolf.
"To nip you?" inquired the Knifer.
"Oh, no," answered the poor girl, trembling at the very re-
membrance; "to pull out my teeth."
On hearing this, the Knifer uttered such a ripping oath, that all
the guests turned round with astonishment.
"Why, what's the matter now? " asked Rudolf.
"What's the matter? Why, I'll flay her alive if I can catch
her. The one-eyed old trot! Where is she ?—Tell me where is
she? I'll rout her out and dance the very liver out of"
"And did she really take out your tooth,my poor girl? "asked
Rudolf, whilst the Chourineu* vested his rage in a volley of
epithets.


18
THE SOUALLER'S STORY.
"Yes, sir; but not at the first pull! Great heaven—how I sufc
fered! She held my head between her knees, as if it had been in
a vice. Then, partly with the pincers, and partly with her fingers,
she pulled out a tooth, and then said—' Now, my beauty! I will
pull out one of your teeth every day ; and when you have no more
left, 1 will throw you into the river, to be eaten by the fishes.'"
"Of all the devils! to wrench out a poor child's teeth in that
manner !" exclaimed the Knifer with redoubled fury.
"The following day, instead of going to Montfaucon, I went on
the side of the Champs F.lysees, so afraid was I of being drowned
by the hag! After rambling for some time, I fairly lost myself; 1
had not met any one of whom I could beg, and, indeed, I was so
frightened I did not think of it. At night I hid myself in a timber-
yard, under some piles of wood. As I was very little, I was able
to creep under an old door, and hide myself amongst a heap of
logs. I was so hungry that I tried to gnaw a bit of the bark, but
I could not bite it—it was too hard. At length I fell asleep. In the
morning, hearing a noise, I crept still further under the wood-pile.
It was tolerably warm, and if I had had something to eat I could
hot have been more comfortable, considering it was winter time."
"Just like me in the plaster kilns."
"Go on, my child," said Rudolf. "How did you get away
from the timber-yard?"
"Next day, about noon, while under the pile of wood, I heard
a dog barking. I listened. The bark came nearer and nearer;
then a deep, hoarse voice exclaimed, ' My dog barks—somebody-
is hid in the yard!' 'Thieves!' said another voice. The two men
began to encourage the dog, and cry,'Seize'em ! shake'em there!'
The dog ran toward me, and for fear of being bitten, I began to cry
out with all my might. 'Hark!' said a voice: 'I hear a child!'
They called the dog off; I came out from the wood-pile, and saw
a gentleman and a man in a smock-frock. 'What do you do in
my yard, you little thief?' said the gentleman, in a menacing
tone. I clasped my hands and said, ' Pray don't hurt me : I have
had nothing to eat for two days, and I've run away from the Owl,
who pulled out my tooth, and said she would throw me to the
fishes. Having nowhere to lay my head, I crept through the
fence; I slept during the night among these logs, under this heap,
not thinking to hurt anybody.' * I'm not to be cheated that way!
You came here to steal wood. Go and call the police,' said the
timber-merchant to his man."
"Oh, the old fool! an old Timberknot himself! Call the
nabs? Why didn't he send for a park of artillery at once?" said
the Knifer. "Hook his wood, indeed, and you only eight years
old! What an old ass!"
"That is true; for his man replied: 'Steal your logs, master!
How can she do that? She is not so big as the short-cuts!'
* Very likely,' said the tiniber-merehant; * but if she does not come
to thieve on her own account, she does for others. Thieves have a


THE SQUALLERS STORY.
i9
pack of tliildren like this, whom they send to pry about and hide
themselves, and open the doors to them. She must be taken be-
fore the magistrate. Take care she does not escape.'"
"Upon my honor, this sawdust-man was a greater block than
any log in his yard," said the Knifer.
"1 was taken to the magistrate," resumed La Goualeuse. "I
accused myself of being a vagrant; they sent me to prison; I was
taken before the court, and formally sentenced as a rogue and
vagabond, to remain until I was sixteen years of age in a reforma-
tory. I heartily thank the judges for their kindness; for in
prison I had food, I was not beaten, and it was a perfect paradise
compared to the Owl's miserable roost. Moreover, in prison I
learned to sew; but alas! I was idle: preferred singing to work-
ing, and particularly when the sun was shining. Oh! when it
shone brightly in the court-yard of the prison I could not refrain
from singing; and then, while I sang, I fancied I was no longer a
prisoner. It was after I began to sing so much that they called
me the Squaller instead of Fawning Kid. When I was sixteen I
left the prison, saying to myself, 'I know how to use my needle
well, and I have two hundred francs by me. I have been eight
years in prison, I should like to enjoy myself a little—that will not
harm anybody: work will come when the money is gone.' And
so I began to spend my money. Oh! that was a sad mistake,"
added Fleur-de-Marie, with a sigh. *' I ought first to have got
work: but I hadn't a soul on earth to advise me. A girl of six-
teen—thrown as I was on the streets, is so lonely. But what is
done is done. I have acted wrong, and I have suffered for it. I
began, then, to flourish with my money; first I bought flowers to
put in my room—I do so love flowers! then I bought a gown, a
pretty shawl, and took a walk in the country. Oh, how I love the
country!"
"With a sweetheart, my lass?" asked the Knifer.
"Oh, my gracious! no. I like to be my own mistress. I took
my little excursion with one of my prison companions—a very
good little girl; they called her Rigolette because she was always
merry, she was the merriest girl; she was also the most indus-
trious; she took out with her when she left the prison at least four
Ihundred francs which she had earned. And then she is so tidy!
*—you should see her! When I say I had no one to advise me, I
am wrong: I ought to have listened to her: for, after having a
week's holiday together, she said to me, * Now we have had our
holiday, we ought to seek work, and not waste our money.' I,
who was so happy to ramble in the fields and woods—it was just
at the close of spring, this year—I answered: 'Oh, I will make
holiday a little longer, and by-and-bye I will work.' Since that
time I have not seen Rigolette, but I have heard a few days since
that she was living in the Temple district; a famous needlewoman,
who earned as much as twenty-five sous a dav. and has a smail


30
THE SQUALLER 'S STORY.
workroom of her own: but now, for the world I dare not see hei
again—I feel as if I should die with shame if I met her."
"So, my poor girl," said Rudolf, " you spent all your money in
country jaunts—you must love the country."
"Indeed, indeed, I do! What would I not give to live there!
Now, Rigolette, on the contrary, prefers Paris, and promenading
the Boulevards; but she was so kind and so obliging—she went
inro the country only to please me."
'. And you did not even leave yourself a few sous to live upon
whilst you sought work?" asked the Knifer.
"Yes, I had reserved about fifty francs; but it happened that I
had for my laundress a woman named Lorraine, a poor creature,
with none but a kind Providence to protect her. She was then
very near her confinement, and yet was obliged all day long to be
with her hands and feet in the washing-tub. She was taken ill,
and, not being able to work, applied for admittance to a lying-in
hospital; there was no vacancy, and she could earn nothing.
The time of her trouble was near at hand, and she had not a penny
o pay for the bed in a miserable garret from which they drove
her. Fortunately, one day, at the end of Notre Dame Bridge she
met with Goubin's wife, who had been hiding for four days in the
cellar of a house being pulled down behind the hospital."
"But why did Goubin's wife hide herself in the daytime?"
"To escape from her husband, who threatened to kill hei*. She
only went out at night to buy some bread; it was then that she
met with poor Lorraine, ill, and hardly able to drag herself along,
for she was expecting to be confined every hour. Seeing this,
Goubin's wife took her to the cellar where she was hiding. It was
a shelter—no more. There she shared her bread and straw with
Eoor Lorraine, who gave birth, in that cellar, to a poor little infant,
er only covering and bed being a little straw! Well, it seems
that Goubin's wife could not bear it, and so, running all risks,
even of being killed by her husband, who was looking for her
everywhere, she left the cellar in the daytime, and came to seek
me. She knew I had still a little money left, and that I could
assist her if I felt disposed; so, when Elmina had told me all
about poor Lorraine, who was obliged to lie with her new born
babe on straw, I told her to bring them both to my room directly,
and I would take a chamber for her next to mine. So I did; oh!
how happy she was, poor Lorraine! when she found herself in a
bed, with her babe by her side in a little wicker-cradle which I
had bought for her. Elmina and I nursed her till she was strong
enough to get about again, and then the rest of my money enabled
her to return to her washing."
"And when you had spent all your money on Lorraine and hei
little one, what did you do, my child?" inquired Rudolf.
"Then I looked out for work, but it was too late. I sold mj
small remnant of clothes and linen to obtain food, and at lengtk,
when I had nothing left, they drove me from my lodgings. I had


THE SQUALLER'S STORY.
21
not eaten for two days; I did not know where to sleep. Then it
was I met the Ogress and one of the old women. Knowing where
I lodged, they had been continually on the look-out for me from
the time I came out of prison. They told me they would get me
work—I believed them. They led me with them; I was so
exhausted for want of food that I hardly knew what I did. They
gave me brandy to drink, and—and—behold !" said the
wretched creature, burying her face in her hands.
"Is it long since you became a boarder with the Ogress, my
poor girl?" asked Rudolf, in accents of compassion.
"Six weeks, sir," replied the girl, shuddering.
"I understand," said the Knifer; "I know you as well now as
if I were your father and mother, and you had never been off my
knee. Well, this is a confession and a half—rayther!"
"Telling the story of your life makes you sad, my child," said
Rudolf.
"Alas! sir," replied Fleur-de-Marie, sorrowfully, "sirce my
birth, this is the first time that I have recalled all these things at
once to my memory, and my tale is not a cheerful one."
"You're hard to suit!" said the Knifer, ironically. "Perhaps
you regret that you are not kitchen-wench in some cook-shop, or
servant to some old scolds to look after their brats.''
"Oh!" said Fleur-de-Marie, with a deep-drawn sigh, "to be
quite happy we must be quite virtuous."
"What a notion! Your nut's screwed on wrong," exclaimed
the Knifer, with a loud burst of laughter. "Why not strike in for
a prize at once for honoring your father and mother, whom you
never knew?"
"When an infant my parents left me in the street, as people do
a worthless puppy; perhaps they had not enough to feed them-
selves," said Goualeuse, with bitterness. *' I want nothing of
them; I complain of nothing; but there are lots happier than
mine."
"The mischief there are! What under the sun can you want
more? You are blooming as a Venus; are only sixteen and a
half; you sing like a ken-nary; look like a virgin; are called
Fleur-de-Marie, therefore, and yet you complain! What will you
say when you have a stove under your trotters, and a grizzled
shock of hair like the Ogress yonder?
"Oh! I shall never live to be her age."
"Oh! I didn't know you had a patent for never growing older."
"No; but I could not lead such a life. I have already the
churchyard cough."
"Go it! I can almost fancy I see you already in the cold-meat
box. Of all the sillies!"
"Have you often such thoughts as these, Goualeuse?" asked
Rudolf.
"Sometimes. Listen, M. Rudolf; perhaps you will understand
me. In the morning, when I go to buy milk from thr ""ulk-woman


22
THE KNIFER'S YARN.
at the coi ner, with the coppers which the Ogress gives me, and
see her go away in her little donkey-cart, I often envy her, and I
say to myself, 'She is going into the country, to the pure air, to
her home, to her family ;' and then I return alone and wretched
into the loft of the Ogress, where you cannot see clearly even at
noonday."
"Never mind, child, be good, keep a stiff upper lip ; give the
counterskippers no back-talk, and be honest," said the Knifer.
'' Honest! good heaven! how am I to be honest? The clothes
I stand in belong to the Ogress; I owe her for my board and
lodging; I can't stir from her; she would have me taken up as
a thief. I belong to her—I must pay her with myself."
The poor girl could not help shuddering as she uttered these
last horrible words, while a tear trembled on her long eye-lashes.
"Well, then, remain as you are, and give up comparing your-
self to a country tunaip," said the Knifer. "Are you taking a
cheap excursion out of your head? Only think, you may still cut
a figure in the capital, whilst the milk-woman must boil the pot
for her brats, milk the cows, cut grass for her rabbits, and, per-
haps, after all, get knocked down by her husband when he comes
home from the Inn. A flattering fate that, and something to boast
of, indeed!"
Goualeuse did not venture a reply; her eye was fixed, her heart
was full, and her face wore an expression of painful distress.
Rudolf had listened with deep interest to this recital, made with
touching frankness. Misery, destitution, ignorance of the world,
had destroyed this wretched girl, cast, at sixteen years of age,
alone and unprotected, in the immensity of Paris.
Rudolf involuntarily thought of a beloved child whom he had
lost—a girl, who died at the age of six years; who, had she lived,
would have been like Fleur-de-Marie, sixteen and a half old.
This recollection increased his solicitude in the unhappy creature
whose depressing story he had just heard.
CHAPTER IV.
THE KNIFER'S YARN.
Several times, when customers came in or went out, Rudolf had
caught a glimpse before the door closed, of the charcoal-porter, to
whose black face and tall figure we have already alluded, and
he had just time to manifest to him, by an impatient gesture, how
much he disliked his watchful attendance ; but the charcoal-man
did not seem to heed Rudolf s uneasiness the least, for he still
loitered about the tavern door.
The countenance of Goualeuse became still more saddened;
with her back to the wall, her head drooping on her bosom, her


THE KNIfiER'S VARA.
full blue eyes gazing mechanically about her, the unfortunate
being seemed bowed with a heavy weight of painful thoughts.
Two or three times, having met Rudolfs fixed look, she turned
away, unable to account to herself for the singular impression
which the Unknown had made upon her. Weighed down and
abashed at his presence, she almost regretted having given him
so faithful an account of her unhappy life. The Knifer, on the
contrary, was in high feathers; he had devoured the whole with-
out the least assistance; the wine and brandy had made him very
communicative; the humiliation of having found his master, as he
called him, had been forgotten in the generous conduct of Rudolf;
and he further felt conscious of such decided physical superiority,
that his mortification had given way to sentiments of admiration,
mingled with fear and respect. This absence of ill-feeling and
the savage pride with which he boasted of never having stolen,
proved that the Knifer was not a hardened villain. This had not
escaped Rudolfs penetration, and he awaited the man's recital
with curiosity.
"Now, my boy," said he, "we are listening to you."
'The Knifer drained his glass, and then began :—
"You, my poor Goualeuse, were last picked up by the Owl!
iiiay the devil fly away with her! You never had a shelter until
the moment when you were imprisoned as a vagrant. I can never
recollect having slept in what is called a bed before I was nine
teen years of age—a happy age !—when I became a trooper."
"You have served, then, Knifer? " observed Rudolf.
"Three years; but you'll hear all about it; the dark arches of
the Louvre, plaster-kilns of Clichy, and the quarries of Mont-
rouge ; those were the mansions of my youth. Thus, you see, I
had my town residence and my country-house, and quite enough
and to spare."
"What was your trade?"
"By my faith, master, I have a dim recollection of having
strolled about in my childhood with an old rag-and-bone-picker,
who almost knocked the life out of mc; and it must be true, for I
have never since met one of those old Cupids with a wicker-work
quiver without a desire to warm his carcase—a proof that one of
them must have whacked me when I was a child. My first
employment was to help the knackers cut horses' throats at Mont-
faufon. I was about ten or twelve. When I first began to slash
these poor old beasts it had quite an effect on me. At the end of
a month I thought no more about it; on the contrary, I began to
like my trade. No one had his knife so well sharpened and keen-
pointed as mine, and that made me rejoice in using it. When I
had cut the animals' throats, they gave me for my trouble a piece
of the thigh of some animal dead of disease, for those they
slaughter are sold to the ham-and-beef shops near the School of
Medicine, where it is converted into beef, mutton, veal, or game,
according to the taste of the purchasers. Oh! when I got my


24
THE KNIFER'S YARN.
chunk of horse-flesh I would not call the king my master; I went
with it to the kiln like a wolf to his den, and then, with the leave
6T the plaster-burners, I made a splendid broil on the ashes. Grid-
iron clubs were nowhere! When the lime-burners were not at
work, I picked up dry wood at Romainville, struck a light, and
broiled my steak under the walls of the bone-house. Holy
mother! Those were the times! Cooked in this fashion the
meat certainly was bloody, and almost raw, but that made a
change."
"And your name? what did they call you?" asked Rudolf.
'' My hair was then more flaxen than now, and my eyes were
always blood-shot, and so they called me the Albino. Albinos are
the white rabbits among men, and they have red eyes," added the
Knifer, in a grave tone, as if delivering himself of a physiological
axiom.
"And your parents? your family?"
"My parents? Oh, they lodged at the same number as those
of Goualeuse. My birthplace ?—why the first corner of no-matter-
what street, either on the right or left-hand side of the way, going
up or coming down the kennel."
"So you cursed your father and mother for having deserted
you."
"Why that would not have set my leg if I had broken it. Any-
how—though it's true they played me a scurvy trick in bringing
me into the world; but I should not have complained if I'd been
blessed as beggars ought to be made—1 mean for to say, tough
to cold, hunger, or thirst, which would make it all the easier for
beggars to be honest."
"You have been hungry, and have suffered from cold, and yet
have not stolen?"
"No; and I have had van-loads of misery, too. It's a fact,
that I have often had dark-cell diet for two days at a time; that
was more than my share. Well, for all that, I never stole."
"For fear of the prison?"
'* For fear of the prison! Well, I am—Oh, ha, ha!" said the
Knifer, shrugging his shoulders, and indulging in a loud laugh.
"I should not have stolen bread, for fear of getting my allowance,
eh? As an honest man I starved ; as a thief they would have fed
me in a prison; aye, and well too! But I did not steal, because
—because—why, because boning is fit only for sneaks—so that's
all about it!"
This reply, noble as it was in itself, but of the value of which
the speaker himself had no idea, perfectly astonished Rudolf. He
felt that the poor fellow who had remained honest under the most
cruel privations was to be doubly respected, since the punishment
of crime would have been to him a sure resource. Rudolf held
out his hand to this ill-used savage of civilization, whom misery
had been unable wholly to corrupt. The Knifer stared at his
entertainer with astonishment—almost with respect; he hardly


THE KNIFEKS YARN:
25
dared to touch the hand thus proffered to him. He felt impressed
with some vague idea that there was a great gulf between Rudol!
and himself.
"Good!" said Ruldolf to him, "you have heart and honor."
"Heart! honor! I? Stash that! now you're chaffing me,"
he replied with surprise.
"To suffer misery and hunger rather than steal, is to have
heart and honor," said Rudolf gravely.
"Well, may be so," said the Knifer, as if thinking—" may be
so."
"Does that surprise you?"
"Strikes me all in a heap; for people don't usually say such
things to me; they generally treat me as they would a mangy
yelper. It is strange, though, the effect what you say has on me.
Heart! honor! " he repeated, with an air of thoughtfulness.
"Well, what ails you?"
"Faith, I can't get it out," replied the Knifer, in a tone of
emotion; "but these words quite flutter my pulse ; and I feel more
flattered than if anyone had told me I was a bigger rough than
either the Skeleton or the Schoolmaster. I never felt anything
like it. Upon my soul, thongh, these words and the fisticuffs at
the wind-up of our set-to—you did lay did 'em on like a good 'un,
—without alluding to your paying for supper, and the words you
have chosen to say—in half a crack," he exclaimed bluntly, as if
he could not find language to express his thoughts, *' make sure
that, in life or death, you may bet your boots that the Knifer's
linked with you!"
Rudolf, unwilling to betray his emotion, replied in a tone as col-
lected as he could assume, " Did you remain long as a knacker's
helper?"
"I believe you! First I was quite sick of cutting up old worn
out horses, who could not even kick; but when I was about six-
teen, and my voice began to break, it became a passion, a taste, a
thirst, a rage with me to cut and slash. I did not care for eating
and drinking ; that was my only delight; you only ought to have
seen me in the heat of my work! Except an old pair of woollen
trousers, I was quite naked. When, with my large, sharp knife in
my hand, I had about me fifteen or twenty nags waiting their turn
—thunder! when I began to slaughter them, I don't know what
possessed me—I was like a fury. My ears had a singing in them,
and I saw everything red—all was red; and I slashed—and—
slashed and slashed, until my knife fell from my hands! I was all
there! What happiness! Had I been rich as a pawn-broker, I
could have paid them to have revelled in my trade."
"That's what gave you the habit of stabbing," said Rudolf.
"Most likely ; but when I was turned sixteen, the passion
became so strong that when I once began slashing, I became mad,
I spoiled my work. Yes, I spoiled the hides; for I slashed, and
cut them across and across ; indeed, I was so quick that I did not


26
THE KNIFER'S YARN.
see what I was about. At length they turned me out of the
slaughter-house. I sought employment with the butchers, for I
always liked that sort of business ; but they came the grand ; they
looked down on me with the same contempt with which a boot-
maker looks upon a cobbler. So I had to seek employment else-
where, and I didn't find it very readily—that was the time when I
so often went to bed hungry. At last I got work in the quarries at
Montrouge, but at the end of a couple of years I grew tired of
going round and round, like a squirrel in his cage, and dragging
stone for tenpence a day. 1 was tall and strong, so I enlisted in a
regiment. They asked my name, age, and papers. Name?—the
Albino. Age ?—look at my beard. Papers ?—here's the discharge
of my master, the quarryman. As I was well cut out for a gren-
adier, they palmed me with the shilling."
"With your strength, courage, and passion for stabbing and
slashing, you ought, if it had been war time, to have risen to
officership."
"Thunder! What's that you say?—what, slash the English or
the Prussians! Why, that would have been more to my taste than
cutting up old horses; but, worse luck, there was no war and too
much discipline. If an apprentice tiies to punch his master's
head, if he be the weaker, why, he gets the worst of it; if he be
the stronger, he has the best; he is turned out of doors, perhaps
sent to prison—and there's an end on't. In the army it's a grey
goose of quite another color. One day our sergeant bullied a
good deal, to make me more attentive—he was right, for I was a
bit of a skulk. That enraged me, and I kicked at it: he shoved
me; I pushed him again; he collared me, and I let him have one
between the eyes. Some of the men fell upon me ; I was wild with
passion, and the blood was up in my eyes in a moment. I had
my knife in my hand—for it took place in the kitchen, where I was
on cooking-fatigue—and at it I went. I cut, slashed—slashed,
chopped, as if I had been in the slaughter-house. I laid open the
sergeant, wounded two soldiers—it was a regular butchery; I
gave eleven wounds among three of them—yes, eleven. Blood
flowed everywhere ; blood, as though we were in the slaughter-
house—I bathed in it"
The speaker lowered his head with a sombre, sullen air, and was
silent.
'• What are you thinking of?" asked Rudolf, with interest.
"Nothing—nothing," he replied, hastily; then, with an air of
brutal carelessness, he added, "At last they overpowered me;
I was tried by the drumhead-beaks, who dispensed a dozen lead-
pills as my dose."
"You escaped, then?"
"No; but I had fifteen stretch at the hulks, instead of being
guillotined. I forgot to tell you that, while in the regiment, I had
saved two of my comrades from drowning in the Marne, when we
were in garrison at Melun. Another time—you will laugh, and


THE KNIFEE'S YARN.
2;
say I £*n safe from fire or water, when saving men or women; aV
another time, in garrison at Rouen, all the wooden houses, blasted
old rookeries, in one quarter, were on fire, and burning like
matches. I was one of the fire-guard. We hastened to the fire;
the people called out to me that there was an old woman who
could not escape from her room, which was already in flames. I
made my way to it. Lord! how it did burn; it reminded me of
the kilns in my happier days. In a word, I saved the old woman,
although I had the very soles of my feet scorched. Thanks to my
having done these things, and the simmy (soft sawder) of my
counsel, my sentence was trimmed, and, instead of being guillo-
tined, I was sent to the hulks for fifteen years. When I found that
my life would be spared, and that I was to go to the galleys, I would
have sprung upon my palavering advocate, and twisted his neck
at the moment when he came to wish me joy, and tell me he had
saved my life—confound him !—only they prevented me."
*' Sorry that your punishment was altered?"
"Yes; for those who sport the knife, the knife is the proper fate;
for those who steal, the cuffs on their paws—to each his fit. But
to force one to live among galley-slaves, when one is entitled to
be guillotined off-hand, is shameful; besides, my life, when I first
went to the hulks, was rather queer: one doesn't kill a man and
forget it easily, let me tell you.'*
"You felt remorse then?"
"Remorse! Oh.no; for I have served my time," said the
savage; "but at first a night did not pass but I saw—like a night-
mare—the sergeant and soldiers whom I slashed and slaughtered;
that is, they were not alone," added the cut-throat, with a horrid
shudder; "they were in tens, and dozens, and hundreds, and
thousands, each waiting his turn, in a kind of slaughter-house,
just as the horses whose throats I used to cut at Montfaucon
waited, each for his turn. Then, I saw red, and began to cut and
slash away on these men as I used formerly to do on the horses.
But the more I hacked down the soldiers, the faster did others
present themselves; and as they turned their eyes in, they looked
at me with an air so kind, so gentle, that I cursed myself for kill-
ing them; but I could not prevent myself from doing it. That
was not all! I never had a brother; and yet it seemed as if every
one of those whom I had killed was my brother, and that I had a
bit of my heart in every one of them. At last, when I could bear
it no longer, I used to wake, covered with sweat, as cold as melt-
ing snow."
". That was a horrid dream!"
"Oh, burn it, yes! That dream was enough to drive me maci
or foolish; so twice I tried to kill myself; once by swallowing
verdigris, and another time by trying to strangle myself with my
chain; but no use a-trying!—I am as strong as a young bull.
The verdigris only made me thirsty, and as for the twist of the
chain round m> neck—why, that merely gave me a natural blue


28
THE KNIFERS YARN.
cravat; afterwards, the desire for life returned to me1 my night-
mare ceased to torment me, and I tramped in the same dust as the
rest of the job-lot."
"At the hulks you were in a good school for learning to
thieve ?''
"Yes, but I'd no taste for it. The other grey-backs chaffed me
about that a little; but I shut their jaws precious soon with a few
hits of my chain. It was in this way I first came across the
Schoolmaster, and I must give him the credit due to his science—
he settled with me.as you did some little time ago."
"So he's been paired-off with his mate in his time?"
"He was sentenced for life, but made his escape."
"Made his escape, and not denounced?"
"It is not for me to 'blow' on him, it would look as if I was
afraid of him."
"But how is it that he is not detected by the police! Have
they not got his description?"
"His photo? Oh, to be sure, yes; but he has long since got
rid of the marks that Nature put on his phiz, and now, none but
the Soul-Baker (devil) himself could twig the Schoolmaster."
"How did he come that?"
"He begun by shortening his nose, which was a yard long; he
did that by eating it away with vitriol."
"Go away—none of your stretchers!"
"If he comes in this evening, you'll see. He had a nose like a
parrot, and now it is like a death's head; his lips, besides, are as
thick as your fist and his face is as full of seams as a bone-grub-
ber's coat."
"Then he is not recognizable?"
"It's half a year since he made his lucky escape from Roche-
fort Prison and the grabs have met him a hundred times without
nailing him."
"What was he sent up for?"
"For forgery, theft, and murder. He is called the School-
master, because he writes a fine hand, and knows all sorts of book
words."
"And he is much dreaded?"
"He won't be when you give him such a thrashing as you gave
me. Whew! how I long to see it!"
"What's his pertickler lay?"
"He is linked with a hag as bad as himself, and deep as Old
Nick; but she never shows, though he has told the Ogress that
some day or other he would bring his mott (woman) along with
him."
"And this woman assists him in his robberies?"
'' Yes, and his murders too. They say he brags of having
already, with her help, made stiff-uns of two or three people; and,
amongst others, three weeks ago, a cattle-dealer on the road to
Poissy, whom they also cleaned out."


TWO FLIGHTS.
*' He wih be nabbed sooner or later."
'' It will take both cunning and strength to do that, for he
always has under his blouse a brace of loaded pistols and a dag-
ger. He says that 'Jack Ketch' waits for him, that he can only
lose his head once, and will kill all he can kill to clear the roaA
for bolting. Oh! he makes no secret of it, and as he is twice as
strong as you and me, they will have a rummy old job who take
him.
"And when you left the hulks what did you do, Knifer?"
"Offered myself to a master lighterman, of St. Paul's Quay,
where I now get my living."
"But as you have never been a ' gun,' why do you live in the
City?"
"Where would you have me live? Who likes to be seen with a
ticket-of-leaver, even! I should be tired of always being alone,
for I like company, and here I am with my equals. I kick up a
dust sometimes, and they fear me as they do fire in the City: but
the traps never come down on me, except now and then for a row,
for which they give me, perhaps, two days on the tread-mill, and
there's an end of it."
"How much do you earn a-day?"
"Eighteenpence, for taking baths in the river up to my middle
from twelve to fifteen hours a-day, summer and winter; but, let
me be fair and square if, through having my toes in the water, I
get chicken-flesh. I am allowed to break my arms in breaking
up old vessels, and carrying timber on my back. I begin like a
beast of burden, and end like the tail of a fish. When my strength
fails me, I shall go in for a hook and basket, like the old rag-
picker whom I see in the visions of my childhood."
"With all this, you are not unhappy?"
"There are worse off than me; and if it wasn't for my dream
of the sergeant and soldiers with their throats cut—for I have the
dream still sometimes—I could quietly wait for the moment when
I should drop down dead on some muck-heap, like that on which
I was born; but the dream—thunder and lightning! I can't bear
even to think of that," said the Knifer, knocking the ashes out of
his pipe on a corner of the table.
Goualeuse had been an inattentive listen to the Knifer; she
seemed absorbed in a painful reverie. Rudolf himself continued
pensive.
CHAPTER V.
TWO FRIGHTS.
"The Schoolmaster and the Big Cripple were lucky In not
being here," said the Ogress. "Greeky asked for him twice, say.


30
TWO FRIGHTS.
ing they had some work together; but I never break a leg (split)
upon my customers. If they take 'em, well and good—every one
for himself; but I never sell 'em. Talk of the wolf and his tail
appears!" added the Ogress, as at the moment a man and woman
entered the cabaret; "here they are—the Schoolmaster and his
belsavage. Well, upon my word, he was right- not to show her,
for I never clapped my eyes on such an ugly mug in my life! She
ought to be very much obliged to him for his taste."
At the name of the Schoolmaster, a sort of shudder seemed to
circulate amongst the guests. Rudolf himself, in spite of his nat-
ural intrepidity, could not wholly subdue a slight emotion at the
sight of this redoubtable ruffian, whom he contemplated for an
instant with mixed feelings of curiosity and horror. The Knifer
had spoken truly, when he said that the Schoolmaster was fright-
fully mutilated. The imagination cannot picture anything more
horribly repugnant than the countenance of this man, furrowed in
all directions with deep, livid cicatrices. The corrosive action of
the vitriol had swelled his lips; the cartilages of his nose were
split, and two misshapen holes supplied the place of nostrils. His
grey eyes were very bright, small, circular, and sparkled with
ferocity ; his forehead, flat as a tiger's, was half hidden beneath
a fur cap, with long yellow hair, looking like that of the monster's
mane.
The Schoolmaster was not more than five feet two or three
inches; his head, disproportionately large, was buried between
shoulders, broad, powerful, and fleshy, which displayed their
muscle even under the loose folds of his coarse cotton blouse; he
had long muscular arms, hands short, thick, and hairy to the very
fingers'-ends; his legs were somewhat bowed, and their enormous
calves betrayed his vast strength. This man presented, in a word,
the exaggeration of everything short, thick-set, and condensed, in
the type of the Farnese Hercules. As to the expression of ferocity
which glared over the hideous phiz, and the restless, wild, and
fierce look, more like a wild beast's than a human being's, it is
impossible to depict them.
The woman who accompanied the Schoolmaster was old, and
rather neatly dressed in a brown gown, with a plaid shawl of red
and black check, and a white cap. Rudolf saw her profile; her
green eye, hooked nose, skinny lips, sharp chin, and countenance
at once wicked and cunning, reminded him involuntarily of the
Owl, that horrible harridan of whom Fleur-de-Marie had been the
victim. He was just about to make this observation to the girl,
when he saw her suddenly turn pale whilst looking with silent
terror at the hideous companion of the Schoolmaster. At length,
seizing Rudolf's arm with a trembling hand, Goualeuse said, in a
low voice, '' Oh, the Owl! the one-eyed hag!"
At this moment the Schoolmaster, after having exchanged a
few words in a whisper with an acquaintance, came leisurely to
the table where Rudolf, the Goualeuse, and the Knifer were


TWO FRIGHTS.
sitting, and addressing himself to Fleur-de-Marie, in a hoarse
voice, he said:
*' I say, my pretty doll, you must leave this pair of duffers, and
come with me."
Goualeuse, making no reply, pressed more closely to Rudclf,
ber teeth chattering with fright.
"I shan't be jealous of my dear man-eater!" added the Owl,
bursting into a loud laugh. She had not yet recognized in Gou-
aleuse her former victim.
"Well, little white-face, do you hear me?" said the monster,
advancing. "If you don't come, I'll poke your eye out, and
make you a match for the Owl. As for you with the eye-brows on
your lip," said he, addressing Rudolf, "if you don't hand the
wench over the table to me, I'll smash you."
"Oh, for the love of heaven, defend me!" cried Goualeuse to
Rudolf, clasping her hands. Then, reflecting that she was about
to expose him to great danger, she added, in a low voice—
"No, no, do not move, M. Rudolf; if he approaches me, I w".
scream out for help, and for fear of a disturbance which will bring
the police, the Ogress will take my part."
"Be quiet, my child," said Rudolf, calmly eyeing the School-
master; "you are beside me—you shan't stir; and as this «gly-
looking bloke makes you and me sick, why I will chuck him out."
"You!" said the Schoolmaster.
"I," replied Rudolf. In spite of the efforts of Goualeuse, he
rose from the table.
Despite his hardihood, the Schoolmaster retreated a step or two,
so terrifying was Rudolfs face, and his eyes especially fK> fiery.
There are glances which have irresistible magnetism, »nd cele-
brated duellists are said to owe their triumphs to this faicinating
power, which unmans, paralyzes, and destroys their adversaries.
The Schoolmaster trembled, and, for once distrustful of his giant
strength, felt under his blouse for his long cut-and-thrus* knKe. A
murder, no doubt, would have stained the tap room if the Owl,
taking the Schoolmaster by the arm, had not screamed out, "A
minute, my man; let me have a say: you shall serve out ihose
iwo muffs all the same presently."
The Schoolmaster looked at her with astonishment. For some
minutes she had been gazing at Fleur-de-Marie with fixed and
increasing attention, as if trying to refresh her memory. At
length her doubts were cleared up, and she recognized the Gou-
aleuse.
"Is it possible?" shrieked the one-eyed wretch, clasping her
hands in astonishment. "It is the Kid, who stole my barley-
sugar. But where have you sprung from? It must be the fire-
man (Devil) who sent you," added she, shaking her clenched fist
at the girl. "You have tumbled into my clutches again, have
you? But be easy; if I do not pull out your teeth, I will have
out of your eyes every tear in your body. Come, no playing


TWO FRIGHTS.
innocent! You don't know what I mean? Why, I have found
out the people who had you before you were handed over to me.
The Schoolmaster saw at the galleys the man who brought you to
my shed when you were a brat, and he has proofs that the people
who had you first were regular peacocks!"
"My parents! you know them, then?" cried Fleur-de-Marie.
"Whether I know them or not, you shan't have a hand in it.
The secret is mine and my bully's, and I will tear out his tongue
rather than he shall blab it. Ha! that makes you blubber, does
it, you Kid?"
"Alas! no," said Goualeuse, with bitterness of accent; "now
I do not care ever to know my parents."
While the Owl was speaking, the Schoolmaster had resumed
his assurance, after looking askance at Rudolf. He could not
believe that a young man of such slight and graceful make could
for a moment contend with him; and, confident in his brutal
force, he approached the defender of Goualeuse, and said to the
Owl, in a tone of authority: "Hold your jaw, I'll smash this
masher, and then the fair lady may fancy me in preference."
With one bound Rudolf leaped over the table.
"Take care of my plates!" screamed the Ogress.
The Schoolmaster stood on the defensive, his hands up, his
chest advanced, firmly planted on his broad loins, and, as one
might say, supported archwise on one of his enormous legs, which
resembled a baluster of stone.
The moment Rudolf sprung at him, the door was violently
opened, and the charcoal-man before noticed, who was upwards
of six feet high, rushed into the apartment, hurled the School-
master reeling on one side, and coming up to Rudolf, whispered to
him in German: "Your highness, the countess and her brother
are at the end of the street!"
At these words, Rudolf made an impatient and angry start,
threw a louis on the counter, and hastily made for the door.
The Schoolmaster attempted to arrest Rudolfs progress, but he,
turning round, gave him two or three blows, straight trom the
shoulder, over the nose and eyes with such stunning effect that the
brute staggered, and fell heavily against the table.
"Those are my blows, and no mistake!" cried the Knifer ; "a
few more lessons like that and I shall be up to."
Recovering himself after a few seconds, the Schoolmaster
rushed off in pursuit of Rudolf; but he had disappeared with the
charcoal-man in the dark labyrinth of the City streets, and the
ruffian found it impossible to come up with him.
As the Schoolmaster returned, boiling with rage, two persons
approaching from the opposite side to that by which Rudolf had
disappeared, entered the tap in great haste, and out of breath, as
if they had been running a long way. Their first movement was
to cast hasty glances round the room.


34 SEYTON AND LADY MACGREGOR.
their table, and said, "Will you have a pint of wine by measure,
or a sealed bottle ?''
*' Let us have a bottle, glasses, and water."
The Ogress served them. Seyton threw her a silver piece, and
refused the change, which she offered.
"Keep it for yourself, my good hostess, and take a glass oi
wine with us."
"You are very polite, sir," said Mother Ponisse, regarding the
countess's brother with as much surprise as gratitude.
"But tell me," said he, "we had appointed to meet one of our
friends in a saloon in this street, and have, perhaps, come to the
wrong house."
"This is the White Rabbit, at your service, sir."
"Oh, that's right then," said he, making a sign to his com-
panion; "yes, it was at the White Rabbit that we were to meet
him."
"Aye, and there are not two White Rabbits in this street," said
the Ogress, with an air of consequence. "But what's your friend
like?"
"Tall and slender, with light chestnut-colored hair and mous-
tache," said Seyton.
"Oh, I see! Why that's the chap who was here just now. A
charcoal-man, very tall and stout, came in and looked for him. and
they went out together."
"The very man we are in search of," said Seyton.
"Were they alone here?" asked Lady Sarah.
"Why, the charcoal-man only came in for a moment, but your
comrade supped here with Goualeuse and the Knifer," and the
Ogress pointed out the only remaining guest of Rudolf, who still
remained in the place.
The two turned toward the Knifer. After contemplating him
for a few moments, the lady said, in English, to her companion:
"Do you know this man?"
"No; Karl lost sight of Rudolf when he entered these dark
streets. Seeing Murphy, disguised as a charcoal-man, lurking
about this house, and every now and then peeping through the
windows, he thought there was something on foot, and he came
and told us. But Murphy, no doubt, recognized him."
During this conversation, held in a low tone, in a foreign lan-
guage, the Schoolmaster said to the Owl, glancing at the pair:
"This flat has popped a big white 'un on the Ogress. It is just
about twelve, and rains and blows like the devil. When they
vamos we'll 'dog' em, and I'll garotte the furriner. As he's got
his donna with him, he's safe not to make much row."
If the pair had heard this foul language they would not have
understood it, and therefore detected the plot hatching against
them.
"Keep quiet, my blade," replied the Owl; "if the sham-boy
sings out for the police, I h?,ve mv vitriol in t~.v pocket, and I'll


SEYTON AND LADY MACGRCGOR. 35
break the bottle on her snout—nothing like Lixerta quiet crying
children," she added. "But tell me, shall we not nap the kid
the first time we come across her? If we can once get her to
our crib, we'll rub her nose in the burning fluid; that will cure
her of being too stuck-up for her beauty for the future."
"Capital! I am determined to marry you some day or other,"
said the Schoolmaster; "for courage and ability, your equal is
not to be found. I made up my mind about that, the night of the
grazier's business. 'That's the girl for me,' said I; 'she works
better than a man.'"
"And you said right, my blade; for if the Skeleton had had a
blowen like me to show him the way, he wouldn't have been
caught dulling his sticker on that cove's guzzle."
"It's all up with him now, and there's no chance of his leaving
the jug, till he comes out to be made a head shorter."
"What strange language these people talk !" said Lady Sarah,
who had involuntarily heard the last few words of the conversa-
tion between the Schoolmaster and the Owl. She then added,
pointing to the Knifer: "If we question this man about Rudolf,
perhaps he may be able to answer us."
"We can but try," answered Seyton, who said, *' Comrade, we
expected to find a friend of ours in this shop; he supped here
with you it seems. Perhaps, as you know him, you can tell us
which way he went?"
"I know him because he gave me a jolly good thrashing two
hours ago, in defence of La Goualeuse."
"Had you never seen him before?"
"Never; we met by chance in the alley which leads to Red
Arm's crib."
"Hostess, another sealed bottle; and let it be the best," said
Seyton.
Lady Sarah and he had hardly moistened their lips from their
still full glasses; but Mother Ponisse, all anxiety, no doubt, to
pay proper respect to the best bin in her cellar, had filled and
emptied hers several times.
"And be so good as to put it on the table where that gentleman
sits, if he will accept it," added Seyton, who, with Sarah, seated
themselves beside the Knifer, as much astonished as flattered by
this politeness.
The Schoolmaster and his partner continued to converse, in an
under tone, on their sinister projects.
The bottle being brought, and Lady Sarah and her brother hav-
ing seated themselves with the Knifer and the Ogress, who consid-
ered a second invitation quite superfluous, the conversation was
resumed.
"You told us, my good fellow, that you met our friend Rudolf
in the house where Red Arm lives?" inquired Seyton, touching
glasses with the Chourineur.


36 SEYTON AND LADY MACGREGOR.
"That's about the figure," replied the latter, as he emptied hi*
glass at a draught.
"A very singular name. What is this Red Arm?"
"He gives the shovel-noses the slip," said the Knifer, in a
careless tone, and then he added: "This is famous wine, Mother
Ponisse."
*' If you think so, don't leave your glass empty, my fine fellow,"
said Seyton, filling the other's glass.
"Here's luck!" said he, "and your little friend's, who—but
lay low's the word. 'If my aunt was a man, she'd be my uncle,'
as the saying is. I'm fly!"
Lady Sarah colored slightly, as her brother continued: '' I did
not exactly understand you about Red Arm. Rudolf came out of
his house, no doubt?"
"I told you that Red Arm gravels the ground-sharks!"
Seyton looked at the speaker with surprise, and said, " What do
you mean by 'shovels' and 'gravel' ?—What do you call it in
plain talk?"
*' Runs the preventives off their pins; he's a smug-gu-lar, I
suppose you would say ; but it seems you can't patter flash?"
"My good fellow, I don't understand you."
"I see you can't come upright-man's lingo, like Master
Rudolf."
"Eh?" said Seyton, looking at his sister, with an air of sur-
prise.
"Oh! you are duffers; but Rudolf is an out-and-outer, that he
is. Though he's only a fan-painter, he's us down as a hammer.
However, since you can't speak our beautiful tongue, I tell you
plain, Red Arm is a smuggler, and, more than that, keeps a small
tavern on the Champs Elysees. I say, without splitting upon him,
that he is a smuggler, for he makes no secret of it, but braves it
under the very smellers of the custom-house officers. Buff (set
down) a charge to him, if you can; Red Arm's up to snuff any
two Sundays in the week."
"And what could Rudolf want at the house of this man?"
asked Sarah.
"Really, man, or madame, which you please—I know nothing
about anything, as true as I drink this glass of wine. To-night, I
was joking with La Goualeuse, who thought I was going to belt
her, and she ran up the alley to Red Arm's ken, and I followed
her; it was as dark as pitch. Instead of striking Goualeuse, I
stumbled on Master Rudolf, who gave me my account in rare
coin! Oh, yes, especially the rattle of blows at the finish. My
eyes! he did bash my conk! But he's promised to teach me that
move, and to"
"What sort of a man is Red Arm? " asked Seyton. "What
does he sell?"
"Red Arm? Well, if ever! he sells everything he is forbidden


"YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE."
37
sell, and does everything forbidden to be done. That's his
trade, Mother Ponisse, don't you say!"
"Oh! he's a boy with more than one finger to his hand,"
answered the Ogress. "He is, besides, landlord of a certain
house in the Rue du Temple—a funny crib, to be sure: but that's
neither here nor there," added she, fearful of having said too
much.
"What is Red Arm's address in that street?" asked Seyton of
the Chourineur.
"Number 13, sir."
"Perhaps we may learn something there," said Seyton, in a low
voice, to his sister. "I will send Karl to-morrow."
"As you know M. Rudolf," said the Knifer, "you may boast
of a staunch friend and no error? If it had not been for the coal-
man, he would have walked into the Schoolmaster, who is there
in the corner with the Owl. May I never stir, I can hardly keep
my claws off the old wretch; I should like to smash her, when I
think of her treatment of Goualeuse; but let's cork up for this
once—' a blow delayed is not a blow lost,' as the saying is."
Midnight sounded from the City Hall. The tavern lamp shed
but a dim and flickering light. With the exception of the Knifer,
the Schoolmaster, and the Owl, all the guests had retired one by
one.
The Schoolmaster said, in an under tone, to the Owl, " If we
go and lay bones in the court across the way, we'll be able to
pipe the swells to rights when they come out, and know which
way to follow them. If they turn to the left, we'll wait for them
at the corner of the Rue Saint Eloi; if they go to the right, we
will meet them by the ruins close to the Tripe-market. The
street's up close by, and I've got a prime idea!"
The Schoolmaster and the Owl went toward the door.
"You won't wet your whistles to-night, then?" said the Ogress.
"No, Mother Ponisse, we only came in for shelter from the
weather," said the Schoolmaster as he went out with the hag.
CHAPTER VII.
"YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE!"
The noise made by the slam of the door aroused Seyton and
Lady Sarah from their reverie ; they rose. Being thanked for ttie
information he had given them the Knifer went out, the wind
blowing with redoubled violence, the rain falling in torrents.
The Schoolmaster and his friend, hidden in an alley exactly
opposite the tap, saw the Chourineur roll along on that side of the
street on which the ruined house was situated. Very soon his
steps, rendered somewhat irregular by the frequent libations of


"YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE."
39
you've got any rings? No," said the old wretch, grumblingly—
"no, not one—you just are a swindler to show on the streets."
Seyton did not lose his presence of mind during this scene,
although sudden as it was unexpected.
"Will you strike a bargain? My pocketbook contains papers
quite useless to you ; return it to me, and to-morrow I will give
you twenty-five louis," said he to the Schoolmaster, whose hand
slightly relaxed its vicelike hold.
*' Bosh! you want to lay a trap for us, do you!" replied the
robber. Be off', and don't look behind you ; you may thank your
stars for getting away so cheaply."
"One moment," said the Owl; "if he behaves like a gent, he
shall have his pocket-book. There is a way." Then, addressing
Seyton, she asked, "You know the plain of St. Denis?"
"Yes."
"Opposite St. Ouen, at the end of the road to La Revolte, there
is a plain. Across the fields one may see a long way. Come
there to-morrow morning, by yourself, bring your shiners with
you and I'll hand over the documents."
"But he'll have you nicked."
"Not a bit of it! I've been there before. I've only one eye,
but that's a piercer; if the dude comes with the M. P.'s (munici-
pal police), he'll not find me; I'll have hooked it."
A sudden idea seemed to strike Lady Sarah, and she said to the
ruffian, '' Would you earn some money?"
"Always fly."
"Did you see, in the place we have just left—for I know you
again—did you see the person whom the charcoal-man came in
search of?"
"A chap with the soup-strainers (moustaches)? Yes, I would
have given that humbug an inch of steel, if he had waited long
enough. He stunned me with two drives on the tater trap, and
knocked me over the table—the first time that any man ever
served me so. Curse him! but I'll see his clothes fumigated some
day!"
"He is the man I mean," said Lady Sarah,
"Is he ?" cried the Schoolmaster; "a thousand francs, and I'll
make him fit for the Anotomical Museum."
"Wretch! I do not seek his life," replied Countess Sarah.
"What do you want then?"
"Come to-morrow to the plain of St. Denis; y ou will there find
my companion," she replied: "you will see that he is alone, and
he will tell you what to do. If you succeed, it shall not be one,
but two thousand francs that I will give you."
"My blade," said the Owl, in a low tone, to the Schoolmaster,
"there's chink loose; these are a spicy lot, who wish to give a
turn to an enemy, and that enemy is the gassy cove you want to
smash. Let's go to the place and meet him. Two thousand
francs! My eye 1—they are worth looking after 1"


40
* THE WALK.
"Well, my woman will go," said the Schoolmaster. "Tell her
what you want, and I'll consider"
"Be it so ; to-morrow at one on the plain of St. Denis, between
St. Ouen and the road to La Revoke, at the end of the road?"
"Agreed."
"I will return you the pocket-book."
"And you shall have the five hundred francs promised, and we
will settle about the other affair, if you are reasonable."
"Now then, you go to the right, and we to the left. Don't attempt
to follow us—or else "And the Schoolmaster and his accom-
plice hurried off, whilst Seyton and his sister hastened in a con-
trary direction.
An invisible witness had been present during this scene; the
Knifer, who had gone down the cellars of the dilapidated house
for shelter from the rain. The proposal which Countess Sarah had
made to the robber respecting Rudolf deeply interested the
Knifer. Alarmed at the perils which menaced his new friend, he
legretted he could not shield him against them. His hatred of
the Schoolmaster and the Owl might have something to do with
this friendly feeling.
He resolved to warn Rudolf of the danger which threatened
him; but how was he to do so? He had forgotten the address of
the self-styled fan-painter. Rudolf might never again visit the
open house, and then how could he warn him? While thus
reflecting, the Knifer had mechanically followed Seyton and
Sarah; he saw them get into a coach which was waiting near
Notre Dame. The coach started: the Knifer jumped up behind.
At one o'clock it stopped on the Boulevard of the Observatory,
and Sarah and her brother disappeared down one of the narrow
streets adjacent. The night was very dark—The Knifer could
distinguish nothing; and that he might know, the next day, the
place where he then was, he drew from his pocket his clasp-knife,
and cut a large and deep notch in one of the trees at the corner of
the entrance. He then returned to his lodging, from which he
was a long way off. For the first time during a long period,
Knifer tasted the sweets of a profound sleep, not once interrupted
by the horrible vision of the " Sergeant's slaughter-house," as his
peculiar language had it.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE WALK.
On the morrow, a bright autumnal sun shone in a serene sky.
The tempest had blown over. Although always obscured by the
height of the houses, the filthy neighborhood seemed less horrible
in a fine day.


TUB WALK.
Whether Rudolf no longer feared to meet the two persons whom
he shunned overnight, or did not care any longer to evade them,
about eleven o'clock in the morning he entered the Rue aux
Feves, and made his way toward the Ogress's saloon.
Rudolf was still dressed as a workman ; but there was a remark-
able neatness in his costume, well calculated to set off the elegant
form and carriage which combined rare grace with agility and
power. The Ogress was sunning herself at the door of her hotel,
when Rudolf presented himself.
"Your servant, young man! You have come no doubt, for
your change of the twenty francs," she said with a sort of respect;
not thinking it exactly prudent to forget that the eonqueror had
thrown agold coin on her counter the previous evening. "There is
seventeen francs ten sous coming to you; but that's not all. There
was somebody here asking for you last night—a tall gentleman,
well-dressed, who had with him a young woman disguised as a
man. They drank my best wine with the Knifer."
"Oh! they drank with him, did they? Well what did they
say?"
"When I say they drank with him, I am wrong—they scarce
wetted their lips with the wine and"
"But I asked you what they said to the Knifer?"
"Oh! they talked about this, that, and the other thing—of Red
Arm, the rain, and the fine weather."
"Do they know Red Arm?"
"More the other way. The Knifer told them who he was, and
that you"
"Well, that is not what I want to know."
"You want your change?"
"Yes, and I want to take the Goualeuse to pass the day in the
country."
'' Oh ! that's impossible, my boy. Because she may never turn
up again. Her togs belong to me, not reckoning about a hundred
francs she owes me for bit and nip for the six weeks she has
lodged with me; and if I didn't know her to be as honest as the
day, I should never let her go beyond the corner at most." \
"Goualeuse owes you ninety francs?"
"Ninety-six francs ten sous; but what's that to yon, mylad?|
Are you going to do the grand, and stump it for her?"
"Yes," said Rudolf, throwing five louis on the Ogress's coun-
ter; "and now what's your price for the duds she wears?"
The old woman, amazed, examined the coin one after the other
with an air of doubt and suspicion.
"What! are you afraid that I have given you duffers? Try
'em in your cramp, or send and get change for one, and have
done with it. I say again, how much for the rags the poor girl is
wearing?"
The Ogress, divided between the desire to make a good harvest,
her surprise to see a workman with so much-'money, the fear of


4*
THE WALK.
being cheated, and the hope of gaining more, was silent for a
moment, and then replied—
"Oh, them elegant clothes is well worth a hundred francs."
"What! such rags as those. Come, now, I tell you what; you
shall keep the change I left last night and I'll give you another
yellowboy, and no more. If I give you all I have, I shall rob the
tramps, who have a right to my alms."
"Well, then, my boy, I'll keep my things, and Goualeuse shall
stay where she is. I have a right t,- put my own price on my
goods, I suppose?"
"May the devil grill you some day as you deserve! Here's
your money ; go and look for Goualeuse."
The Ogress pocketed the gold, imagining that the workman had
committed a robbery, or received a bequest, and then said with a
hideous leer:
"Upon my honor! why not go upstairs, and find Goualeuse
yourself; she'll be very glad to see you, for, on the word of Mother
Ponisse, she has taken a fancy to you."
"No, no; you fetch her, and tell her I will take her into the
country; that's all I want you to say ; not a word about my hav-
ing paid you her debt."
"Why not? What's that to you?"
"To be sure, it's no matter to me; I would rather that she
should still fancy herself in my debt."
"Will you button up your lip, and do as I bid you?"
"Oh! what a spiteful look! I pity anybody who has a row
with you. Well, I'm going." The Ogress went upstairs.
After a few minutes she came down again.
"Goualeuse would not believe me, and turned as red as a poppy
when she found you were here; but when I told her that I would
give her leave to spend this day in the country, I really thought
she would have gone crazy—for the first time in her life she was
ready to throw her arms about my neck."
"Oh, no doubt—for joy at leaving you."
Fleur-de-Maire entered at this moment, dressed as on the
previous evening. She blushed when she saw Ruldof, and looked
down with an air of confusion.
"Would you like to spend the day in the country with me, my
child?" said Rudolf.
"With joy, M. Rudolf," said Goualeuse, "if Mother Ponisse
will permit me."
"You've my leave, my little puss, because you behave yourself.
Come, kiss me before you're off."
The old hag presented her carbuncled face to Fleur-de-Maire.
The unfortunate girl, overcoming her disgust, offered her fore-
head to the lips of the Ogress, but Rudolf, by a sudden push with
his elbow, thrust the old woman back within her counter, took
Fleur-de-Marie's arm, and left the taproom amidst a volley of
maledictions


THE WALK.
43
"Take care, M. Rudolf," said Goualeuse; "the Ogress is so
spiteful, she will, perhaps, throw something at you."
"Oh, don't be alarmed, my girl. But what ails you? you seem
embarrassed—sad. Do you regret having come with me?"
*' No, indeed, quite the contrary; but—but you give me your
arm.''
"Well, what then?"
"You are a workman, and some one may tell your master that
they saw you with me, and that might do you an injury; masters
do not like their workmen to be unsteady."
Goualeuse gently disengaged her arm from Rudolf s, adding,
"Go on alone; I will follow you to the barrier; and when in the
fields I will rejoin you."
"Nay, fear nothing," said Rudolf, touched by this delicate
thoughtfulness, and again giving his arm to Fleur-de-Marie; "my
master does not live in these quarters; besides, we shall find a
hack on the Quai aux Fleurs.*'
"As you please, M. Rudolf; I only spoke lest you might get
into trouble."
"I believe so, and thank you for it. But, tell me frankly, is
there no particular spot in the country you wish to visit?"
'' I have no preference, M. Rudolf, so that it be the real country.
The weather is so fine, and the beautiful air is so good to breathe!
Do you know that for these six weeks I have not been farther than
the flower-market? And now the Ogress must have great confi-
dence in me, or she would never allow me to leave the City."
"And when you went to the market, was it to buy flowers?"
"Oh, no, I had no money; I went only to look at them, and
breathe their delicious odor. During the half-hour the Ogress al-
lowed me to pass on the Quay on market days, I felt so happy,
that I forgot all."
"And on returning to the Ogress, in those filthy streets?"
"Oh, then, I became more sad than when I set out ; and I had
to suppress my tears, that I might not be beaten. Then at the
market, what made me so envious was to see neat, clean little
workwomen tripping gaily away each with a large bunch of
flowers in her arms."
'' I am sure that, if you had had but a few flowers in your win-
dow, they would have'been company."
"Indeed they would, M. Rudolf. Only think, the Ogress, on
her birthday, knowing my taste, gave me a little rose-bush. If
you only knew how happy it made me !—I was never weary ot
looking at my rose-bush. I amused myself in counting its leaves
—its flowers; but the City air is bad, and at the end of two days
it began to wither. Then—but—you are going to laugh at me, M.
Rudolf."
"No, no; go on."
"Well, then, I asked the Ogress to let me go out, and take my
rose-bush a walk, just as I would have taken out a child. Y** >


44
THE WALK.
carried it to the Quai, fancying that to be with other flowers, in the
fresh and balmy air, might do it good. I sprinkled its poor fad-
ing leaves in the clear water of the fountain, and then, to dry it, I
placed it for a full quarter of an hour in the sun. Dear little rose-
bush! it never saw the sun in the City, any more than myself; for
in our street it never gets lower than the eaves. At last I went
home again: well, I assure you, M. Rudolf, that, thanks to these
walks, my rose-bush lived over a week longer than it otherwise
would."
"I believe it; but when it died, it must have been a severe loss
to you."
"I wept for it: for that was indeed a sorrow. And then, M.
Rudolf—for you know that one may love flowers although you
haven't any of your own. You can well feel that. Alas! I felt
very grateful to my poor rose-tree for blooming so kindly for me,
although—although—I was"
Goualeuse, bowing down her head, became scarlet with shame.
"Unhappy child! with this feeling of your wretched position
you must often"
"Have wished to end it, you mean, M. Rudolf?" said
Goualeuse, interrupting her companion. "Oh, indeed, I have!
More than once this last month have I looked over the parapet on
to the Seine; then I turned to the flowers, and to the sun, and I
said, * The river will be always there; I am but sixteen and a
half—who knows what may happen ?'"
"When you said 'who knows,' then you hoped?" "Yes."
"Come, what did you hope?"
"To find some kind soul who would procure me some work, so
that I might be able to leave the Ogress; this hope consoled me.
Then I said to myself, 'I am very miserable, but I have never in-
jured anybody; if I had had anyone to advise me, I should not
be where I am. That lightened my sorrow a little, which had
greatly deepened at the loss of my rose-bush," added Goualeuse,
with a sigh.
"Always in such grief"
"Yes! but see, here it is."
Goualeuse drew from her pocket a little bundle of twigs, care
fully cut and tied with a rose-colored ribbon.
"It is all I possess in the world."
"What! have you nothing of your own?"
"Nothing but the dead branches of my poor rose-bush—that is
why I treasure it."
Rudolf and Goualeuse had reached the Flower market, where a
coach was waiting. Rudolf assisted the Goualeuse, getting in
afterwards himself, saying to the coachman: "To Saint Denis;
I will then tell you which road to take."
The coach then went on. The sun was bright, the heavens
without a cloud, whilst the clear and fresh air circulated freely
through the open windows.


THE WALK.
"See, here is a woman's cloak," said Goualeuse, discovering
that she had seated herself on the garment without noticing it.
"Yes, it is for you, my child; I brought it for fear you should
feel cold."
Little accustomed to such forethought, the poor girl looked at
Rudolf with surprise. "Oh, M. Rudolf, how kind you are! it
makes me quite ashamed"
"Because I am kind?"
"No; but you do not speak as you did yesterday; you seem
quite another person."
'* Tell me, then, Fleur-de-Marie, which would you prefer, that I
should remain the Rudolf of yesterday, or be the Rudolf of to-
day?"
"I like you much better as you are now; yet yesterday I
seemed to be more your equal." Then, as if correcting herself,
and fearing to have degraded Rudolf, she said, " When I say your
equal, M. Rudolf, I well know I never can be that."
"There is one thing which astonishes me, Fleur-de-Marie."
"What is that, M. Rudolf."
"You seem to have forgotten that the Owl said to you yester-
day, that she knew the persons who had brought you up.''
"Oh! I have not forgotten that; I thought of it last night, and
I cried bitterly; but I am sure that it is not true. The one-eyed
hag only invented that tale to make me miserable."
"But possibly the Owl may know more than you think. If it
were so, should you not be delighted to be restored to your
parents?"
"Alas! M. Rudolf, if my parents never loved me, what good
would it be to me to discover them? They would not even wish
to see me. And—and if they did ever love me, what shame I
should bring on them—perhaps it would kill them!"
"If your parents ever loved you, Fleur-de-Marie, they will pity,
pardon, and still love you. If they have deserted you, then, when
they see the frightful lot to which their conduct has reduced you,
their shame, their remorse will avenge you."
"What good is vengeance?"
"You are right; let us talk of it no more.''
At this moment the carriage arrived near Saint Ouen, at the
point where the roads of St. Denis and La Revolte branch off.
Notwithstanding the monotony of the prospect, Fleur-de-Marie
was so transported at seeing the fields, as she called them, that,
forgetting the sad thoughts which the rocollection of the Owl had
awakened, her charming countenance beamed with delight. She
leaned out of the window, clapped her hands, and cried, "Oh, M
Rudolf, how happy I am! The grass! the fields! Will you let
nie get out?—it is so fine! I should so like to run in those
meadows."
"Let us run, then, my child. Stop, coachman"


46
THE SURPRISE.
"What, you too? Will you run, M. Rudolf. Oh! what hap
piness, M. Rudolf!"
And Rudolf and Goualeuse, taking each other's hand, ran
themselves out of breath across a large meadow newly mown. It
would be impossible to describe the transports and exclamations
of childish joy, the intense delight of Fleur-de-Marie. Poor thing!
so long a prisoner, she breathed the free air with unbounded
pleasure. She ran, came back, stopped, and then raced off again
with renewed rapture. At sight of the daisies and buttercups,
Goualeuse could not refrain from fresh exclamations of joy—she
did not leave one flower that was large enough to gather. After
having run about in this way, she became fatigued, for she had
lost the habit of exercise; her bosom throbbed under her little
threadbare orange shawl, and she placed one of her hands upon
her heart, as if to restrain its quickened pulsation, while with the
other she proffered to Rudolf the bouquet of wild flowers which
she had just gathered. Nothing could be more charming than
the combination of innocence and pure joy which beamed on her
ingenuous features. So soon as Fleur-de-Marie could speak, she
said to Rudolf, in accents of unalloyed delight, and with a grati-
tude nearly akin to piety, " How good is heaven to have granted
us so fine a day!"
A tear sprang to Rudolfs eye at hearing this poor, despised,
forsaken, lost one utter this cry of thankfulness and happiness to
the Creator for the mere enjoyments of a ray of sunshine and the
sight of a green field!
CHAPTER IX.
THE SURPRISE.
Goualeuse was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, at the edge
of a deep ditch. Suddenly a man, springing from the bottom of
this excavation, shook aside the rubbish under which he had con-
cealed himself, and burst into a loud fit of laughter. Goualeuse
turned round, with a cry of alarm. It was the Knifer!
"Don't be afraid, my girl," said the Knifer, when he saw her
alarm, as she sought refuge with her companion. "By all that's
lucky, Master Rudolf, here's a glorious meeting! Ha! ha! you
didn't expect it, no more than I."
Then he added, in a serious tone, "Listen, master. People
may say what they please, but there is something above there in
the air over our heads that beats all out-doors; very wonderful,
which seems to say to a fellow, 'Go where I sent you. See how
you two have been sent here! It gets the best of me.'
"What were you doing there?" said Rudolf, greaOy surprised.
"I was on the >***-out in a matter that concerns you, master;


'iUh UM'R1S£.»
47
but, what a rum start that you should come this very moment into
the very neighborhood of my country-house! There's something
in all this—certainly there is something in it."
"But I ask you again, what are you doing there?"
"You'll know first pop; just give me time to take a squint round
from your four-wheeled lighthouse yonder."
The Knifer ran toward the coach, which had stopped at some
distance, mounted the box, looked hither and thither over the
plain, with a rapid glance, and soon rejoined Rudolf.
"Will you explain to me the meaning of all this?"
"Patience, patience, master; one word more. Do you know
the time?"
"Half-past twelve," said Rudolf, taking out his watch.
"Good; then we've got room! Owl will not be here this half-
hour."
"Owl! " exclaimed Rudolf and Goualeuse simultaneously.
"Yes, Owl. Yesterday, after you left the ken, there came"
"A tall man, with a woman in male attire, who asked for me 1
I know that. What then?"
"They paid for my lush, and wanted to pump me about you.
But I had nothing to tell them except that you had given me a
licking; so I said I was acquainted with you so far as an ugly rap
or two went—that 1 had learnt a lesson from you. But further—
why, if I had known anything, they would have learnt no more;
for, come good, or come bad, M. Rudolf, we are friends, though
the devil burn me if I know why! yet I feel for you the attach-
ment which a bull-dog feels for his master, since you told me that
I had 'heart and honor ;' but that's nothing, so there's an end of
:.t. It's more than I can account for; so it is, and you're welcome
to it, and may I not jib a-goin' down hill!"
"Thank you, my lad; but go on."
"The long man and the lady in trousers, seeing that they could
get nothing out of me, left the Ogress's, and so did I; they going
toward the Palace of Justice, and I toward Notre Dame. On
reaching the end of the street, I found it was raining cats and
dogs—a regular flood. Hard by, there was a house being pulled
down; says I to myself ' If this weather is to last long, I can sleep
just as well here as in-my own dog-hole.' So I rolled myself intc
a sort of cellar, where I was under cover; I took for my bed an
old beam, and for n> / pillow a heap of lath and plaster, and I was
in no time snoozing ike a king."
"What next?"
"I had take* jmething to drink with you, Master Rudolf. I
had drunk, to< with the lanky gent and the lady in the breeches,
so you may believe my head was a little muddled; moreover,
nothing lulls me into a good sound sleep like a pelting rain. I
began to doze, and should soon have begun to snore, when a
noise startled me. I sat up and listened, and heard the School-
master holding what I've heard callsd a friendly confab with


THE SURPRISE.
somebody; I listened and listened—Jingo! what did I recognize?
—the voice of the tall man who was at the tap with the woman
shamming a man."
"They, in conference with the Schoolmaster and the Owl?"
said Rudolf, with amazement.
"With the Schoolmaster and the Owl; they agreed to meet
again on the morrow at one o'clock, at this very spot."
"The Schoolmaster! Pray be on your guard, M. Rudolf," ex-
claimed Fleur-de-Marie.
"Calm yourself, my child, he will not come—the Owl alone
will make her appearance."
"How could the man whom you saw at the drinking den with
fhe disguised female be in communication with these two
wretches?" said Rudolf.
"Upon my soul, I can't tell. I think I only awoke at the end
of the business; for the tall man spoke of getting back his pocket-
book which the Owl was to bring with her in exchange for five
hundred francs. I think it likely the Schoolmaster had begun by
robbing them, and that subsequently they begun to sing sweet,
and come to friendly terms."
"It is very extraordinary."
"Good heavens! I tremble on your account, M. Rudolf," said
Fleur-de-Marie.
"Master Rudolf is no chicken, my girl; but, as you say, there
may be an ingun in pickle for him and that is the reason I am
here."
"Go on, my boy."
"The long man and the woman have promised two thousand
francs to the Schoolmaster, to do to you—I don't know what. The
Owl is to be here now to return the pocket-book, and to know
what is required from them, which she is to communicate to the
Schoolmaster, who will undertake it."
Fleur-de-Marie shuddered. Rudolf smiled disdainfully.
"Two thousand francs to do mischief to you, Master Rudolf!
That puts me in mind (not that I mean to make a comparison)
that when I see a bill out for a dog lost, promising a hundred
francs for fetching him back, I say to myself, ' If you were lost,
Knifer, no one would give a hundred cents to find you.' Two
thousand francs to do mischief to you i Who are you, then?"
*' I will tell you by-and-bye."
"Enough, master. When I heard this proposal, says I to
myself, 'I must find out these two swells who want to set the
Schoolmaster on M. Rudolf; it may be worth something.' When
they had gone away I crept out of my hiding-place, and followed
them like a mouse. The tall man and the woman got into a coach
opposite the gate of Notre Dame; I cut behind and we soon
reached the Observatory Boulevard. It was dark as an oven; I
could see nothing, so I nicked a tree, to find out the place in the
morning."


THE SURPRISE.
49
*'That's g«od, my boy."
"This morning I went there again. About ten paces from tht
tree, I found a narrow entrance, closed by a gate, and in the mud
of the narrow entrance I saw little and large footsteps, and at the
end of the avenue a small garden-gate, where the tracks ended,
so the nest of the tall man and the woman must be there."
"Thanks, my brave fellow; you have done me good service
without knowing it."
"Hold hard, Master Rudolf, I thought it might be so, and that's
»hy I did it."
"I know it, my good fellow, and I wish I could recompense
/our service more properly than by thanks; but, unfortunately, I
am only a poor devil of a workman, although as you say two
thousand francs are offered to do mischief to me. I will explain
that to you"
"Good, if agreeable to yourself; if not, 'tis all the same. You
are threatened with something and object to that; the rest is your
own look-out."
"I have an idea what they want. Listen to me. I h?ve a
secret for cutting fans in ivory by means of machinery; but the
secret does not belong to me alone. I am awaiting the arrival of
my partner to go to work, and, no doubt, it is the model of the
machine which I have at home that they are desirous of getting
from me at any price, for a great deal of money is to be made by
this discovery."
"The tall man and the gay bird in pants then are"
"The fan-makers with whom I have worked, and to whom I
have refused my secret."
This explanation appeared satisfactory to the Knifer, whose per-
ception was none of the brightest in some things, and he
replied—
"Now I see it all. Oh, the crawlers! and they have not the
pluck to do their dirty work themselves. But to finish my story.
I will tell you what I said to myself this morning, * I know where
the tall man and the Owl have appointed to meet; I will go and wait
for them. I have good legs; the lighterman who employs me will
expect me—it's his loss, and that be hanged!' I came here, saw
the ditch, fetched an armful of litter from the straw-stack yonder,
rHd myself here up to my nose, and waited for the Owl. But, lo
and behold! you came padding across the plain, and poor Gou-
aleuse came and seated herself on the edge of my property; then,
faith, I thought I'd have a game, and jumping out of my hole,
roared out like a pig that had been scalded."
"And what is your intention now?"
"To wait for the Owl, who, depend on't, will come first; then I'll
try to overhear the jabber between her and the tall man, because that
may be of service to you. There is nothing in the field but this
trunk of a tree, and from here you may see all over the plain : it is
as if it was here on purpose to sit down upon. The meeting-place


CASTLES IN THE AIR.
to be made. After waiting an hour or so, say to her, 'My pard
does not come—it is too bad; and then you may make an appoint-
ment with the Owl and the Schoolmaster for to-morrow at an early
hour. You understand?"
"I understand."
"And this evening you will remember to be at ten o'clock at
the corner of the Champs Elysees and the Allee des Veuves, and
there I will meet you and tell you the rest."
"If this be a trap, look out!—the Schoolmaster is a malicious
wretch. You have beaten him, and, it's a melon to a pear that he
sets on to killing you."
"Don't be alarmed."
"Burn me, but this here's a go! but do just as you like with
me. I do not hesitate, for something tells me that there is a cake
baking for the Schoolmaster and the Owl. Hark'ee, one word
more, if you please, M. Rudolf."
"Speak."
"I don't think you are the man to set a trap for the School-
master to get him nailed. He is an out-and-out bad un, and
deserves a hundred deaths; but to have him grabbed—I will not
be one in that."
"Nor will I, my good fellow; but I have an account to settle
with him and the Owl because they plot with those who plot
against me; and we two will round on 'em completely, if you will
assist me."
"Oh, well then, as the cock is as bad as the hen, I'll join
you. But quick, quick!" cried the Knifer; "I see yonder a
white speck, and that speck must be the Owl. Be off, and let me
get into the ditch."
"And this evening at ten o'clock"
*' Corner of the Elyrion Fields and Widows' Walk—agreed."
Fleur-de-Marie had not heard the latter part of this conversa<
tion between the Knifer and Rudolf. She again entered the coach
with the companion of her excursion.
CHAPTER X.
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
At length Rudolf raised his head, and said, with a benevolent
smile. "What are you thinking of, my child? I fear this meet-
ing with the Knifer has been disagreeable to you; is it not so ?—
we were very happy before. Let us think no more about that, my
little Fleur-de-Marie. I should be sorry if I made you sad, when
I brought you out purposely that you might pass a happy day.'
"Oh! I am very happy. U is so long since I have been out of
Paris."


CASTLES IN THE AI&
"Not since your grand jaunts with Rigolette."
"True, M. Rudolf; that was in the spring ; but though it is
now autumn I enjoy it quite as much. In the country, one can
never be weary of looking round—everything is so amusing."
"It is, indeed, a pleasure to see how alive you are to these little
details which form the true charms of a rural scene."
At these words, by a revulsion the picture of the pestilential
hovel to which she must return at the close of this short and
joyous day presented itself, and poor Goualeuse, unable to repress
her tears, bowed her head between her hands and wept.
Rudolf clearly saw the cause of her distress. Wishing to dis-
sipate it, he said, with a smile, "I'll wager you are thinking of
your poor rose-bush, and are crying because you could not bring
it out walking with you?"
Gouleuse smiled at the jest. By degrees the clouds of sadness
left her fair young face ; again she appeared absorbed in the
pleasure of the moment, without giving a thought to the future.
The vehicle by this time had arrived near Saint Denis, whose tall
spire was visible in the distance.
After a moment's silence, Rudolf said to the girl. "Tell me,
why do you look so beseechingly at me? Those charming blue
eyes are again filled with tears. Have I done aught to grieve
you?"
"Oh, no, quite otherwise; 'tis the abundance of your good-
ness that makes me weep; and then you do not talk coarsely to
me ; indeed, one would think that you had brought me out solely
for my own pleasure, so much do you seem gratified at seeing me
happy. Not content with having so generously defended me yes-
terday, you have to-day procured for me happiness such as I
never before enjoyed."
"Then you are indeed happy?"
"It will be long ere I forget the happiness of to-day?"
"Real happiness is, indeed, rare. To make up for what I have
not, I often amuse myself with dreams of what I would have if I
could. Have you, Fleur-de-Marie, never amused yourself with
building castles in the air /"
"Yes, when I was in prison, before I went to live with theOgress,
I used to do nothing all day but fancy pictures and sing ; but I sel-
dom do so now. And you, M. Rudolf, what is it you sigh for?"
"Oh, I should like to be rich—very rich, to have plenty of serv-
ants and carriages; a splendid house ; to mix in the first circles of
fashion, and go to the theatres every night. And you, Fleur-de-
Marie?"
"1 should not be so hard to please. If I had money enough to
pay the Ogress, and a little to keep me till I could get work ; then
a pretty, clean room, from the window of which I could see the
trees while I sat at my work."
"Plenty of flowers in your -vindow?"


54
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
"Well, then, how is it that you who are so superior to your con-
dition, for I can see that, frequent such low drinking-dens as that
kept by the Ogress?"
"If I had not gone to the tap I should not have had the pleas-
ure of going into the country with you to-day, Fleur-de-Marie."
"That is true, M. Rudolf; but it does not answer the question.
I am as happy as possible to-day, but I would gladly give up all
thoughts of such happiness for the future, did I think it could in
any way injure you."
"You've made it quite the other way by the excellent advice
you have given me."
At this moment Rudolf called out to the coachman, who had
passed through the village of Sarcelles: "Take the first road
to the right, go through Villiers-de-Bel; then turn to the left and
keep straight on."
'' Now you are satisfied with me, Fleur-de-Marie," said Rudolf,
turning to his companion, "let us amuse ourselves in the pastime
we spoke of just now, that of building castles in the air. That is
not very expensive amusement, so you will not reproach me for
extravagance."
"Oh, certainly not; go on, let me see how you build your
castles."
"No, Fleur-de-Marie, you must build yours first."
"See if you could guess my taste, M. Rudolf."
"Let us try. Suppose that this road—I say this road, because
we happen to be upon it, leads to a delightful village, far removed
from the high road—quiet—built on the side of a hill—half-hidden
by beautiful trees'
"And close by it a gentle stream."
"Exactly !—a brook. At the end of this village stands a pretty
farm, on one side of the house an orchard, on the other a lovely
garden filled with flowers."
"That farm shall be called my farm, where we are going
now."
"Just so."
"And where we could get milk, and newly laid eggs out of the
nest by ourselves; and go and see the cows in the shed."
"To be sure we would."
"And look into the dairy, and the pigeon-house!"
"Of course the pigeon-liouse!"
"How delightful!"
"Of course the mistress of this farm is your aunt."
"Naturally; and such a kind, good body."
"Excellent! and loves you like a mother."
"Dear aunt! Oh, how delightful to have some one to love
us!"
"And you will love her very much, in return."
"Oh!' cried Fleur-de-Marie, clasping her hands, and raising


CASTLES IN THE AIR.
55
her eyes to heaven with an indescribable expression of happiness.
"How I should love her!"
"Stay, Fleur-de-Marie: how impatient you are! Let me finish
my picture of the house."
"Ah, ah! Mr. Painter, you are in the practice of painting pretty
landscapes on your fans, I see," said Goualeuse, laughing.
"Your room is on the ground-floor."
"My room! how delightful! let me see my room; let me see
it!" The girl pressed more closely to Rudolf, opening her large
blue eyes most curiously.
'' Your chamber has two windows which look out upon the
flower-garden, and a small meadow, watered by the rivulet. On
the opposite bank of the watercourse rises an eminence, planted
with old chestnut-trees, among which peeps the steeple of the vil-
lage church. Three or four fine cows are grazing in the meadow,
which is only separated from the garden by a hawthorn hedge
"And from my windows I can see the cows."
"Quite plainly!"
"There is one shall be my favorite, shall it not, M. Rudolf, and
I will make a pretty collar with a little bell to it, and teach it to
come and feed out of my hand!"
"She will come at your call. She shall be milk-white, and
young, her name shall be 'Mooley!"'
"Oh, what a pretty name! Dear Mooley! how I shall love
her!"
"Let us finish your apartment, Fleur-de-Marie. It is hung
with pretty chintz, with curtains to match. A large rose-tree, and
a spreading honeysuckle covers the whole wall of the farm on that
side, and so festoons your window, that every morning you have
only to put out your hand to gather a fine nosegay all streaming
with dew."
"Oh, M. Rudolf, what a pretty painter you are!"
"Now this is the way you will pass your day"
"Oh, yes; describe my day's doings."
"Your good aunt wakes you at early morn with a tender kiss;
she brings with her a bowl of new milk just warm, which she
prays you to drink, because, poor child! you are delicate about
the lungs. Then you will rise, and take a walk round the farm;
look to Mooley, the poultry, your pets the pigeons, and the flowers
in the garden. At nine o'clock your writing-master arrives"
"My master!"
"Why, you know that it will be necessary for you to learn read-
ing, writing, and arithmetic, to be able to assist your aunt to keep
her accounts of the farm produce."
"That is true, M. Rudolf: how forgetful I am! I will have to
learn writing to assist my aunt," said the poor girl seriously; so
Ihoroughly absorbed in the pleasing picture of this peaceful life,
as to believe for the moment its reality.


CASTLES IN THE AIR.
"After your lesson, you will busy yourself with the linen of the
house; or perhaps work a pretty little country-fashioned cap;
toward two o'clock you will practice your writing; and then go
with your aunt for a pretty walk; in summer to see the reapers;
in autumn the tillage. This will pretty well tire you; so you will
bring back a handful of wild herbs, selected by you for your dear
Mooley."
"For we shall come home across the meadow, shall we not, M.
Rudolf?"
*' Of course you will; and just there, there is a wooden bridge
across the river. By the time you reach home, bless me! why,
it's seven o'clock; and as the evenings begin to be a little chill, a
bright fire is blazing cheerily in the great kitchen: you go to it for
a few minutes, to warm yourself, and to exchange a few words
with the honest laborers who are at a hearty supper, after their
day's toil. Then you sit down to dinner with your aunt; some-
times the clergyman, or a neighboring farmer is invited to your
table. After that you read or work, while your aunt makes up a
friendly game at cards. At ten o'clock she kisses your forehead;
you ascend to your chamber; and the next morning you wake to
a similar day."
"Oh! one might lead such a life as that for a hundred years,
M. Rudolf, and never know a moment's weariness."
"But that's not all. There are Sundays and holidays not yet
spoken of."
"And how shall we pass those, M. Rudolf?"
"You will then make yourself smart. You will put on a pretty
country-girl's dress, and add to it one of those charming round
caps, which used to delight you so; you will accompany youraunf
and James, the farm-servant, in her one-horse chaise, to the vi£
lage church; after which, during summer, you will not fail to be
one with your aunt at all the different festivals in the adjoining
parishes. You are so gentle and modest, such a capital little
housewife, and so tenderly beloved by your aunt, and the priest
will give you such a favorable character, that all the young farm-
ers of the neighborhood will be anxious to secure you as a partner
in the dance, because that is the way in which matches are made
in the country. At length you will begin to remark one of these
young men more than all the others; and—" Rudolf, surprised at
his hearer's silence, looked at her. The unhappy girl was endeav-
oring, though fruitlessly, to stifle her sobs. Beguiled for a
moment by the words of Rudolf, the bright future presented to her
mental vision had effaced the horrible present; but too quickly
did inexorable memory return, and by force of contrast, the horrid
reality mingling with this sweet and smiling day-dream, showec.
with double horror her frightful position!
"Fleur-de-Marie, why is this?"
"Oh 1 M. Rudolf, you have unintentionally grieved me very


CASTLES IN THE AIR.
57
much. Foolish girl that I was, I believed for a moment tW thia
paradise was a reality."
"And so it is, my poor child! This paradise, as you call it, is
no fiction. Stop, coachman! Now look! gaze around! where
are we?"
The carriage stopped, Goualeuse raised her head mechanically.
They were on the summit of a little hill. What was her surprise!
l»er bewilderment! The pretty village, built half-way down the
declivity ; the farm, the meadow, the beautiful cows, the rivulet,
the chestnut grove, the church in the distance! the picture, sc
vividly painted, was before her eyes! Nothing was wanting—
even the milk-white heifer, Mooley, the future pet, was there.
The rich coloring of an October sun gilded the charming land-
scape ; and the foliage of the old chestnut-trees, yellowed and
empurpled, stood out in bold relief against the clear blue sky.
In a few minutes more, the carriage passed through the princi-
pal gate to the farm, and rolling on between rows of elms, stop-
ped before a little rustic porch, half hidden by the luxuriant
foliage of a vine blushing with the scarlet tints of autumn.
"Here we are, arrived at last, Fleur-de-Marie," said Rudolf:
*' does the farm please you?"
"Indeed it does, M. Rudolf. But I shall be ashamed to
appear before the mistress of the farm. I cannot venture to
look at her."
*' Why not, my child?"
"After all you are right, M. Rudolf; she does not know how
unworthy I am." Poor Marie stifled a deep sigh.
The coach which brought Rudolf had doubtless been expected.
The driver had scarcely opened the coach-door when a female of
some fifty years of age, dressed in the style of affluent farmers'
wives, with a countenance, though occasionally sad, exhibiting
gentleness and benevolence, appeared beneath the porch, and
with respectful eagerness advanced to meet Rudolf.
Goualeuse colored deeply, and, after a moment's hesitation,
descended from the vehicle.
"Good day, my good Mme. George," said Rudolf, advancing
toward the female; "you see I am punctual." Then, turning to
the coachman, and placing some money in his hand, he said,
'' You may return to Paris."
Fleur-de-Marie drew close to Rudolf, and with an air of trouble
and uneasiness, almost amounting to alarm, said, in a tone so
low as not to be overheard by Mme. George, "Oh, M. Rudolf,
you have sent back the coach!"
"Of course I have."
"But the Ogress?"
"Why mention her?"
"Alas; I must return to her this evening; I must indeed; o»
she will look upon me as a thief. The clothes I have on are hers,
and I owe her"


58
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
"Be composed, my child. It is I that should ask your forgive-
ness, not you mine."
"My forgiveness! for what?"
"For not having sooner told you that you owe nothing to the
Ogress; that if you wish, you may remain here, and cast off the
garments you now wear, for others which my kind friend Mme.
George will furnish you with. She is pretty nearly of your height.
and will gladly lend you everything you require. You see, she
is already beginning to play the character of your aunt."
Fleur-de-Marie thought she yet dreamed; she stared first at the
mistress of the farm, and then at Rudolf, unable to credit the
reality of what she saw and heard.
"What!" she cried, in a voice broken by emotion. "Not go
back to Paris? I can remain here! Will this lady permit me?
Oh! it cannot be! Oh, for mercy's sake, M. Rudolf, do not
deceive me; it would make my heart ache!"
"My child, listen tome," said Rudolf, in a tone and manner
which although still affectionate, was mingled with a dignity of
manner Fleur-de-Marie had not previously remarked in him.
"I repeat that, if you please, you may from this very hour lead
here, with Mme. George, that peaceful life whose description but
a short time since so much delighted you."
Fleur-de-Marie pressed her hands together with earnest grati-
tude. Surprise, joy, gratitude, and respect were painted on hei
beautiful countenance, while, with her eyes streaming with tears,
she exclaimed, " M. Rudolf, you must be one of those blessed
angels sent by a merciful God to do good to those even who
know Him not, and rescue poor fallen creatures from shame and
misery."
*' My poor girl,'' replied Rudolf, with a smile of deep sadness
and ineffable kindness, *' though still young, I am acquainted
with sorrow. I lost a dear child, who, if living, would be of
your own age. Let that explain my deep sympathy with all who
suffer, and for yourself particularly, Fleur-de-Marie—or rather
Marie only. Now, go with Mme. George. Yes, Marie; hence-
forward, let that name, simple and sweet as yourself, be your only
appellation. Before my departure we will have some talk to-
gether, and then I shall quit you, happy in the knowledge that
you are happy yourself."
Fleur-de-Marie replied not, half-bent her knee, seized the
hand of Rudolf, and before he could prevent her, respectfully
raised it to her lips with an air of modest submission: she then
followed Mme. George, who surveyed her with deep interest.


MURPHY AND PRINCE RUDOLF. 59
CHAPTER XI.
MURPHY AND PRINCE RUDOLF.
Rudolf directed his steps toward the farm-yard, and found
the tall man awaiting him, who, disguised as a charcoal-seller,
had warned him the preceding evening of the approach of Lady
Sarah and her brother. Murphy—that was the name of this
person—was about fifty years of age. His dress and manly ap-
P'iarance accorded with the idea of what in England is styled a
- gentleman farmer." We must add that the person we are de-
* ;ribing was an English knight, and not a farmer. At the mo-
ment of Rudolf's entrance into the farm-yard, Murphy was in
fte act of putting into the boot of a traveling carriage a pair
t< small pistols, which he had just been very carefully cleaning.
"What the devil do you want with your pistols?" inquired
kVOolf.
"That is my business, your highness," replied Murphy.de-
v.^Oing the carriage step; "mind your own affairs, and I will
tVHwl to mine."
"fct what hour have you ordered the horses?"
"According to your directions—at nightfall."
"You came here this morning?"
"At eight o'clock. Mme. George has had full time to get
IKrything in readiness."
"'You are in an ill-humor; is it with me?"
"Cannot your highness accomplish the task you have im-
fn>i«d upon yourself, without incurring so much personal dan-
|<er?"
*' Surely, in order to lull suspicion in the minds of the persons
S' seek to understand, appreciate, and try, it is necessary that I
lAould adopt their garb, customs, and their language."
"But in spite of all this, last night, in that abominable street
of the City, where we went to unkennel Red Arm, in hope of
obtaining from him some particulars relative to that unhappy son
of Mme. George, the fear of irritating or disobeying your high-
ness scarcely served to hinder me from rushing to your assistance,
in your scuffle with the rascal you encountered up that cut-throat
court."
"I suppose then, Murphy, you either doubt my strength or my
courage."
"Unfortunately, you have given me a hundred causes to have
no doubt about one or the other. Thank Providence, the best mas-
tars perfected you in fencing, boxing, and French boxing with


60 MURPHY AND PRINCE RUDOLF.
the feet, wriglestick, wrestling and flash language, so as to tur«
you out fully provided for your venturesome excursions. You are
bold, have muscles of steel, and, though slight and graceful, I
should have no more chance with you than a dray-horse against
a racer; that's certain."
"Then, what are you afraid of?"
"Why, I maintain that it is not proper that your highness should
try a fall with the first blackguard you [meet. I do not say that.
because of the inconvenience it is to a gentleman with whom 1
am intimate to blacken his face with charcoal, and make himself
look like a broiled bone. Despite my age, my corpulence, and
my gravity, I would disguise myself as a rope-dancer, if, by so
doing, I could serve you. But I stick to what I said just be-
fore."
"Oh! I know all that, my old friend ; but when once an idea
does get into your thick skull—when an attachment once roots
itself in your firm and courageous heart—Old Scratch himself,
both with tooth and nail, would stand no chance to tear them
out."
"You flatter me. I suspect your highness is meditating some
"Oh, don't mince the matter"
"New folly, your highness."
"My poor Murphy, you have chosen a very unreasonable tkne
for lecturing me."
"Why?"
"I am in one of my moments of pride and happiness. I am
here
"In a place where you have done much good. I know it.
The 'Model Farm,' which you have established, to instruct,
to encourage, and to reward the honest laborers, has been of
immense service to this part of the country. Ordinary men think
but of improving the breed of cattle ; you occupy yourself in
bettering the condition of your fellowmen. This is admirable!
You placed Mme. George at the head of this establishment; no
one better. Noble-spirited woman! an angel of virtue. I am
rarely moved, but the thought of her misfortunes has brought
tears to my eyes. But your highness's new favorite ; well, we
will not say much of her."
"I cemmand you to speak!" cried Rudolf, imperiously.
"I have never given your royal highness cause to bid me hold
my tongue. I hope I shall not now be ordered to speak," replied
Murphy steadily.
"Sir Walter!" cried Rudolf, in a tone of increasing irritation.
"Your highness!"
"You know, sir, how much I dislike concealment."
"Your royal highness will excuse me, but it suits me to have
certain concealments," said Murphy, bluntly.


MURPHY AND PRINCE RUDOLF. 6l
"If I descend with familiarity with you, it is on condition, sir,
that you rise with frankness toward me."
It is impossible to describe the sovereign lordliness which
marked the countenance of Rudolf, as he pronounced these last
words.
"I am fifty years of age, I am a gentleman, and your royal
highness should not address me thus."
"Silence, I say!"
"Your royal highness does wrong in forcing a man of honoi
and feeling to remind you of the services he has rendered you,"
said the knight coolly.
"Services! have I not repaid them in every way?"
Rudolf did not attach to these bitter words a humiliating sense,
placing Murphy in the light of a mere mercenary; but such,
unfortunately, was the interpretation the latter put upon them.
Purple with shame, he lifted his clenched hands to his forehead
with an expression of pain and indignation; then, as if by a sud-
den revulsion of feeling, casting his eyes on Rudolf, whose noble
countenance was convulsed by the violence of extreme disdain,
Murphy, in a faltering voice, and stifling a sigh of the tenderest
commiseration, said, "Your royal highness should remember
THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY!"
These words produced an extraordinary effect on Rudolf. His
countenance, contracted by anger, expanded. He looked stead-
fastly at Murphy, bowed his head, and then, after a moment's
silence, murmured, in faltering accents: "Oh! sir, now you are
cruel. I had thought that my repentance—my remorse—and yet
it is you—you"
Rudolf could not conclude, his voice died away as he threw
himself on a stone bench, and buried his face in his hands.
"Your highness," said Murphy, with bitter grief, " forgive me!
Forgive your faithful old Murphy. For mercy's sake, say that
you forgive me for having called to your memory that fatal day.
Alas! what expiation have you not made''
Rudolf raised his head ; he was very pale, and said to his com-
panion, in a gentle and melancholy voice, "Enough, enough, my
old friend; I thank you for having checked this fatal transport. I
make no apologies to you for the harsh things I have said: you
know, 'it is a long way from the heart to the lips,' as good folks
at home say. I was wrong; let us speak no more of it."
"Alas! now you will be melancholy for a longtime, as if I
were not sufficiently unhappy! I wish nothing so much as to
raise your saddened spirits, yet I depress you by my silly suscept-
ibility. Zounds! what is the use of honesty and grey hairs if not
to endure even an unmerited reproach?"
"Let it rest; we were both in the wrong, my good old friend,"
said Rudolf, mildly; "let us forget it, and return to our former
conversation. You fully approved of my establishment of this
farm, and the deep interest I have taken in Mme. George. You


62 MURPHY AND PRINCE RUDOLF.
will allow, will you not, that she had merited it by her excellent
qualities, her misfortunes, even if she did not belong to the family
of Harville—a family to which my father had vowed eternal grat-
itude."
* I have always approved of the good feeling entertained for
Mme. George by your highness."
"But you are astonished at my interest for this poor lost girl,
are you not?"
"Your highness, have mercy ; I was wrong, I was wrong!"
"No; I can easily understand how appearances may have
deceived you. Nevertheless, as you know my life—all my life,
and as you second me always with as much fidelity as courage, in
my self-imposed expiation, it is part of my duty, or, if you like
the phrase better, my gratitude, to show you that I do not act
thoughtlessly."
"I am fully aware of that."
"You know my ideas on the subject of the good which a man
ought to do who unites knowledge, will, and power. To succor
those unfortunate beings who solicit you is well; to seek out those
who uncomplainingly struggle against adversity with energy and
honor, and to assist them—sometimes without their knowledge—
to prevent, in time, misery and temptation to crime, is better; to
reinstate in self-respect—to send back to honesty those who have
preserved some generous and ennobling sentiments in the midst
of the contempt that withers them, the misery that eats into them,
and the corruption that encircles them, and for the sake of doing
this, to brave in person contact with this misery, this corruption,
the infection of this moral position—this, this is the best of all!
To pursue, with untiring hatred, with implacable vengeance, vice,
infamy, and crime, whether grovelling in mud, or enthroned on
velvet, is justice; but inconsiderately to give help to merited
degradation, to prostitute charity and commiseration by bestow-
ing one's wealth and sympathy on base and unworthy wretches,
is horrible, impious, sacrilegious! Such persons act as if they
doubted the existence of God; and he who thus acts lends coun-
tenance to such a creed."
"I did not mean to assert that your highness has bestowed your
benefits unworthily."
"One word more, my old friend. You know that the child
whose death I daily lament—that daughter whom I should have
loved the more, because Lady Sarah, her unfeeling mother, had
shown herself so totally indifferent about her—would now have
been sixteen years old, like this unfortunate creature. You know,
besides, that I cannot prevent the deep and painful sympathy I
feel for girls of that age. In one hour's conversation with Fleur-
de-Marie, I discovered in her treasures of goodness, worth, pru-
dence—yes, prudence, my old friend. A smile came to my lip,
and a tear to my eye, when, in hnr simple tattle, rich in wisdom,
she proved to me that I ought to save forty sous a-day, that I


MURPHY AND PRINCE RUDOLF.
63
might be beyond want and evil temptations. Poor little one! she
said all this with an air so serious and persuasive; she evinced so
mmch delight in giving me good advice; so sweet a joy in hear-
ing me promise to follow it, that I was moved—yes, moved even
to tears. But you yourself are affected, old friend."
"Yes; that trait of persuading your highness to lay by forty
sous a-day—thinking you a workman—instead of urging you to
extravagance toward herself, indeed touches me."
"Hush! here comes Mme. George and Marie. Get everything
ready for our departure; we must be in Paris early."
Thanks to Mme. George's care, Fleur-de-Marie could hardly
have been known again. A pretty peasant's cap, and two thick
braids of light brown hair, encircled her maidenly face. An
ample kerchief of white muslin crossed her bosom, and half dis-
appeared under the high fold of a small shot taffeta apron, the
blue and red shades of which appeared to advantage over a dark
nun-like gown, which seemed to have been made for her. Her
countenance was collected and thoughtful. Certain joyous feel-
ings produce in the mind an unspeakable sadness—a holy melan-
choly. Rudolf was not surprised at the gravity of Fleur-de-
Marie; he had expected it. Had she been joyful and talkative,
he would have had a less elevated opinion of her.
In the serious and resigned features of Mme. George might be
traced the marks of longsuffering. She looked on Fleur-de-Marie
with a tenderness and compassion almost maternal ; for the grace
and sweetness of the girl were indeed affecting.
"Here is my child, who has come to thank you for your good-
ness, M. Rudolf," said Mme. George, presenting Goualeuse to
Rudolf.
Murphy turned hastily away; his pretensions to firmness would
not allow him to betray how much he had been touched by the
simple words.
Rudolf said to her: "My child, I wish to converse with Mme.
George. My friend Murphy will conduct you over the farm, and
introduce you to the acquaintance of your future pets; we will
rejoin you presently. Hallo! Murphy! Murphy! you do not
hear me?"
The worthy gentleman turned his back, and pretended to blow
his nose vehemently—making a formidable noise, replaced his
handkerchief in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyes, and turn-
ing half round, offered his arm to Marie. Murphy had managed
so skilfully that neither Rudolf nor Mme. George could see his
face. Taking the arm of the timid girl, he walked away with her
toward the farm-buildings, with such rapid strides, that, to keep
up with him, Goualeuse was obliged to run, as in the days of her
infancy she ran beside the Owl.
"Well, Mme. George," asked Rudolf, '' will Marie findatlcut
a little corner in your hear*'"


64 MURPHY AND PRINCE RUDOLF.
"Yes, I shall devote my time to her as I should be giving it to
—Aim," said Mine. George, in a voice broken with emotion.
Rudolf took her hand.
"Come, come, do not be again discouraged. If our search has
been unsuccessful hitherto, yet one day, perhaps"
Mme. George shook her head, and said bitterly: "My poor son
would be now twenty years old!"
"Say, he is that age"
"God hear you, and grant it, M. Rudolf."
"He will hear me, I fully believe. Yesterday I went (but in
vain) in search of a fellow called Red Arm, from whom I had
believed I might, perhaps, have obtained some information about
your son. Coming from the house of this Red Arm, in conse-
quence of an affray, I met with this unfortunate child"
"Alas! at least your kind endeavor in my behalf threw you in
the way of succoring another unfortunate, M. Rudolf."
"You have received no news from Rochefort?"
"None," said Mme. George, in a low voice, and shuddering.
'' So much the better! There is no longer any doubt that the
monster perished in the mud-shoals in his attempt to escape from
the gal"
Rudolf hesitated to pronounce the loathsome word.
"From the galleys! Oh, say it!—the galleys!'' cried the
wretched woman with horror, and a choking voice: "The father
of my boy! Oh! if that unhappy child still lives—if he has not,
like me, changed his name—oh, shame! what shame! Yet that
is not the worst, his father, perhaps, has carried out his horrible
threat. What has he done with my boy? Why did he tear him
from me?"
"That mystery I cannot penetrate," said Rudolf with a pensive
air. "What good could it do the wretch to carry off your son
fifteen years ago, when, as you told me, he was trying to escape
into a foreign land? A child of that age could onlv hamper his
flight."
"Alas, M. Rudolf! when my husband," (the unhappy woman
shuddered as she pronounced the word), "arrested on the fron-
tier, was brought back to Paris, and thrown into prison, where I
was permitted to visit him, he said to me these horrible words: 'I
took away your child because you love him, and because it will
be a means of compelling you to send me money, which may or
may not benefit him—but that's my concern. Whether he lives
or dies is not your affair; but if he lives he will be in good hands;
you shall drink as deeply of the shame of the son as you have of
the infamy of the father!' Alas! a month afterwards my hus-
band was condemned to penal servitude for life ; since then,
entreaties, prayers, letters, all have been in vain: I have never
been able to learn the fate of my child. Oh, M. Rudolf, where is
my son at this moment? These frightful words are continually


MURPHY AND PRINCE RUDOLF. 65
founding in my ears: 'You shall drink as deep of the shame of
the son as you have of the infamy of the father!'"
"But that is most inconceivable atrocity: why should he ruin,
why corrupt the unhappy child? and, above all, why carry him
off?"
"I have told you, M. Rudolf—in order to force me to send him
money; although he had ruined me, I had still a few resources,
which at length were also exhausted. Notwithstanding his wick-
ed ness, I could not but believe that he would employ, at least, a
portion of this money in bringing up this unhappy child,"
"And your son had no sign, no mark, by which he could be
recognized?"
"No other than that of which I have spoken to you, M. Rudolf
—a small holy-dove (St. Esprit), cut in lapis lazuli, attached to his
neck by a chain of silver: a sacred relic, blessed by the Pope."
"Come, come, courage. The Lord is almighty."
"Providence placed me in your path, M. Rudolf."
"Too late, my good Mme. George; too late. I might, perhaps,
have saved you many years of sorrow."
"Oh! M. Rudolf, you have overwhelmed me with kindness."
"I forgot to forewarn you, my dear Mme. George," said Rudolf,
as they returned to the house, "that Marie has, I fear, very weak
lungs—privation and misery have tried her health. This morning
early I was struck with the paleness of her countenance, although
her cheeks were deeply flushed ; her eyes, too, seem to me to have
a brilliancy which betokens a tendency to fever. She will require
great care."
"Rely on me, M. Rudolf, but, thank heaven, there is nothing
serious to apprehend. At her age, in the country, with pure air,
repose, and happiness, she will soon recover."
"I think so; nevertheless, I will not trust to your country doc-
tors. I will tell Murphy to bring here my medical man—a negro—
a very skilful practitioner, who will point out to you the best regi-
men to follow. You must frequently send me news of Marie. In
a little time, when she is better and more setiled, we will talk as
to her future life; perhaps it would be best that she always
remained with you, if you should approve of it."
"That would be my wish, M. Rudolf; she would supply the
place of the child whose loss I daily deplore."
"Let us hope so for ycu and for her."
When Rudolf and Mme. George approached the house, Murphy
and Marie came up to them.
"M. Rudolf," said Murphy, "the horses are ready."
"Adieu, father! adieu, my good Mme George! I commend
your child—our child I should rather say, to your care. Let us
go! farewell, Marie; I will see you soon again."
Rudolf got into the carriage, Murphy took his place by his side,
*nd the horses started at a gallop-
I


THE RENDEZVOUS.
CHAPTER XII.
THE RENDEZVOUS.
The day after he had entrusted Goualeuse to the care of Mft.e.
George, Rudolf, still attired as a workman, at noon precisely, stood
at the door of the Flower Basket tavern, situate near the barrier
of Bercy. -
On the previous evening, at ten o'clock, the Knifer had been
punctual to the appointment which ht had made with Rudolf. The
sequel of this narrative will inform our readers of the result of
this meeting. It was noon, and the rain fell in torrents; the
Seine, swollen by incessant rain falls, had risen very high, and inun-
dated a portion of the quay. Rudolf looked impatiently from
time to time toward the barrier: at length he observed a man and
woman who were advancing in the distance, under shelter of an
umbrella, whom he recognized as the Owl and the Schoolmaster.
These two persons were completely metamorphosed: the ruffian
had cast off his squalid dress, and his air of brutal ferocity. He
wore a long frock-coat of green cloth, and a round hat; whilst his
neckerchief and shirt were of snowy whiteness. Had it not been
for the hideousness of Iris features and the fierce glare of his eyes,
always restless and inflamed, this fellow by his peaceable and
steady gait, might have been taken for an honest citizen.
The one-eyed woman, also dressed in her holiday clothes, wore
a large imitation Cashmere shawl of mixed wool and silk, and
carried in her hand a capacious basket.
The rain having ceased for a moment, Rudolf overcoming dis-
gust, went to meet the frightful couple. For slang the School-
master now substituted a language almost polished, indicating a
cultivated mind, and contrasting strongly with his sanguinary
braggadocio. When Rudolf approached, the brigand made him
a low bow; the Owl curtsied respectfully.
"Sir, your humble servant," said the Schoolmaster; "my best
respects to you—I am delighted to make, or, rather, to renew out
acquaintance; for the night before last you favored me with two
blows of the fist which were enough to settle a rhinoceros. But
not a word of that now ; it was a joke on your part, I am sure—a
mere jest. Let us think no more about it, for serious business
brings us now together. At eleven o'clock yesterday I saw the
Chourineur at Mother Ponisse's, and appointed to meet him here this
morning, in case he chose to be our associate ; but it seems that
he most decidedly refuses."
«• You accept, then?"


THE RENDEZVOUS.
6;
"Your name, sir, if you please?"
"Rudolf."
"M. Rudolf, we will go into the Flower Basket—neither myself
nor the lady has breakfasted. We will talk over our little affairs
while breaking a crust.'
"Willingly."
"We can talk as we walk along. You and the Knifer, without
meaning to say anything harsh, certainly owe some recompense to
my woman and myself—you have caused us the loss of more than
two thousand francs. The Owl had an appointment near Saint
Ouen with the tall gentleman in black, who came to ask for you
the other evening at the wine-shop. He offered two thousand
francs to do something to you. The Knifer has explained all
about that. But now I come to think of it, Finetta," said the
ruffian, "go and select a room at the Basket and order breakfast
—some cutlets, a bit of veal, salad, and a couple of bottles of
first quality Beaune; we'll join you there."
The Owl, who had not taken her eye off Rudolf for an instant,
left them, after exchanging a look with the Schoolmaster:—
"As I observed, M. Rudolf," said the latter, *' the Knifer has
edified me as to the proposition about the two thousand francs."
"What do you mean by edified you?"
"You are right—the language is a little too high-flown for you.
I would say, that the Knifer nearly told me all that the tall gentle-
man in mourning, with his two thousand francs, wanted with you,'
"Well, well?"
"Not so very well, young man ; for the Chour'.neur, having
yesterday morning met the Owl, near Saint Ouen, never left her
a foot from the moment he saw the tall gentleman in mourning
come up, so that he did not venture to approach her. Therefore
you should put us in the way of regaining our two thousand
francs."
"Nothing is more easy; but let us come back to our subject. I
had proposed a glorious job to the Knifer, which he at first
accepted, but afterwards threw up."
"He always had shaky ideas."
"But while he refused, he observed me that"
"He observed to you, that"
"The devil! you ride the high horse with your grammar."
*' As a schoolmaster, it is my business."
"He gave me to understand that if he did not like to eat treacle
on his pattern (blood on his bread), that was no reason that others
should not relish it, and that you, perhaps, would lend me a
hand?"
"And may I, without rudeness, inquire why you appointed a
meeting with the Knifer, yesterday morning at Saint Ouen, which
procured him the advantage of a meeting with the Owl? He was
too much puzzled to give me a clear answer on that point."
Rudolf, after a moment's hesitation, had the good fortune to hit


68
THE RENDEZVOUS.
on a story which would plausibly account for the Knifer's want of
tact, and replied—
"Look here! The crack I'm bent on is a first chop one, because
the master of the house in question is in the country; all my fear
was lest he should return to Paris. To be sure upon that point I
went to. Pierrefitte, where his country residence is situated, and
there I learned that he would not be back until the day after to-
morrow."
"Very well. But I want an answer to my question: Why did
you ask Knifer to meet you at Saint Ouen?"
"Allow me to say, you are not very bright. How far it is from
Pierrefitte to Saint Ouen?"
"About a league."
"And from Saint Ouen to Paris?"
"About the same distance."
"Well, if I had found nobody at Pierrefitte—that is, if the
house had been deserted—I might have done good business
there: not so rich as in Paris, but still very tidy. I went back to
Saint Ouen after the Knifer, who there awaited me. We should
have then returned to Pierrefitte by a cross-road, with which I am
familiar, and"
'' I understand. If, on the other hand, the job was to be done
in Paris"
"We should gain the Barrier de l'Etoile by the La Revoke
Road, thence to the Altee des Veuves"
"Is but a step: it is clear enough. At Saint Ouen you were
well placed for either operation—that was nicely cut out. Now I
can understand why the Knifer was at Saint Ouen. We may con'
elude then that the house in the Allee des Veuves will be unin-
habited until the day after to-morrow?"
"Uninhabited—except by the porter."
"Of course. Is it a profitable job!"
"Sixty thousand francs in gold in the proprietor's study."
"ht» you acquainted with the premises?
"As well as my own pocket."
"Silence—here we are—not a word before the uninitated vul-
gar. I do not know if you feel as I do, but the morning air has
sharpened me like a meat-saw."
The Owl awaited them at the threshold of the tavern.
"This way," said she, "this way. I have ordered our break-
fast."
A servant brought the breakfast. Before he shut the door,
Rudolf saw the charcoal-man. Murphy, gravely seated at a table
in an adjoining room.
The apartment wherein the scene we are describing took place
was long, narrow, and lighted by a window which looked into the
street, and was opposite to the door. The Owl turned her back to
this window ; the Schoolmaster was one side of the table, and
Rudolf on the other.


THE RENDEZVOUS.
The servant having left the room, the ruffian rose, took his
plate, and seated himself beside Rudolf so as to be between him
and the door.
*' We can converse better," he said, "and besides, we need not
talk so loud."
"And popping yourself down 'tween me and the door, you
fancy you can prevent me from going out," replied Rudolf, coolly.
The Schoolmaster nodded assent; then half drawing from the
pocket of his coat a stiletto, round, and somewhat thicker than a
goose-quill, fitted into a wooden handle, which disappeared in the
grasp of bis hairy fingers, said, "You see that?"
"Big enough!"
"If this meets the eye—" And bringing his shaggy brows
together, by a movement which wrinkled his wide, flat forehead,
like a tiger's, he made a significant gesture.
"And you may believe me; I put the p'int on my Trojan's
toothpick," added the Owl.
Rudolf, with marvellous ease, put his hand under his blouse,
and drew out firearms, which he showed to the Schoolmaster, and
then returned to his pocket.
"Very good; we were made to understand each other; and
now I will suppose an impossibility. If they come to arrest me,
and you have or have not laid any trap for me, I'll make cold
meat of you." He glared ferociously at Rudolf.
"And I'll jump on you, and help my blade," cried the Owl.
Rudolf made no reply, but pouring out a glass of wine, drank
it off. His coolness deceived the Schoolmaster.
"I merely give you warning."
"No harm did; put your larding-pin into your pocket; you
have no chicken to lard. I am an old cock, and have sharp
spurs," said Rudolf. "Now let us talk of business.''
"Let us talk of business, but do not say a word against my
needle. It makes no noise, and is in nobody's way."
"And does its work full measure, and no frothing, doesn't it,
my beauty?" added the Owl.
"By the way," said Rudolf to the Owl, "is it true that you
know the parents of Goualeuse?"
"My man has two letters about that, but she will never see
them—the little whirligig! I would rather tear her eyes out with
my own hands. Oh? when I meet her again, I'll settle her reck-
oning."
"That's enough, Finetta ; we do nothing but talk: while busi-
ness stands still.'
"May we uncork before her?" asked Rudolf.
"With perfect confidence? She's a tried one, and will be
indispensable to us as a look-out; to get news or 'squeezes' of
keys, to fence the swag, or sell. She possesses every quality of a
first-rate housewife! Good Finetta!" added he, extending his
hand to the frightful hag; "you can have no idea of the services


70
THE RENDEZVOUS.
she has rendered me. But take off your shawl, Finetta, or you'll
be cold when you go out; put it on the chair with your maund."
The Owl took off her shawl.
Notwithstanding his presence of mind, and the self-restraint he
possessed, Rudolf could not conceal a start of surprise when he
saw suspended by a silver ring, from a thick chain of metal which
hung round the hag's neck, a small dove in lapis lazuli, corre-
sponding to the description of the one which the son of Mine.
George had round his neck at the time of his disappearance.
On this discovery, a sudden idea flashed across the mind of Ru-
dolf. According to the Knifer, the Schoolmaster escaped from the
hulks six months ago, had since eluded all search after him by
disfiguring himself; and just six months ago Mme. George's hus-
band had disappeared from the hulks, without a trace of him hav-
ing been discovered. Rudolf surmised that the Schoolmaster was
the husband of that unfortunate lady. If this were so, he knew
the fate of the son she deplored—he possessed, moreover, some
papers relative to the birth of Goualeuse. Rudolf had, therefore,
additional incitements to perseverance in his projects; and, for-
tunately, his absence of mind was not observed by the School-
master, who was occupied in serving the Owl.
'' By George! you've a stunning chain there!" said Rudolf to
the one-eyed woman.
"Pretty, and not dear," responded the hag, laughing. "It's
bogus, but it must do till my man gives me a real one."
"That will depend on present company, Finetta. If our job
with him comes off right, why, then"
*' It is astonishing how well it is imitated," pursued Rudolf.
*' And what's that little blue thing?"
"Christmas-box from my man, till he gives me a ticker. Isn't
it, my love?''
Rudolf felt his suspicions half confirmed. He anxiously waited
for the Schoolmaster's reply, which was: "Ay, but you must
take care of that notwithstanding the turnip, Finetta; it is a
charm, it brings good luck."
"A charm!" said Rudolf carelessly: "you don't believe in
charms, do you? And where the devil did you get that? Give
me the address of the seller."
"They don't make them now, my dear sir—the store is shut up.
Such as you see it, that trinket is of great antiquity—three
generations. I value it highly, for it is a kind of family tradition,"
added he, with a hideous grin; "and that's why I gave it to
Finetta, that she might have good luck in the games in which she
seconds me with such wonderful ability. You will see her at
work! You will see her! If you and I do business together,
why—but let us go back to our muttons. You say that in the
Allee des Veuves"
"There is Number 17, a house occupied by a hunks (rich
oman) those name is"


THE RENDEZVOUS.
7>
"I will not be guilty of the rudeness of asking his name. There
are, you say, sixty thousand francs in gold in a cabinet? And you
know the ins and outs of the crib?" said the Schoolmaster. "Is
the entrance difficult ?''
"A wall seven feet high on the side of the Allee des Veuves, a
garden, the windows level with it, and the house only one story."
"And only one porter to guard the treasure ? "—— "That's
all."
"What is your plan of action, young man?'
"A very simple one: climb over the wall, and either pick the
door-lock, or force open a shutter. That'll do, won't it?
"I cannot answer before I have examined it all myself—that is,
with the help of my woman: but if all you tell me is correct, it ap-
pears to me that we must strike the iron while hot, to-night?"
He looked earnestly at Rudolf.
"This evening!—impossible !" replied he.
"Why, if the proprietor does not return until the day after to-
morrow?"
"Yes, but I—can't go this evening"
"Really? Well, I can'tgo to-morrow."
"Why?"
"For the reason that prevents you this evening," said the ruf-
fian with a chuckle.
After a moment's reflection, Rudolf resumed:
"Well, be it this evening. Where shall we meet?"
"What's the use of separating? The weather has cleared up;
we will take a walk together, and just give a look at the Allee des
Veuves; you will see how my woman knows her trade. That
done, we will return and play a hand at crib ; and have a bit to
eat in a place that I know, close by the river; and as the Allee is
deserted early, we will jog that way about ten o'clock."
"I will join you at nine."
"Do you wish us to do business together, or not?"
"I do wish it."
"Very well; then we do not seperate before evening, other-
wise I shall believe that you've got something cooking for me,
and that's why you wish to go now."
"If I wanted to whistle the traps down on you, what's to pre-
vent me from doing so this evening?"
"Everything. You did not expect me to propose the affair to
you so sudden, and if you do not leave us you can't put anybody
on the scent."
"You suspect me, then?"
"I should say I do. But as what you have told me may be
true, and as the half of sixty thousand francs is worth going after,
I am willing to have a shy at it; but it must be this evening, or
never. If it is to be never, I shall know what to think of you, and
one day or other I will take care and treat you to a dish of my
own cooking."


72
THE RENDEZVOUS.
"And I will return your compliment, depend upon it."
"Oh, this is all rubbish !" said the Owl. "I agree with my
bully; to-night, or not at all."
Rudolf was in a state of cruel anxiety ; if he suffered this op-
portunity to escape of laying hands on the Schoolmaster, he might
never again meet with him. The ruffian, ever afterwards on his
guard, or, if recognized, apprehended, and taken back to the
hulks, would carry with him those secrets which Rudolf had so
much interest in knowing. Trusting to chance, and his own skill
and courage, he said to the Schoolmaster—
"Agreed! We will not hook it before dark."
"Then I am your man. But it will soon be two o'clock; it is a
long way from this to the Allee—blowed if it ain't raining in torrents
—let us pay the bill and take a cab."
"If we have a coach, I should like to smoke first."
"Light up!" said the Schoolmaster. "Finetta does not mind
the smell of tobacco.''
"Well, then, I'll go and get some cigars," said Rudolf rising.
"Pray, don't give yourself that trouble," said the Schoolmaster,
stopping him: "Finetta will go."
Rudolf resumed his seat. The Schoolmaster had penetrated his
design. The Owl went out.
"What a good manager I have there!" said the ruffian; "and
so willing, she would go through fire for me."
"Talking of fire, it is none too hot here," replied Rudolf, plac-
ing both his hands under his blouse. And then, continuing the
conversation with the Schoolmaster, he took out a lead pencil and
a slip of paper, which he had in his waistcoat pocket, without be-
ing perceived, and traced some words hastily, taking care to write
the letters wide apart, so that they might be more legible; for he
wrote under his blouse, and without seeing the paper.
This note escaped the penetration of the Schoolmaster. But how
should he send it to its destination?
Rudolf rose and went carelessly toward the window; then be-
gan to hum a tune between his teeth, accompanying himself on
the window-panes.
The Schoolmaster came up to the window and said to Rudolf—
"What air are you humming?"
"I am playing, ' You shall not have my rose!"'
"A very pretty tune; I merely wished to see if you would have
the effect of inducing any of the passers-by to turn round?"
"I have no such design."
"You are wrong, young man; for you play the tambourine on
that pane of glass like a regular nigger minstrel. But I was think-
ing the janitor of this house in the Allee is perhaps a determined
fellow ; if he resists, you have only your barker, which is noisy,
while a tool like this (and he showed Rudolf the handle of his
poniard) makes no racket, and does not disturb anybody."
"Do you intend to assassinate him, then?" exclaimed Rudolf,


PREPARATIONS.
71
"If you have any such idea, let us give up the job at once; I will
have no hand in hanging-jobs—so don't rely on me"
"But if he awakes?"
We'll hook it."
*' As you will; only I like to settle these things beforehand,
to prevent confusion. So then ours will be a ' white crack.'"
"Nothing more."
"Young-man-from-the-country work; but you shall have your
own way."
"And as I shall not leave you for a second," thought Rudolf.
'I will prevent you from spilling blood."
CHAPTER XIII.
PREPARATIONS.
The Owl re-entered the apartment with the cigars.
"It seems to have left off raining," said Rudolf, lighting his
cigar. *' Suppose we go see after the coach ourselves—it will
stretch our legs."
"What! left off raining!" replied the Schoolmaster: "are you
blind? Do you think I will expose Finetta to the risk of catching
cold ; endanger her precious life, and spoil her new shawl?"
"You are right, old boy ; the weather is not fit for a dog.
Well, call the waiter; we will pay, and ask him to call a jarvey,"
replied Rudolf.
"Ay, ay, now you speak like a book, young fellow. We may
go and take a peep about the Allee des Veuves."
The servant entered, and Rudolf gave him a five-franc piece.
*'Oh, you are too free—I cannot suffer it," exclaimed the
Schoolmaster.
"Nonsense! you stand next."
"Well, well, I'll ride by, on the condition that I pay for some-
thing presently, in a little * bung' in the Champs Elysees, that I
know of—a capital shop."
*' That will do—we shan't differ."
The servant paid, they went downstairs; Rudolf wished to go
last, out of politeness to the Owl; the Schoolmaster would not
allow it, but kept close to him and closely watched all his move-
ments.
The keeper of the house also dealt in wine. Amongst the numer-
ous customers, a charcoal-man, with his face blackened, and his
broad hat flapping over his eyes, was paying his reckoning at the
counter when our three characters appeared. In spite of the
watchfulness of the Schoolmaster and the one-eyed woman,
Rudolf, who walked before the hideous pair, exchanged a rapid
a"d imperceptible (jbuj££ with MurDhv as he eot int&tb* coacb_


74
PRE PARA TIONS.
"Which way, master? " asked the driver.
Rudolf began in a loud voice: *' Allee des"
'' Des Acacias, Boisde Boulogne," broke in the Schoolmaster,
interrupting him. Then he added, "Won't quarrel about the
fares."
The door was shut.
"What the devil made you blab out which way we were going
before those gaping fools? " said the Schoolmaster. "If the affair
should be found out to-morrow, such an indication might ruin us.
Young man—young man, you are very soft."
The coach went on, as Rudolf answered, "That is true; I did
not think of that. But with my cabbage-leaf I shall smoke you
like bloats; suppose I open a window?"
Suiting the action to the word, Rudolf, with much dexterity,
dropped outside the window the small piece of paper, folded very
small, on which he had, under his blouse, hastily scribbled the
few words in pencil. The glance of the Schoolmaster was so quick
that, in spite of the calmness of Rudolf s features the ruffian doubt-
less detected some sudden expression of triumph, for putting his
head out the window, he called out to the driver, "Cut behind!
there is some one behind your coach!"
The coach stopped, and the driver standing up on his seat
looked back, and said, "No, master, there's nobody."
"That's your sort, but I'll make sure of that," replied the School-
master, jumping into the street.
Not seeing any person or anything—for, since Rudolf had drop-
ped the paper from the door, the coach had proceeded several
paces—the Schoolmaster thought he was mistaken.
"You will only laugh at me," said he, as he resumed his seat.
'' I don't know why, but I could have sworn some one was follow-
ing us."
The coach at this moment turned into a cross street. Murphy,
who had not lost sight of it, and who had seen Rudolfs postal
delivery, ran and picked up the little note, hidden in a fissure
between two paving stones.
At the end of about a quarter of an hour, the Schoolmaster
said to the driver of the vehicle, "Nay, my man; we have
changed our minds: drive to the Place de la Madelaine."
Rudolf looked at him with astonishment.
"To be sure, young man ; from that spot we may go to a thou-
sand different places. If any bother is made about us hereafter,
the coachee's evidence won't wash."
The moment the coach approached the barrier, a tall man,
dressed in a long drab riding-coat, with his hat drawn over his
countenance, appearing of a deep brown, passed rapidly along
the road, bending over the neck of a good-looking hunter, trotting
lit an extraordinary rate.
"Like rider, like horse!" said Rudolf, leaning toward the


PREPARATIONS.
75
coach-door, and looking after Murphy (for it was he). "What a
pace that chap with the corporation goes! Did you see him?"
'' Faith, he passed so quickly," said the Schoolmaster, " that I
did not notice him."
Rudolf perfectly concealed his satisfaction. Murphy had,
doubtless, deciphered the almost hieroglyphic characters of the
note which had escaped the vigilance of the Schoolmaster. Cer-
tain that the coach was not followed, the latter became easy, and
imitated the Owl, who slept, or rather pretended to sleep.
The coach stopped on the Place de la Madelaine. The shower
had ceased for a moment, but the clouds, driven by the violence
of the wind, were so black and so low, that it was almost as dark
as night. Rudolf, the Owl, and the Schoolmaster, went toward
the Cours la Reine.
"Young man, I have an idea, and not a bad one," said the
ruffian.
"What is it?"
"To make myself certain, if all you have said respecting the
interior of the house in the Alle'e des Veuves is correct."
"You surely will not go there now, under any pretext? that
would awaken suspicion."
"I am not such a flat as that comes to, Young'un ; but why
have I a woman whose name is Finetta?"
The Owl tossed her head proudly.
"Young man! Why, she looks like a soger's horse when he
hears the trumpet sounding the charge!"
"You'll send her as spy ?"——'* That's about it."
"Number 17, Allee des Veuves, isn't it, my man?" cried the
Owl, impatiently. "Be easy; I have but one ogle, but that's a
centre bit."
"Do you see, young man—do you see ?—she burns already to
be at it."
"If she manages to get in cleverly, your idea is not a bad
one."
"Take care of the lamp, my blade; in half-an-hour I will be
here again, and you shall see what I can do," said the Owl.
"One moment, Finetta; we are going down to the Bleeding
Heart—only two steps off. If little Crooky is there, you can take
him with you: he can stop outside and watch the door whilst you
go in."
"You are right; Crooky (Tortillard) is as cunning as a fox;
not ten years old, and yet it was he who, the other day"
A sign from the Schoolmaster interrupted the speaker.
"What's the Bleeding Heart ?—an odd sign for a wine-shop,"
asked Rudolf.
'' You had better complain to the landlord."
*' What is his name?"
"Call him what you will—he'll come to any. But here we are,


76 THE BLEEDING HEART TAVERN.
and, in good time too, for the water-works are turned on again-
Hark, how the river roars!"
"You said that we had reached the place: where the devil is
the ken? I do not see any house here."
"Certainly not, if you only look round you. There ; don't you
see the roof? Take care you don't step upon it."
Rudolf had not, in fact, remarked one of those subterranean
drinkers' resorts, which used to be seen in the Champs Elysees,
near the Cours la Reine.
A flight of steps, cut in the damp and greasy ground, led to the
bottom of a sort of deep ditch, at one end of which, cut perpen-
dicularly, stood a low, mean, dilapidated hovel. Its roof, covered
with mossy tiles, scarcely rose above the step on which Rudolf
was standing; two or three huts, built of worm-eaten planks,
serving as a cellar, wood-house, and rabbit-hutches, formed fitting
appurtenances to this wretched dive.
A narrow alley, traversing the entire length of this ditch, led
from the stairs to the door of the hovel; the rest of the ground
was hid under a mass of trellis-work, under the shelter of which
were ranged two rows of clumsy tables, fastened to the ground.
The wind caused a worn-out sign to grate harshly as it swung on
its creaking hinges, and through the dirt that covered it might be
distinguished a Red Heart pierced with an Arrow. The sign was
suspended on a post erected above the cave—this perfect human
kennel.
A thick, damp fog was added to the rain as night approached.
"What say you to this noble hotel, young man?" asked the
Schoolmaster.
"Thanks to the torrents that have fallen for the last fortnight,
it must be jolly cool. Go on!"
"Stay a moment—I wish to know if our host is at home. Lis-
ten!"
The ruffian, thrusting his tongue forcibly against his palate, pro-
duced a singular noise. A similar cry arose from the depths of
the hovel.
"He's at home," said the Schoolmaster. "Pardon me, young
man—the ladies lead off—allow the Owl to pass first: I will fol-
low you. Take care you don't fall, 'tis rather slippery."
CHAPTER XIV.
THE BLEEDING HEART TAVERN.
The host of the Bleeding Heart, after having replied to the
signal of the Schoolmaster, advanced civilly to the threshold of
the door.
This personage, whorr Rudolf had been to search for in the


THE BLEEDING HEART TAVERN. 7;
City, and whom he did not yet recognize by his name, or, rather,
his ordinary surname, was Red Arm.
Lank, mean-looking, and debilitated, this man might be about
fifty years of age. His countenance bore a resemblance both to
the weasel and the rat ; his sharp nose, his receding chin, his high
cheek bones, his small, keen, and piercing black eyes, gave his
features an inimitable expression of acuteness, trickery, and cun-
ning. An old flaxen wig, or rather, of the yellow tint of his bil-
ious complexion, perched on the top of his head, showed the nape
of his scraggy neck. He wore a round jacket, and one of those
long black aprons commonly used by waiters at wine-shops.
Our trio had scarcely descended the last step of the staircase,
when a child not more than ten years of age, ricketty, lame, and
somewhat distorted, came to join Red Arm, whom he so strikingly
resembled, that it was impossible not to recognize him as his son.
There was the same piercing and cunning look, joined to that
impudent, hardened, and Tcnavish air, which is peculiar to the
scamp of Paris. Chestnut-colored trousers and a gray blouse,
fastened by a leather belt, completed Crooky's costume, thus
named on account of his infirmity. He stood close to his father,
balanced on his sound leg, like a heron on the side of a swamp.
'* There's the little darling !" said the Schoolmaster. "Finetta,
night is coming on, and time presses; we must profit by the day-
light that remains."
"You are right, my man: I will ask the father to spare the
kid."
"Good-day, old friend," said Red Arm, addressing the School-
master, in a sharp, squeaking voice, " What can I do for you?"
"We want you to lend your little 'un to my woman for a
quarter of an hour; she has lost something close by, and he could
help her to look for it."
Red Arm winked, made a sign of intelligence to the School-
master, and then said to his son—" Crooky, toddle off with the
lady."
The hideous child ran, or rather hopped forward, and took hold
of the one-eyed woman's hand.
"You duck of a boy! There is a child !" said Finetta. "He
comes to me at once !—not like the Fawning Kid, who always
seemed to have a stitch in her side when she came near me—the
little beggar!"
"Come, be off with you, Finetta! Mind your eye and culti-
vate the plant; I will wait for you here."
"I won't keep you long. Go on first, Tortillard."
The one-eyed hag and the little cripple began to ascend the
slippery steps.
"Finetta, take the umbrella," cried the ruffian.
'' It'ud be in my way, my man," said the old woman; and she
quickly disappeared with Crooky in the fog, which thickened with
toe twilight, while the hollow murmur of the wind moaned through


78 THE BLEEDING HEART TAVERN.
the thick and leafless branches of the giant elms of the Champs
Elysees.
"Let us go in," said Rudolf.
He was obliged to stoop in passing in at the door of the rookery,
which was divided into two apartments. In the one were a
counter and a broken-down billiard table : in the other, tables and
garden-chairs, which had once been painted green. Two narrow
casements, with cracked panes, thickly covered with cobwebs,
admitted a feeble light into these rooms, the walls of which were
green with mould, and crumbling with damp.
Rudolf was alone for a minute only. Red Arm and the School-
master during that time exchanged some words, rapidly uttered,
and some mysterious signs.
It now became so dark in this den, that it was impossible to see
in one of the angles of this inner apartment the open mouth of one
of those cellars which are entered by a double-flapped trap-door,
kept open for the convenience of serving. The table at which the
Schoolmaster sat was close upon this dark and deep hole, to which
he turned his back, so that it was entirely concealed from Rudolf's
view.
The latter was looking through the window to command his
countenance and conceal the workings of his thoughts. The
sight of Murphy galloping at full speed through the Allee did not
wholly assure him; he feared that the worthy gentleman had not
quite understood the full meaning of his note, necessarily so
laconic, and which contained these words only :—" To-night—ten.
Be on your guard."
Determined not to go to the Allee before that moment, or to
lose sight of the Schoolmaster till that time, he feared, neverthe-
less, to lose this, the only opportunity that it might ever be afforded
him of mastering those secrets which he took so deep an interest
in discovering. Although powerful and well-armed, he yet found
it necessary to resort to cunning to deal with an unscrupulous
assassin, capable of anything. Unwilling, however, that his
thoughts should be suspected, he seated himself at the table with
the Schoolmaster, and called for a glass to keep him company.
Red Arm, after a few words, in a low tone, with the ruffian,
looked at Rudolf with an air of curiosity, weariness, and sarcasm.
"I am of opinion, young man," said the Schoolmaster, " that
if my blowen finds the persons at home whom we want to see,
we had better make our call upon them about eight o'clock."
"Too early by two hours," said Rudolf, "and will displease
them."
"Nonsense! Friends should not stand upon ceremony."
"I know them well: and I repeat that we ought not to go before
ten."
"Ten be hanged, Mr. Obstinate."
'' I have given you my opinion, and the devil burn me if I stir
from here before ten."


THE BLEEDING HEART TAVERN.
"Don't put yourself out of the way—I never close my establish-
ment before midnight," said Red Arm, in his squeaking voice:
"that's the time my best customers come; and my neighbors
never complain of the noise made in my house."
"I suppose I must give way to you, young man," replied the
Schoolmaster. '' Let it be so: we will set out upon our visit at ten
o'clock."
"Here is the Owl!" said Red Arm, hearing and replying to a
warning cry similar to that uttered by the Schoolmaster before he
descended to the subterraneous abode.
A minute afterwards the Owl entered the billiard-room alone.
"It's all right, my man—safe as in your pocket! " cried the
one-eyed woman as she came in.
Red Arm directly withdrew, without making any inquiry about
Crooky whom probably he did not expect to see again for the
present. The hag sat down opposite Rudolf and the brigand.
"Well?" said the Schoolmaster.
"I went straight to No. 17, leaving Tortillard in a ditch ao a
watch. It was still daylight. I rung at a little half-door- hinges
out—you can get two fingers between the bottom and the thresh-
old—nothing worth notice. I rang; the porter opened. Before I
rang, I thrust my cap into my pocket, that I might look like a
neighbor. As soon as I saw the porter, I began to blubber with
all my might, pretending that I had lost my parrot, Cocotte—a
little creature that I adored. I said that I lived in the Avenue
Marbceuf, and had pursued Cocotte from garden to garden. I
entreated him to allow me to enter, to seek for my bird."
"It was very neat," said Rudolf; "but what then?"
"The porter gave me leave to look for my bird, and I went
trotting about the garden, calling 'Cocotte!' looking up in the
air and about me in every direction to see what was to be seen.
Inside the walls," resumed the old woman, continuing her descrip-
tion of the place—" inside the walls trellis-work all round—a reg-
ular staircase; at the corner of the wall, to the left, a tall fir-tree,
werry picture of a ladder—a woman in the family-way could
descend by it. The house has six windows on the ground-floor;
there is no other story—and there are four air-holes to the cellar
without gratings. The windows of the ground-floor close with
shutters, and have hooks below, and bolts and staples in the upper
part: press in the bottom, give a twist to your wire"
"A push," said the Schoolmaster, "and she's open."
The Owl continued: "The entrance-door is glazed, with two
Venetian blinds outside. To the left, near the court-yard, is a
well: the rope might be of service, as at that part there is no
trellis-work against the wall, in case a mizzle should be cut off in
the direction of the door. On entering the house"
"You entered the house? She got into the house, young
man!" said the Schoolmaster, exultingly.
"Certainly, I got in! Not finding Cocotte, I had sobbed and


8o THE BLEEDING HEART TAVERN.
cried so much, that I pretended to be almost choking; I begged
the porter to allow me to sit down on the doorstep; the good fel-
low asked me in, and offered me a glass of wine and water. 'A
glass of water,' I said; 'plain water only, my good sir.' Then he
made me go into the ante-chamber, carpeted all over—excellent
precaution! neither footsteps nor the fall of glass can be heard, if
we must star the glaze, to the right and left are doors with bolts,
which will open with breathing upon. At the end of the room
was a strong door; locked—looked very much like a strong box;
it smells of money. I had my wax in my basket"
"She had her wax, young man! mark! she never travels with-
out her wax!" said the ruffian.
"It was necessary for me to approach the door which smelt so
strongly of money. I pretended to be suddenly seized with a dread-
ful fit of coughing—so violent, that I was compelled to lean
against the Wall. On hearing me bark the porter said, ' I'll go
and get you a lump of sugar to put in the water.' Most likely he
.joked for a spoon, for I heard the chink of plate—plate in the
room on the right hand; don't forget that, my blade. Well, still
coughing and groaning, I reached the door at the further end of
the room, I had my wax in the palm of my hand. I leaned
against the lock, as if by accident, and as though I had nothing
in my hand, and here is the squeeze; if it is of no use to-day, it
may be at some other time."
She gave the ruffian a small piece of yellow wax, on which the
form of the keyhole was perfectly impressed.
"Perhaps you can tell us whether this is really the door of the
strong-box?" said the Owl.
"It is; and there is the money," replied Rudolf. Then he
added, to himself, "So Murphy has been the dupe of this miser-
able old wretch! It may be so; he will not expect to be attacked
before ten o'clock; by that time he will have taken the neces-
sary steps."
"But all the money is not there," continued the Owl, her one
green eye sparkling with triumph. "As I approached the win-
dows, still looking for Cocotte, I saw in one of the rooms to the left
of the door, some bags of crown pieces on a chest of drawers. I
saw them as plainly as I see you, my man; and there were at
least a dozen of them."
"Where is Crook?" inquired the Schoolmaster, suddenly.
'' Still in his hole, not more than two paces from the garden-
gate. He can see in the dark like a mole. There is no other
entrance to No. 17, and when we go he will tell us if any one has
been."
"That's good"
Scarcely had the Schoolmaster uttered these words than he
threw himself suddenly upon Rudolf, seized him by the throat,
and threw him violently down into the cellar, vawnine behind the
table.


THE CAVERN.
8l
The Ow/, alarmed, uttered a piercing cry; for, at the first, she
had not perceived the result of this mementary struggle. When
the noise of Rudolf's body falling down the steps had ceased, the
Schoolmaster, who knew perfectly all the under-ground secrets of
the place, descended slowly into the cavern, listening attentively
as he went.
*' My blade, be on your guard !" cried the one-eyed woman,
leaning over the opening of the trap;—knife him!"
The ruffian disappeared without replying. For a time, nothing
was heard; but after a few moments the distant noise of a door,
which creaked on its rusty hinges, rose dismally from the depths
of the cavern; then all was silent again. The darkness was
impenetrable. The Owl fumbled in her basket, struck a match,
and lighted a small candle, which shed a feeble ray through the
dreary place.
At this moment the horrid countenance of the Schoolmaster
appeared at the opening of the trap. The Owl could not repress
a cry of terror at the sight of that ghastly, seamed, mutilated, and -,;
terrible visage, with eyes that gleamed like phosphorus, and
appeared to glare on the ground in the midst of the darkness
which the feeble taper scarcely dissipated. Recovering her self-
possession, the old wretch exclaimed in a tone of fiendish flattery:
—"You must be frightful, indeed, my love, for you actually
frightened me—yes, me!"
"Quick, quick, to the Alle*e!" said the ruffian, securely clos-
ing the two flaps of the door with a bar of iron. "Perhaps in
another hour it may be too late. If it is a trap, it is not yet set;
if it is not, why, there won't be too many in the job."
CHAPTER XV.
THE CAVERN.
In about an hour Rudolf began gradually to recover his senses.
He was extended on the ground, in thick darkness; he stretched
out his arms, and touched some stone steps. Feeling something
cold at his feet, he put down his hand, and discovered a pool of
water.
By a violent effort he succeeded in seating himself upon the
lowermost step. His confusion slowly passed away, art* he moved
in several directions. Happily none of his limbs were broken.
He listened, but could hear nothing, except a dull, feeble, and
continuous gurgling. At first he did not suspect the cause of this.
As his thoughts became clearer, the circumstances of the surprise
of which he had been the victim, returned to his mind. He was
fast recovering the clear use of his faculties, when he felt his feet
agalr wet. He stooped down: the water was above his ankle.


82
THE CAVERN.
And amidst the mournful silence which surrounded him, still was
heard that low, faint, but continued gurgling! Now he under-
stood its cause :—the waters were rising in the cavern! The
Seine was unusually swollen, and this horrid place was below the
river's level. Rudolf was reanimated by this threatening peril:
quick as thought he rushed up the humid stairs. He reached the
top; he dashed himself against the door. In vain—it remained
unshaken in its jambs!
In this desperate situation his first fear was for Murphy. '' If he
is not on his guard, that monster will assassinate him," thought
Rudolf; "and it is to me he will owe his destruction! Poor Mur-
phy!" This agonizing reflection maddened Rudolf; fixing him-
self firmly on his feet, and contracting his shoulders, he exhausted
himself in fruitless efforts to force the door—he could not even
slightly shake it! Hoping to find something in the cellar which
might serve as a lever, he descended the steps. On the lower
stair two or three round elastic bodies rolled from under his feet:
they were rats, which the rushing waters had driven from their
holes. He crossed the cavern, groping carefully, but found noth-
ing; the water was mid-leg deep! He slowly re-ascended the
stairs in dark, deep, and utter despair. He counted the steps;
there were thirteen, and three already under water.
Thirteen! A fatal number! There are positions when the
firmest minds are not proof against superstitious ideas; in this
number Rudolf fancied an evil omen. The probable fate of Mur-
phy recurred to him. He sought in vain for some opening between
the ground and the door; the humidity had swelled the wood,
and it was hermetically joined to the clayey soil.
The death which threatened him was slow, silent, frightful. He
recollected his pistol: at the risk of mutilating himself, by firing
it pointblank in such a manner as to shatter the lock of the door,
he hoped to be able to force it. He felt for the weapon but found
it not: it had fallen from his pocket in his struggle with the School-
master.
Untroubled by his fears on Murphy's account, Rudolf would
have awaited death with comparative serenity. If he had done
evil deeds, he had also done good, and he would fain have con-
tinued to do so—God knew it! Far from murmuring against his
fate, he only saw in that destiny the just punishment of a crime
not yet expatiated.
A new horror now came to try his resignation. The rats,
chased by the waters, had taken refuge from step to step, cut off
from any outlet by which to escape. Unable to climb the door or
the perpendicular walls, they swarmed on the garments of Rudolf.
His horror and disgust were unspeakable, as he felt their cold,
clammy paws, and wet, hairy bodies clinging to his person. He
endeavored to beat them off; cold, sharp bites bathed his hands
in blood. Again he raised his voice in wild shouts of agony; the
dull echo of the vault and the gurgling waters alone replied. A


THE SICK-NURSE.
83
few short moments, and he would be bereft of power to call; the
water had reached his throat, and ere long would gush in at his
lips!
The pent-up air of that narrow place now began to fail; the
first symptoms of asphyxia assailed Rudolf—the arteries of his
temples beat violently, his brain swam—he was at the point of
death. Already the waters bubbled in at his ears; he fancied
that he was whirled round and round: the last spark of conscious-
ness was wellnigh extinct, when hasty steps and the sound of voices
were heard near the door of the vault.
Hope reanimated his expiring faculties; in that morbid tension
of the soul, he drank in these words, the last he heard and under-
stood: "Don't you see now," asked one voice, "that there is no
one here?"
"I've got to give in ; that is true," said the voice of the Knifer,
in a tone of disappointment. The sound of footsteps died away!
Rudolf, unnerved, could bear no more; he sunk to the ground,
and slipped helplessly down the steps.
Suddenly the door of the cellar was burst violently in from with-
out; the water contained in the subterraneous dungeon rushed
out as on the opening of a sluice; and the Knifer (whose oppor-
tune return shall be accounted for by-and-bye) seized the arms of
Rudolf, who, half drowned, was still convulsively grasping the
threshold of the door.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE SICK-NORSE.
Snatched by the Knifer from inevitable death, and removed
to the house in the Allee des Veuves, reconnoitred by the Owl
previous to the attempt on it by the Schoolmaster, Rudolf is in
bed, in a comfortably furnished room. A large fire crackles on
the hearth; a lamp, placed on a table, sheds a strong, clear light
through the apartment; while the couch, surrounded by thick
curtains of green damask, remains in shade.
A negro of middling stature, with white hair and eyebrows,
wearing an orange and green riband at the button-hole of his blue
coat, seated by the bedside, holds in his left hand a seconds'
watch, which he appears to consult while counting with his right
hand the beating of Rudolfs pulse. The negro, with a sad and
pensive countenance, continues to watch the sleeper with an ex-
pression of the most tender solicitude.
The Knifer, clothed in rags, and caked with mud, his arms
hanging listlessly down, and his hands crossed, stands at the foot
of the bed; his red beard is long; his thick flaxen hair is matted
with mud, and dripping wet; while his hard, bronzed features


84
THE SICK-NURSE.
express the deepest commiseration for the patient. He breathes
with constraint, scarcely daring to inflate his ample chest, for fear
the noise should disturb the invalid. Uneasy at the meditative
attitude of the black doctor, and fearing an unfavorable progno-
sis, he hazards, in a low whisper, this philosophic reflection, as he
gazes upon Rudolf: "Who would suppose now, seeing him lie
there so helpless, he could ever have given me that drubbing?
He will soon get his strength again though, don't you think so,
Mr. Doctor? On my word, I would not mind his beating the
news of his recovery upon my back, if that would do him any
good—how is he, doctor?"
The negro answers with a slight wave of the hand; the Knifer
is silent.
"The draught!" said the doctor.
The Knifer, who had respectfully left his iron-bound shoes at
the door, went toward the chest of drawers, walking on tiptoes as
lightly as possible; but with such drawing up of legs, extension of
arms, and swelling out of back and shoulders, as would have been
exceedingly diverting under other circumstances. The poor fel-
low seemed endeavoring to collect his whole weight in that part
of his body which did not touch the floor; but with all this care,
and in spite of the carpet, the room trembled beneath his ponder
ous person. Unfortunately, what with ardor to acquit himseH
handsomely, and his fear of dropping the delicate phial he wa $
bringing so over-carefully, he squeezed the slight neck so tightly
in his huge hand, that he crushed it to atoms, and the preciout
liquid was spilled on the carpet.
At the sight of this misfortune, the Knifer remained in mute
astonishment, one of his huge legs in the air, his toes nervously
contracted, and looking confusedly, first at the doctor, and then
at the fragments of the bottle, which still remained in his hand.
"Clumsy devil!" exclaimed the negro, impatiently.
"Thundering muff that I am!" added the Knifer, apostrophiz-
ing himself.
"Oh!" cried the Esculapius, as he looked at the table, "happily
you took the wrong one, it is the other phial I want."
"That little red bloke?" whisperingly inquired the clumsy
sick-nurse.
"Certainly—there is but that."
The Knifer, turning quickly round upon his heels, after his old
military fashion, crushed the fragments of glass; feet more deli-
cate would have been cruelly cut, but the lighterman had a pair
of natural sandals, hard as the hoof of a horse.
"Take care! you will cut yourself,'' cried the physician.
The Knifer paid no attention to this recommendation. Wholly
absorbed in discharging his new mission in a manner that would
efface all recollection of his former clumsiness, it can hardly be
imagined with what scrupulous delicacy and lightness of touch,
spreading out his huge fingers, he this time secured the fragile


THE SICK-NURSE.
85
crystal A butterfly would not have left an atom of the golden
dust or its wings between his thumb and forefinger. The black
doctor trembled lest some new accident should arise from this
excess of caution; but,- happily, the potion safely reached its des-
tination.
"A small sjd)on," said the doctor.
The Knifer re-commenced his sylphidian evolutions, and
brought the auide requested by the physician. After a few
spoonsful of the mixture, Rudolf stirred, and feebly moved his
hands.
"Good ! good! h<ts recovering from his swoon," said the doctor
to himself. *' Thj. bleeding has relieved him : he is out of dan-
ger."
"Saved! Bravo! That's your sort !" exclaimed the Knifer,
in the explosion of his joy.
"Hold your tongue, and be quiet!" said the negro. "You dis-
turb me, fidgetting r6.*md me—you distract my attention. Sit
down and be quiet."
"Mr. Doctor, I am 3s dirty as a raft of wood just landed. I
should spoil the furniture.''
"Then sit down on the ground.'-
"I should dirty the carpet."
"Do what you like, but for Heaven's sake, be quiet!" said the
doctor, impatiently; then, throwing himself in an arm-chair, he
leaned his head upon his ha^ds.
After a moment of profound cogitation, the Knifer, less from
any need tor rest than the wish to obey the doctor's orders, took a
chair with the greatest precaution, turned it over with an air of
perfect self-satisfaction, and laid the back upon the carpet, with
the commendable intention of seating himself modestly and
properly upon the front bars, thu;, avoiding all risk of soiling the
seat; this he effected after all sorts of delicate contrivances. Un-
fortunately, he was by no means well informed on the laws of the
lever and the equilibrium of bodies—the chair overbalanced—the
luckless fellow made an involuntary movement with his arms
before him, and capsized a table which bore a tray and a set of
tea-things.
At the terrific noise caused by this disaster, the doctor sprang
from his seat; while Rudolf, waking with a start, raised himself
on his elbow, looked anxiously about him, recovered his ideas,
and exclaimed—
'' Murphy! where is Murphy?"
"Your royal highness may rest assured," answered the negro,
respectfully, "there is every hope of his recovery."
"He is wounded ?" cried Rudolf.
"Alas! yes, your highness."
"Where is he? I wish to see him!" Rudolf endeavored ta
rise, but fell back again, overcome by the pain of his contusions,


86
THE SICK-NURSE.
which were now stiffervtig. "Carry me this instant to Murphy,
since I cannot walk !" he exclaimed.
"Your highness, he sleeps: it would be dangerous, as yet, to
expose him to the slightest cause for emotion."
"You say that but to prepare me for worst things : he is, doubt-
less, in a dangerous state."
"Once more, I solemnly affirm to your highness, that, unless
something quite out of the usual course should occur, Murphy
ought to be soon well."
"But how has all this happened?" said Rudolf, interrupting
the negro. "Who dragged me from that dreadful cavern where
I seemed already drowned? I have a confused recollection of
having heard the Knifer's voice : was I mistaken?"
"No, no; that brave man can inform you of every circum-
stance, for 'tis he alone who did it all. Here he is," said the
doctor, "he seems rather bashful."
"Let us see you ; come forward, my brave fellow !" said Ru-
dolf, extending his hand to his preserver.
The Knifer's confusion was heightened by his having heard the
negro doctor address Rudolf as " your royal highness," in sev-
eral of his replies.
"Come here, and give me your hand," said Rudolf.
"Pardon me, sir—I should say, my lord—highness—but"
*' Call me M. Rudolf, as hitherto; I prefer that."
"And so do I—it bothers me less. Be so good as to excuse
my hand; I've done so much work lately, though"
"Your hand, I say!" Overcome by this perseverance, the
Knifer timidly extended his black and horny hand. Rudolf
pressed it cordially.
"Come now, sit down, and tell me all about it. How did you
discover the cavern? But I think I can guess—the School-
master?"
"He is here secured," said the negro doctor.
"Corded together like two plugs of tobacco—he and the Owl.
Considering the figure they must needs cut if they look at one
another, I should say they must dislike the partnership pretty con-
siderably by this time!"
"And my poor Murphy! I as yet am thinking only of myself!
Where is he wounded, David?"
"In the right side; but, fortunately- near the lowermost false
rib."
"Oh! I must have a terrible revenge! David, I rely upon
you."
"My lord knows that I am his, body and soul," replied the
negro, coldly.
"But how did you get here in time, my brave fellow? " said
Rudolf to the Knifer.
"If you please, my lor—sir—highness—Rudolf—I will
begin with the beginning—'


tm BiCK-riVRSE.
"You're right. I am listening: and remember you call me
M. Rudolf."
"Very well. You know that yesterday you said to me, on re -
turning from the country, where you had been with poor Goua-
leuse: 'Try find the Schoolmaster in the City; tell him you
know of a famous blow to be struck: that you don't choose to be
'in' it ; but that if he wishes your place, he has only to be to-
morrow (that was this morning) at the barrier of Bercy, at the
Flower Basket, and there he would see the man who put up tKv
job.'"
'' I was wrong not to have told you all, my fine fellow ; then
this horrible catastrophe might perhaps have been avoided."
"That was your look-out, M. Rudolf, my object was to serve
you ; because—because—I don't know how or why, but, I have
said before, I feel as if I were your bulldog. But that's nothing.
Then 1 says to myself, 'M. Rudolf pays me for my time, so my
time is his, and I will employ it for him.' Then this idea strikes
me: The Schoolmaster is cunning, he may fear a made-up song.
M. Rudolf will propose to him the job for to-morrow, it is true,
but the wide awake cove is like enough to come to-day, and lurk
about here, to study the ground, and, if he mistrusts M. Rudolf,
bring some other magsman with him, and do the job to-day on
his own hook. To spoil this, says I to myself, 'I must go and
plant myself somewhere where 1 can watch the walls and the
garden-door—there is no other entrance. If I find a snug
corner, as it rains, I will remain there all day, if not all night,
and to-morrow morning I shall be ready to go with M. Rudolf.'
So I returns to the Allee des Veuves, to plant myself. What did
I see? A little wine shop not ten paces from your door! I
seats myself on the ground-floor near the window, and calls for
wine and a handful of walnuts, saying I expected some friends—
a hump-backed man and a tall woman. I chose them because it
would look more natural-like. I installed myself, and there I sat
right opposite to your door. It rained till it rattled again!—no-
body came ; the night drew on"
"But," interrupted Rudolf, "why did you not come into the
house ?''
"It's just this here way. You told me to look in the day srter,
M. Rudolf, I didn't dare to call before. I'd look like a sneak—a
laggard—as sogers say. You're up to my meaning? Well, there
I was stuck by the window, cracking my nuts, and sipping my red
swipes, when through the fog I sees the Owl flap along with Red
Arm's kid, little Crooky. 'Crikey!' says I to myself, I says,
'the pot's a biling!' The young beggar he drops under in one of
the ditches, over again' your door, like as if he was on'y getting
relief from the rain, but playing the mole. The Owl pulls off her
bonnet, stuffs it into her pocket, and jerks the tinkler. Out comes
your friend, poor M. Murphy, who let in old One-eyes, blast me,
if she didn't begin throwing up her arms, and pelting up and


88
THE SICK-NURSE.
down the garden. I could have punched myself for not being
'live to what she was carrying on about. At last she toddles out,
claps on her bonnet, gives Crooky a word, who pops back into his
hole, and I goes on to myself, 'Hold your horses! Don't be
in a hurry to kick! Crooky comes with the Owl; that signifies
the Schoolmaster and M. Rudolf are still in Red Arm's. The
Owl came to take measure of the crib, and they're sure to crack it
to-night. If they come for to do it to-night, why, M. Rudolf,
who thought it was ' on' for to-morrow, will be took in. If he's
sold, I must cut over to Red Arm's to see what's up. Yes, but
s'pose, meanwhile, the Schoolmaster comes here? That's to be
thought on. Anyhow, I'll go into the house, and tellM. Murphy,
"It's a do! 'ware hawk!" Nice to look at, but that little
varmint Crooky is by the door; he'll hear me ring, see me, and
tip the Owl the office; if she comes back, we're all in a hole,
especially as M. Rudolf, perhaps, after all, made all square for this
very evening.' Confound it, these argooments spilt my brain out
of its barrow awfully. I was the biggest kind of noodle, and
could only see smoke afore me. I didn't know what to do. Says I,
'Let's go out, maybe the open air will freshen you up a bit!' I
took off my neck-cloth and shirt, and went to Crooky's ditch,
nabbed hire by the scruff of the neck—he didn't squeal, and bite,
and scratch one bit, oh, no !—rammed him into my blouse like as
in a bag, tied up the top end with my sleeves, t'other with my
belcher. He could just breathe. I _took the bundle under my
arm, marked a swampy sort of a kind of garden, with a low wall
all round it, and slung Crooky slap into the middle of a cabbage-
bed. He squealed like a stuck sucking-pig, but you couldn't hear
him the length of your arm off. I made off, and none too soon.
I shinned up one of the big trees of the Allee, just opposite your
door, over Crooky's ditch. In ten minutes I heard steps. It still
poured, and pitch-dark. I listened. It was Owl, sure as a gun.
'Crooky, Crooky,' she said, in a low voice. 'It weeps—and the
little imp got tired of waiting,' growled the Schoolmaster, ripping
out an oath; 'if I get my ten on him, I'll take the hide off him!'
* Not so fast, my blade,' said the Owl; 'maybe he's muzzled to
put us on the watch. Suppose it's a take-in? The greeny
wouldn't think of comin' before ten ''The very reason,' said
the Schoolmaster; 'it's only seven now. You saw the shiners?
Nothing venture, nothing win! Hand over the ripping chisel and
the jemmy '"
"The tools?" queried Rudolf.
"Red Arm's. Oh, he keeps house to rights! In next to no
time the door is forced. 'Stay there,' said the Schoolmastertothe
Owl; 'keep a sharp look-out, and cry—laybones! if you hear
anything.' 'Put your pinking-iron in the button-hole of your
weskit, that it may be handy if you want it,' said the one-eyed
woman. The Schoolmaster entered the garden; so soon as I saw
<Uat. down I iumrjed from mv tree, and fell on the Owl: I silenced


THE SICK-NURSE.
89
her with two blows of my fist—beauties they were too!—and dowri
she went, mute as a fish. I ran into the garden, but, thunder ,
M. Rudolf! it was too late"
"Poor Murphy!"
"He was rolling with the Schoolmaster on the door-step ,
although wounded, he held his man tight, and no snivelling.
Brave man! he is like a good dog—he bites hard, but doesn't
bark, as they say. I went dash at 'em, hit or miss, seizing the
Schoolmaster by one leg, the only part I could at the moment get
at. 'The more the merrier! it's I!—the Knifer !—make room foi
two, Mr. Murphy.' 'Oh, villain! where do you come from?
cries the Schoolmaster, taken aback. * What's that to you?' says
I, fixing one of his legs between my knees, and grasping his arm
with my other hand—it was that in which he held his sticker—his
favorite. 'M. Rudolf?' asked M. Murphy of me, whilst doing
all in his power to help"
"Brave ! excellent man!" murmured Rudolf, in a tone of deep
grief.
"* I know nothing of him,' says I; 'this villain, perhaps, has
killed him.' And then I pitched with double fury into the School-
master, who tried to fetch me a lick; but I lay with my breast on
his arm, so he had only his fist at liberty. 'All alone ?' says I to
Murphy, whilst we kept on lock-legged with the Schoolmaster.
'There are people close by here,' he replied, 'but they would not
hear me cry out.' 'Is it far off?' 'They would be here in ten
minutes.' 'Let us call for help, there are passers-by who will
come to our assistance.' 'No, as we have got him, we must keep
him here. But as I am growing weak—I am wounded.' 'Thunder!
then run and seek some assistance, if you have strength left: I
will try and hold him.' M. Murphy disengaged himself, and I was
alone with the Schoolmaster. Thunder! I don't want to sing loud
of myself, but there was one moment when I didn't think there was
much sport in it. We were partly on the ground, partly on the bot-
tom step of the portico. I had my arms round the beggar's neck
—by the jowl; he was blowing like a bull, I heard his teeth grind.
It was dark—it rained in streams; the lamp left us in the passage
was in eclipse. I had twisted one of his legs between mine; but in
spite of that, he was so strong in the belt, that he moved us both
on to the level ground. He tried to bite me, but couldn't; I never
felt so strong. Hi, Neddy! my heart beat, but it was in the right
place. I said: 'Here's me, a-hold on a mad dog, I must prevent
him from biting.' 'Let me go, and I'll cry quits,' groaned the
Schoolmaster, in an exhausted voice. 'Oh! you are funking ! *
says I to him: 'it comes out now; your pluck is nothing but your
strength! You wouldn't have wired into the Poissy cattle-dealer
to clear him out, if he had been as strong as me—eh?' 'No,' says
he, 'but I'll go through you as I did him.' Saying that he gave
me such a powerful body-heave, stiffening his legs at the same
time, that he turned me half round: if I had not kept a-good grip


90
THE SICK-NURSE.
of the wrist that grasped the poniard, I'd 'a' been finished. At
this moment my sou'-paw slipped, and I was compelled to slaken
my hold. It was nearly all over. I said to myself: 'I am under,
he is a-top—he's got me. No matter, I had rather be in my place
than in his; since M. Rudolf said that I had heart and honor.' I
felt that was true! Well, there I was, when what did I see but
the Owl a-standing close by us, with her round green eye and her
bang-up red shawl! Fire and fury! I thought I had the night-
mare !' Finetta,' cried the Schoolmaster to her, ' I have dropt
my knife: pick it up—there it is—it's under him—strike—strike
home—in the back—between the shoulders—quick!'....
'Wait, wait a moment, my blade; only wait till I find it.' And
there was the Owl, hovering, hovering round us, like an old
croaking Owl, as she is. At last she saw the tickler, and made a
dart at it. I was flat on my back, so I gave her a kick in the
bread-basket, and down she went with both her claws, 'shivery-
shako in the air! Up she sprang, more bloodthirsty than ever. I
was done for: still I clung convulsively to the Schoolmaster's
throttle, but he gave me such dreadful blows on the jaw, that I
was about to loose my hold, when I saw three or four flunkeys,
well armed, who came tumbling down the steps, and M. Murphy,
pale as death, supporting himself on the arm of the doctor. They
seized upon the Schoolmaster and the Owl, and bound them hand
and foot. That was not all. I wanted M. Rudolf. I sprang
upon the Owl: I thought of poor Goualeuse's tooth; I grasped the
old hag's arm with all my might, and twisted it, saying, 'Where
is M. Rudolf?' She stood it well: at the second twist she
roared out: 'At Red Arm's, in the cellar, at the Bleeding Heart
— wish it was yours, blast you!' Good! On my way I wished
to pick up Crooky from his bed among the cabbages, for it was all
in my road. I looked, there was nothing but my blouse—he had
gnawed a hole with his grinders. I reached the Bleeding
Heart; I collared Red Arm, and said: 'Where is the young
man who came here this evening with the Schoolmaster?' * Don't
squeeze me so hard, and I'll tell you. They have been playing a
trick with him, they have locked him up in my cellar—we'll go
and let him out.' Down we went, but there was no one to be
found. 'No doubt he went out while my back was turned,' said
Red Arm; 'you see he is not here.' I was coming away very
sorrowful, when, by the lantern light, I saw another door at the
far end of the cellar. I ran toward it; I dragged it open; and
ketched a bucket of water slap dash in my face. I saw your poor
arms in the air; I fished you out and brought vou here on my
back, because there was nobody I could send for a hackney-
coach.- That's the whole of the affair, M. Rudolf, and though I
don't wish to brag, I don't think I have done amiss, and feel quite
cockahoop with myself."
"My lad, I owe my life to you ; a heavy obligation, but I will
discharge it to the best of my ability. David, will you go and


THE SICK-NURSE.
ascertain how Murphy is?" added Rudolf, "and return tome
immediately."
The negro went out.
"Do you know where the Schoolmaster is, my fine fellow?"
"In a room below, along with the Owl. Will you send to the
stationhouse, M. Rudolf?" "No."
"You are not going to let him off? Oh, M. Rudolf, don't throw
away your kindness on such a bad case. I say again, he is no
better than a mad dog; once loose, let those who are near him
look out."
"He will bite no one again, be assured."
"Oh, you are going to shut him up somewhere?"
"No: in half-an-hour he will go hence."
"The Schoolmaster will?" "Yes."
"Without buttons each side of him?" -"Yes."
"He will leave here—free?" *' Free."
"All alone?" "Quite alone."
"But he will go?"
"Wherever he pleases,'' said Rudolf, interrupting the Knifer
with a meaning smile.
The negro returned.
"Well, David, and how is Murphy?"
"He sleeps," said the doctor, sadly: "his respiration is
labored
"Still in danger?"
"His case is serious, your highness; nevertheless, there is hope
that"
"Oh, Murphy! Vengeance!" cried Rudolf, in a tone of in-
tense fury. Then he added: "David, a word"
And he whispered in a negro's ear. The latter shuddered.
"Do you hesitate?" said Rudolf. "I have often spoken to you
of this idea; the moment to carry it out is arrived."
"I do not hesitate, your highness. The idea contains in itself a
penal reform, worthy the discussion of the most profound jurists,
for such a punishment would be at the same time awe-striking,
and fruitful for repentance. To this case it is particularly adapted.
Without reckoning the crimes which sent this wretch to the hulks
for life, he has committed three murderous attempts—the cattle-
dealer, Murphy, and yourself: it is justice-—-"
"He will have a long road opened to him for repentance,"
added Rudolf. After a moment's silence, he resumed: "And
will five thousand francs be sufficient, David?"
"Amply, my lord."
'' My lad," said Rudolf to the Knifer, perplexed in the extreme;
"I have two words to say to this gentleman; meantime, go into
the next room, on the right, you will see there a large red
pocket-book on a sideboard; take out of that, five notes of a
thousand francs each, and bring them to me."


92 THE PUNISHMENT.
"And for whom are those five thousand francs?" exclaimed the
Knifer involuntarily.
"For the Schoolmaster; and, at the same time, order them to
bring him here."
CHAPTER XVII.
THE PUNISHMENT.
The scene is changed to an apartment tapestried with red, an<]
brilliantly lighted.
Rudolf, enveloped in a long black velvet dressing-gown, which
added to the pallor of his countenance, is seated at a large table
covered with cloth. On this table lies the Schoolmaster's pocket-
book, the Owl's pinch-beck chain (to which was suspended the
small lapis-lazuli dove), the stiletto, yet gore-stained, with which
Murphy had been stabbed, the iron bar with which the door
had been broken open, and lastly, the five thousand-franc
notes, which the Knifer had brought from the next apartment.
The negro doctor sits on one side of the table, the Knifer on the
other. The Schoolmaster, securely bound with ropes, and utterly
unable to move, is placed in a large stuffed arm-chair on castors,
in the middle of the room. The men who brought in this man
have retired, and Rudolf, the doctor, the Knifer, and the assassin
remain alone.
Rudolf is no longer irritated : he is calm, sad, and collected ; as
befits one who is about to discharge a solemn and important duty.
The physician is thoughtful. The Knifer feels fear: he cannot
withdraw his eyes from Rudolf s. The Schoolmaster's counte-
nance is ghastly—he fears, he knows not what!
Deep silence reigns without—nought is heard but the melan-
choly rain as it falls from roof to pavement, with dull, monotonous
splash.
Rudolf addressed the Schoolmaster : *' Escaped from the Roche-
fort hulks, to which you were sentenced for life for forgery, rob-
bery, and murder, you are Anselm Duresnel."
"A lie !" said the Schoolmaster, in a broken voice, and casting
wild, uneasy glances around.
"You are Anselm Duresnel: and you murdered and robbed n
cattle-dealer on the Poissy road."
"Alie!"
"You will be more tractable by-and-bye."
The ruffian looked at Rudolf with surprise.
"This night you entered hereto commit a robbery, and you
stabbed the master of this house."
"And you put up the crack for me!" said the Schoolmaster,


THE PUNISHMENT.
93
recovering some of his assurance. "He attacked me, I defended
myself."
"The man whom you stabbed did not attack you—he was un-
armed. I did propose this robbery to you, that much is true—I
will presently tell you with what object. The night before last,
after having robbed a man and woman in the City, you offered to
kill me for a thousand francs."
"I heard him !" said the Knifer.
The Schoolmaster darted at him a glance of ferocious hatred.
Rudolf resumed: "You see you had no need of my temptation
to incite you to crime."
"You are not my judge, and I will answer you no more."
"Now you shall hear why I proposed this robbery to you. I
knew you were an escaped convict; I knew that you could reveal
the parents of the unfortunate girl, almost every one of whose mis-
fortunes have originated with your accomplice, the Owl. I wished
to bring you here by the temptation of a booty, because that was
• he only bait that could seduce you. Once in my power I should
.nave left you the choice of being replaced in the grasp of justice,
which would have made you pay with your head for the cattle-
Healer's murder."
"It is false! I did not commit that crime.''
"Or of being escorted out of France, under my direction, to a
place of perpetual seclusion where your lot would have been less
painful than at the hulks; but this relaxation of punishment would
only have been granted on condition of your giving me the inform-
ation which I desired. Condemned for life, you broke jail; by
seizing you, and placing it hereafter beyond your power to do evil,
i serve society; while by your disclosures I might, perhaps, be
enabled to restore to her family a poor creature still more unfor-
tunate than guilty. Such was my original intention—it was not
legal: but your escape and your subsequent crimes have com-
pletely outlawed you. Yesterday, a providential discovery re-
vealed to me that you are Anselm Duresnel"
"It is false! I am not Duresnel."
Rudolf took from the table the Owl's chain, and showing the
Schoolmaster the little lapis-lazuli dove, exclaimed, in a loud and
stern tone: "Impious wretch! you have prostituted this sacred
relic to an infamous creature: thrice sacred, I say, for your child
received this holy gift from his mother and her mother!'
The Schoolmaster, stupefied by this discovery, bowed his head,
but replied not.
"You carried off your son from his mother fifteen years ago;
you alone possess the secret of his existence. Had I not then a
strong additional motive for securing you when I had detected
*vho you were? I desire not to avenge myself for my individual
wrongs. This night you have again shed blood without provoca-
tion. The man whom you have, perhaps, assassinated, came to
you with confidence, unsuspicious of your bloodthirstiness. He


94
THE PUNISHMENT.
asked you what you wanted: 'Your money or your life!' and
you stabbed him with your dagger."
"Such was the account given by M. Murphy, when I first came
to his assistance," said the doctor.
"It's false! he lied!"
"Murphy never lies," said Rudolf, coldly. "Your crimes de-
mand a signal expiation. You entered this garden forcibly—you
stabbed a man that you might rob him: you have committed
another murder. You ought to die here. But pity, respect for
your wife and son, shall save you from the disgrace of the scaffold.
It will be said that you were killed in an armed resistance to your
attack. Prepare yourself—the instruments for your punishment
are ready !''
The speaker's countenance was relentless. The Schoolmaster
had noticed, stationed in an adjoining room, two men armed with
rifles. His name too was known! He concluded they were go-
ing to despatch him privately, that his later crimes might be
buried in obscurity, and his family spared this additional shame.
As is common with such wretches this one was as cowardly as
ferocious. Believing his hour was come, he trembled, and whis-
pered " Mercy!"
"There is no mercy for you," said Rudolf. "If your brains
are not blown out here, the scaffold awaits you"
"I prefer the scaffold—I shall live, at least, two or three
months longer. What harm will that do to you, as I shall be pun-
ished at last? Mercy ! mercy!"
*' But your wife—your son? they bear your name"
"My name is already dishonored. Let me live, though only for a
week! it will be merciful!''
"Not even that contempt of life sometimes found in the greatest
criminals! " said Rudolf, with disgust.
"Besides, the law forbids anyone to take justice into his own
hands," said the Schoolmaster, with hardihood.
"The law !" exclaimed Rudolf, "the law? Do you dare to in-
voke the law? you, who have always lived in open and armed re-
volt against society?"
The ruffian bowed his head, but answered not. At length he
added in a more humble tone: "At least, for pity's sake, spare
my life!"
"Where is your son?"
"Will you let me live?"
"Confess all first."
"But—when I have told you all—" said the Schoolmaster,
hesitating.
"You have killed him!"
"No, no! I have confided him to one of my accomplices, who,
when I was taken, succeeded in making his escape."
'' What didhe do with him?"
"He brought him up; he gave him the necessary education


THE PUNISHMENT.
95
for taking a situation in a banking-house at Nantes, in order that
he might give us information, gain the confidence of the banker,
and thus forward our projects. Although at Rochefort, waiting foi
an opportunity to effect my escape, I directed the details of this
enterprise: for I and my friend corresponded in cypher"
"Oh, rny God! his son! his child! This man appalls me!"
cried the horror-struck Rudolf, burying his head in his hands.
"But we intended nothing more than forgery," exclaimed the
ruffian; "besides, when my son learned what was expected of
him he became indignant, revealed all to his employer, and quitted
Nantes. You will find in my pocket-book an account of the steps
taken to discover traces of him. The last house where he lived
was the Rue du Temple, where he passed by the name of Francois
Germain; the exact address is also in my pocket-book. You
see I have told you all: I have kept back nothing. Now, keep
your promise, and cause me to be arrested for the burglary of this
night only."
"And the Poissy cattle-dealer?"
*' It is impossible for that to be discovered—there are no
proofs. I own it to you, in proof of my good faith, but before a
judge I would plead not guilty."
"You confess it, then?"
"I was in distress; I was without means of supporting life—i':
was the Owl who urged me to the deed. I now repent, or I should
not confess it. Oh! if you will be so generous as not to give me
up to justice, I will give you my word of honor that I will never
again perpetrate a crime!"
"You shall live, and I will not deliver you into the hands of the
law."
"Will you pardon me ?" exclaimed the Schoolmaster, scarcely
believing what he heard, "will you forgive me?"
"I judge you and I will punish you!" cried Rudolf, in a solemn
voice. "I will not surrender you to the law because that would
merely transfer you to the galleys or the scaffold, which must not
be for many reasons."
"What, then, do you mean to do to me? Are you sent from
hell to?"
"Listen!" said Rudolf, rising and throwing a menacing au=
thority into his gesture: "you have criminally abused your vast
strength—I will paralyze that strength; the most powerful have
trembled before you—you shall tremble before the weakest.
Assassin! you have plunged heavenly creatures into eternal night:
—the shadows of night eternal shall commence for you even in this
world. Aye, even now—in a few minutes. Your punishment,
though long delayed, shall equal your offences. But," added
Rudolf, in an accent of mournful pity, "this terrible punishmen!
will leave you a long future for repentance. I should be as crimi
nal as you, if, in punishing you, I merely gratified revenge, how-
ever jsut the revenge might be. Far from being barren as death.


96
THE PUNISHMENT,
your punishment may be fruitful; far from losing you for ever, it
*nay redeem you. If. to render you henceforth incapable of injur-
ing others, I for ever deprive you of all the splendors of creation
—if I plunge you into impenetrable night—lonely night—with the
memory of your many and mighty crimes upon your soul, it is
that you may unceasingly reflect upon their enormity. Yes! shut
in for ever from the external world, you will be driven to look
inward? and then I hope that brow, now bronzed by infamy, will
blush with shame, and your soul, cankered with crime, will be
softened by confession. Each of your words is now a blasphemy
—each of your words will be a prayer. You are bold and cruel,
because you are strong—you will be mild and humble, because
you will be weak. Your heart is closed against repentance—one
day you will weep for your victims. You have degraded the intel-
lect with which God endowed you, you have debased it to the
mere instinct of plunder and assassination ; from a man, you have
descended to a wild beast! One day, your intellect will be puri-
fied by remorse, reclaimed by expiation. You have not even
regarded those ties which the most furious of brutes regard—their
female and their little ones. After a long life, devoted to the
expiation of your crimes, your last prayer shall be a supplication to
the Almighty to grant you the happiness of dying in the presence
of your wife and son."
As he uttered the last words Rudolfs voice quavered with excess'
ive emotion.
The Schoolmaster's alarm had faded now; he fancied that his
judge had merely wished to terrify him before he read him this
moral discourse. Alr.iost reassured by the mild accent of Rudolf,
the ruffian, whose insolence augmented as his fear decreased,
said, with a coarse laugh: "Oh, ho' unriddle us this riddle.
Whereabouts are we in our catechism now?"
Instead of replying, Rudolf said to the doctor, *' Proceed,
David! And may the Almighty hold me alone accountable if I
do wrong!"
The negro rang. Two men entered. David made a sign
toward the side-door of an adjoining closet. They rolled in the
chair, in which the Schoolmaster remained bound, incapable of
the smallest movement.
"You are going to murder me, then? Mercy! mercy !" cried
the Schoolmaster, as they wheeled him out.
"Gag him !" said the negro, entering the closet.
Rudolf and the Knifer were left alone.
"M. Rudolf," said the Knifer, pale and trembling as he spoke,
—*' M. Rudolf, pray speak to me! I feel frightened. I must be
dreaming. What is it they're at with the Schoolmaster? He does
not cry now—all is so silent that it makes me worse!"
David came out of the cabinet; his countenance had that livid
hue peculiar to negroes, hi ~*lips were ashy white.


THE PUNISHMENT,
97
The two men now wheeled back the Schoolmaster, still bound
in the chair.
"Remove the gag and unbind him!" exclaimed David.
There was a moment of fearful silence. The two men loosened
the cords with which the schoolmaster was bound, then took the
bandage from his eyes. He sprung up suddenly; his hideous
countenance expressing rage, terror and alarm. He advanced
one step, groped with outspread hands before him—then, falling
b;ic^ into his chair, he raised his hands to heaven, and cried with
inexpressible agony and desperate fury, "I am blind!"
"David, give him his pocket-book," said Rudolf.
The negro placed a small pocket-book in the trembling hands
of the Schoolmaster, and said: "In tliis pocket-book there is
money enough to provide you with an asylum and the means of
living in some retired spot for the rest of your days. You are now
free! Go, repent! the Lord be merciful!"
"Oh, death! give me death! Yes! I should have preferred
death !" cried the Schoolmaster. "To be at every one's mercy, to
—fear everything! A child might beat me now! My God ! what
will become of me?"
"You have money."
"If it be stolen!" cried the ruffian.
"You will be robbed! Do you understand the words you utter
so fearfully? You, who have robbed so many? Go!"
"For the love of heaven," said the Schoolmaster, with a sup-
pliant air, "let some one lead me! How shall I find my way
in the streets? Oh! kill me! I pray you, for mercy's sake kill
me!"
"No; hereafter you will repent."
"Never! I will never repent!" cried the Schoolmaster, in a
paroxysm of passion. "Oh, I will revenge myself; yes, terribly
will I revenge myself!"
He sprang from the arm-chair, gnashing his teeth, and menac-
ing the spectators with his clenched fists. At the very first step
he stumbled.
"No, no, no! I cannot, I am helpless! And yet—and yet I
am so strong! Oh! woe is me! Nobody pities me! alas, there
is no one!"
The affright and wonderment of the Knifer during this terrible
scene were indescribable: his rough and wild countenance ex-
pressed the deepest compassion. He drew near Rudolf, and said
to him in a low tone, "M. Rudolf, this is no more than he de-
serves! He was a horrid villain, no doubt. He also wanted to
kill me a little while ago; but now he is blind and weeping. He
does not know how to walk; he will get run over in the street
With your leave, I'll lead him to some place where he can at least
be quiet?"
"Good?" said Rudolf, moved by this generosity and grasping
the speaker's hand." as you please : go!"
4


THE PUNISHMENT.
The Knifer approached the Schoolmaster and laid his hand oa
his shoulder. The ruffian trembled.
"Who touches me? " said he in a hoarse voice. '' Me."
"Who is it?" "The Knifer."
"And you also are come to avenge yourself? Say, is it not
so?"
"You can't see to go by yourself; take my arm; I will lead
you."
'' You? You want to lead me into some snare?"
"I am no coward, you know. I shall not take advantage of
your misery. Come, let us be off; it is daylight."
"Daylight!—Oh, I shall never see daylight more!" groaned
the Schoolmaster.
Rudolf could no longer endure this scene, he therefore retired,
suddenly followed by David, dismissing by a sign the two domes-
tics. The Knifer and the Schoolmaster remained alone.
"Is it true there is money in the pocket-book which they have
given me? " asked the ruffian, after a long silence.
"Yes; I myself put five thousand francs into it. With that
sum you can place yourself as a boarder somewhere, in some cor-
ner of the country, for the rest of your days; or would you rather
have me lead you to the Ogress?"
"She would rob me."
"To Red Arm?"
"He would poison me, to plunder me more safely."
And again the ruffian was silent: then suddenly stamping with
rage, he broke forth: "Yet, after all, 'twas you, Knifer, who
caused me this evil. But for you I should have slain the man,
carried off the money. If I am blind, that, too, is through you."
"Don't think any more of that; it won't be good for your
health. Now then will you come—aye or no! I am tired and
want to go to sleep. I have had enough for one night's entertain-
ment. To-morrow I return to my timber rafts. First, 1 will lead
you wherever you like to go, and then I'll be off to bed."
"But I know not where to go. To my lodging !—No, I dare
not—I must tell them"
"Well, listen to me. Suppose, for a day or two you come to
my kennel. Perhaps I can find some decent people who, not
knowing who you are, will take you in to board and lodge with
them as a helpless man. And, now I think of it, I know a man at
Port Saint Nicholas, whose mother lives at Saint Mande, a worthy
woman, who is not over well off. Shouldn't wonder if she may
be willing to take charge of you. Will you come—yes or no?"
"I can trust you. I am not afraid to go with you with my
money. You have never stolen, how fortunate!
*' And got jolly well rowed because I would not become like
you."
"Oh 1 who could foresee—


ISLE-ADAM.
99
"If I had listened to you, you would just now have your pock-
ets swept out of all your cash."
"That's true, but you have neither rancor or hate," said the
bully, humbly; "you are better, far better than I."
"S'help me Bob! I should think so! M. Rudolf told me that I
had heart and honor."
"But who, then, is that man? He's not a man! " cried the
Schoolmaster, again bursting into bitler rage. "He is a mon-
ster!"
The Knifer snapped his fingers, and said—
"There, you are firing up again. Shall we start?"
"We will go to your home ; say, Knifer?"
"Yes."
"You bear no grudge on account of last night? You will swear
that to me, will you not?"
'' I swear that."
"And you are sure that that man is not dead?"
"I am quite sure."
"That will be one the less to answer for," muttered the ruffian
to himself. "If they only knew—And the little old man of the
Rue du Roule—and that woman—in the Canal Saint Martin. Oh!
now I can only think of all that! I am blind, God! blind!"
added the wretch, aloud. Leaning on the Knifer's arm, he slowly
left the house in the Allee des Veuves.
CHAPTER XVIII.
ISLE-ADAM.
A month had elapsed since the events which we have just
related. We will now lead the reader into the little town of Isle-
Adam situated in a delightful spot, on the bank of the Oise, on
the skirt of a forest.
In the country, the most trivial things become mighty events.
The idlers of Isle-Adam, therefore, who, on the morning of which
we speak, sauntered on the green in front of the church, occupied
themselves eagerly in endeavoring to find out the time when the
purchaser of the most eligible butcher's shop in that town might
be expected to arrive to take possession of his premises, which
were situated in the main street, opposite the church.
Shortly after, two persons, coming from Paris, alighted from a
cab at the shop door. One of these was Murphy, completely
recovered from his wound, the other was the Knifer.
At the risk of repeating a trite remark, we will observe that the
effect of dress is so powerful that the guest of the foul doggeries
of the City was scarcely recognizable under the garments he now
wore. His features had undergone a like change ; he had laid


IOO
ISLE-ADAM.
aside with his rags his savage, brutal, and turbulent air; and ta
see him walking with his hands in the pockets of his long and
warm great-coat of walnut-brown broad-cloth, one would have
taken him for the most inoffensive, steady-going tradesman in the
world.
*' Faith, my boy, the way was long, and the cold sharp; were
they not?"
"Indeed, that's more than I discovered, M. Murphy; I am too
jolly, and joy warms me. When I say content, perhaps"
"What then?"
"Yesterday you came to look for me at Port Saint Nicholas,
where I was boat-hooking in the logs like sixty, by way of warm-
ing myself. I had not seen you since the night-—that night when
the white-haired negro blinded the Schoolmaster. 'Twas the first
time he ever missed fire at a robbery, the scoundrel! But it give
me such a turn. And M. Rudolf, what a countenance! he who
generally looks so soft. I was frightened at the moment"
"Well, go on."
"You said tome; 'Good-day, Knifer!' * Good-day, M. Mur-
phy,' said I: 'what, you are about again! So much the better,
thunder! so much the better. And how's M. Rudolf?' 'He
was obliged to set out on a journey some days after the affair of
the Allee des Veuves, and he forgot you, my man.' 'Well, M.
Murphy,' I replied, ' I can only say that if M. Rudolf has forgot-
ten me, why I am sorry—' 'I meant to say, my good fellow, that
he had forgotten to recompense your services, but that he should
always remember them.'"
"So, M. Murphy, these words make me jolly again directly.
Thousand thunders! I—I shall never forget him. He told me I
kad heart and honor—that's enough."
"Unfortunately my lad, his highness left without giving any
orders respecting you. I have nothing but what his highness
gives me, and I cannot therefore repay, as I could wish, the serv-
ice you have rendered to me personally."
"Oh, now I see the drift, M. Murphy. Yesterday, working at
my wood-raft, you came to me, and said: 'My lad, I am not rich,
but at least I can obtain you a place in which you will have easier
work than at the wharf, and earn four francs a day.' 'Four
francs a day !' said I; 'up with your flag!' I could hardly-
believe my own ears; why, it's the pay of a captain's servant.
Then I replied to you: 'That will do, M. Murphy.' * But,' you
then said, ' you must not appear in such a beggarly state, or you
will frighten the tradesman to whom I am going to take you.' I
told you that I had no means of purchasing clothes. Then you
said: 'Come to the Temple.' I followed you and I picked out
such bang-up toggery at Mother Hubart's ; you advanced me the
money to pay for them, and in less than a quarter of an hour, I
was rigged out like a owner of houses or a Jew dentist. Then
you told me to meet you this morning at the Porte Saint Denis at


ISLE-ADAM.
101
daybreak; I found you waiting there with your cab; and here we
are."
"Well, and what have you to regret in all this?"
'* It is this—I am well dressed, M. Murphy, and that spoils me ,
and when I return to my boathook and my old dirty duds, it will
have an effect upon me. Besides, to earn four francs a-day, when
1 never earn more than two—and that all on a sudden—seems to
me to be too good to be true, or to last long; and I should prefer
sleeping all my life upon the bundle of straw in my loft, to sleep
ing for a few nights upon a good bed, and then go back to it—
that's my idea."
"There is some sense in what you observe ; but surely it would
be better always to sleep in a good bed?"
"That's clear; a bellyful of bread is far better than dying of
hunger. Hullo! this is a butcher's shop, here !" suddenly broke
off the Knifer, as he heard the blows of the boy's cleaver, and
peeping through saw several quarters of beef.
"Yes, my bold fellow—it belongs to a friend of mine ; will you
have a look over it, while our horse fetches breath?
The Knifer and Murphy entered the shop, and then they went
into the yard, where three magnificent beeves and a score of
sheep were shut up; afterwards to the stable, the cart-shed, the
slaughter-house, the hay and grain lofts, and the other appurte-
nances; all of which, so clean, and so carefully kept, announced
alike the orderly habits and easy circumstances of the owner.
When they had seen all, except the upper story, Murphy said:
"Well, is not my friend a very fortunate fellow? This house and
business belong to him, besides a thousand crowns of capital with
which to conduct his trade ; add to all this, that he is only eight-
and-thirty years of age, strong as a bull, has an iron constitution,
and is fond of his business. The smart and honest lad, whom
you just now saw in the shop, takes the place of his master, with
zeal and intelligence, when the latter is at fair buying stock; once
more, don't you think my friend is a very lucky dog?"
"Yes, indeed, M. Murphy; but what else do you expect?
There are some lucky, and some unlucky ; when I remember that
I am about to earn four francs a day, and that there are many
who work for half that pay, and even less"
"Will you go up and see the rest of the house?"
"Willingly, M. Murphy."
"Indeed, the tradesman who is going to employ you is up-
stairs."
"The tradesman who is going to employ me?"
"Yes."
"Stay an instant! Why did you not tell me that sooner?"
"I'll explain that to you by-and-bye"
"Stop for one moment," said the Knifer, with an air of sad
embarrassment, and taking Murphy by the arm; "hear me; I
must tell you something which perhaps M. Rudolf may not have


102
REWARD.
told you, but which I ought not to hide from the master who is to
employ me; because, if it offends him, it's as well that he should
know it now as hereafter. I am a jail-bird, I've been at the gal-
leys," said the Knifer, in a broken voice.
"Oh !" said Murphy.
"But I never wronged any one," exclaimed the Knifer; "and
I would rather perish of hunger than rob! But I have done
worse than rob," added the Chourineur, hanging down his head:
"I have killed, but it was in anger. Still, that is not all," he con-
tinued, after a moment's silence. "I will tell everything to my
employer. I would rather be refused at first than found out after-
wards. You know him; if you think he will reject me, spare me
the refusal, and I will go back as I came."
"Come along, by all means," said Murphy.
The Knifer followed Murphy ; they ascended the staircase, a
door opened, and they found themselves in the presence of
Rudolf.
"My good Murphy, leave us together," said the latter.
CHAPTER XIX.
REWARD.
"Good-day! I am right glad to see you again, M. Rudolf, or,
rather, your highness," said the Knifer.
"Good-day, my lad; I am no less rejoiced to see you again.'
"What a joker that M. Murphy is to say that you were gone
away—but stay, my lord"
*' Call me M. Rudolf; I like that better."
'' Well, then, M. Rudolf, pardon me for not having been to see
you again, after that night when the Schoolmaster—I feel now
that I have been unmannerly ; but you did not wish me to come
again, did you?"
"Oh, I forgive you," said Rudolf, smiling; he added: "Has
M. Murphy shown you over this house?"
"Yes, M. Rudolf. It's a handsome house, a handsome shop;
it's tidy, and very comfortable. Talking about that, I'm going to
be comfortable too, M. Rudolf—M. Murphy has got me work at
which I can earn four francs a day—yes, four francs!"
"I have better than that to offer you, my fine fellow."
"Better! Without wishing to contradict you, that is no such
easy matter. Four francs a day!"
"I have better than that to offer you, I repeat; for this house
and all that it contains, this shop, and the thousand crowns which
are here in this pocket-book, all belong to you."
The Knifer simpered with an air of bewilderment, flattened his
kxig-napped beaver between his knees, which he squeezed con*


REWARD.
vulsively together; he did not understand Rudolf s speech, cleai
as the words were.
The latter went on in a kind tone: "I can understand your sur-
prise ; but I repeat to you, this house and this money are your
own property."
The Knifer turned purple, ran his horny hand across his per-
spiring brow, and stammered, in a broken voice: "Oh ! that is to
say—that is to say-—my property."
"Yes ; your property—since I present you with it. Do you un-
derstand? I give it to you for yourself."
The Knifer twisted about on his chair, scratched his head,
coughed, cast down his eyes, and made no reply.
"Then what I give you seems to you beyond your hopes?"
inquired Rudolf.
"My lord," said the Knifer, rising hastily from his seat, "you
offer me this house, and a large sum of money to tempt me; but
—I cannot take them. I never robbed in my life. It is perhaps
to kill; but I have had my dose of the sergeant-dream," added
the Knifer, in a hoarse voice.
"Alas, for the unfortunate!" cried Rudolf, bitterly; "so rarely
is compassion shown to them that they can only understand lib-
erality as the temptation and the reward of crime."
Then, addressing the Knifer, he said to him, in a voice of ex-
ceeding mildness: "You both do me injustice, and deceive your-
self. I never shall ask anything of you but what is honorable;
what I give to you, I give because you deserve it."
"77" said the Knifer, whose swimming of the head began to
return, " I merit it—and how?"
"I will tell you. Deserted in infancy, ere you had learnt to dis-
tinguish good from evil, abandoned to your animal instincts, con-
fined for fifteen years in penal servitude, among the most frightful
ruffians, tempted by misery and hunger, forced by your disgrace
and by the reprobation of honest men to frequent the resorts of
malefactors—not only did you remain honest, but remorse for
your crime survived even the severe retribution with which hu-
man justice visited you."
This simple, noble speech was a source of new wonder to the
hearer. He gazed on Rudolf with a respect mingled with awe
and gratitude: yet, even now he could not realize his true posi-
tion.
"How, M. Rudolf," said he, "because you thrashed me—be-
cause I—fancying you a mere working-man like myself—because
you spoke slang like—because I told you the story of my life over
a couple of glasses of wine, and afterwards saved you from being
drowned—you give me a house—money !—I shall be a regular
keeper! Forgive me, M. Rudolf—but all this can't be true!"
"Believing me like yourself, you told me the story of your life
naturally, and without disguise; you neither concealed what was


104
REWARD.
culpable nor what was generous. I judged you, judged well of
you, and it pleases me to reward you."
"But, M. Rudolf, this can't be. No; there are many poor
hard-working men who have been honest all their lives and who
"I know it, and perhaps I have done for many of them still
more than I have done for you. But if the man who lives hon-
estly in the society of honest men, stimulated by their esteem,
deserves patronage and support, he who, despite the absence of
good example, preserves his integrity among the most abomina-
ble scamps upon the face of the earth, deserves likewise reward.
But this is not all. You have saved my life—you have also saved
the life of Murphy, the dearest friend I possess. What I do for
you is, therefore, dictated as much by personal gratitude, as by
the desire to save from polution a kindly and noble nature which
has gone astray, but not got lost. Nor is that all."
"What else have I done, M. Rudolf?"
Rudolf cordially grasped the Knifer's hand, and said to him,
"Moved with compassion for the misfortune of a man who but a
short time before had sought your life, you offered him support;
you even gave him an asylum in your own abode. Number 9, in
the blind alley by Notre Dame."
*' Yes, M. Rudolf. He got me to exchange his notes for gold,
and buy him a belt, which I sewed round him ; into that belt we
put his rhino, and good-bye! He boards at thirty sous per day,
with some worthy people, to whom that sum is a little fortune.
When I have time to leave my floated wood, I'll go and see how
he gets on."
"Your rafts! But you forget your shop, and that this is your
home! I swear to you, on my honor, that all this belongs to you,
and that I give it to you solely for the reasons I have already
mentioned."
By this speech delivered in a firm and dignified tone, and the
serious expression of Rudolf's cou/itenance, the Knifer's doubts
were dispelled. For some moments he looked at his benefactor
in silence; then said in a voice of deep emotion—" I believe
you, my lord, and I heartily thank you. A poor man like me
cannot make fine speeches; but, once more, 1 heartily thank you.
All that I can promise is—d'ye see—that 1 never will refuse suc-
cor to the unfortunate, because Hunger and Misery are owls of the
same feather as seized on poor Goualouse; and when once a poor
devil is in the mire, it is not every one that has muscle enough
to drag him out again."
"And now, let us go and look over your establishment; Mur-
phy has had that pleasure, and I should like to have the same."
Rudolf and the Knifer went down-stairs. Just as they got into
tne court-yard, the lad respectfully addressing the Knifer, said to
him: "As you are my master, sir, I come to tell you that cus


REWARD
105
tomers are waiting. We are out of chops and legs, and we must
stick a sheep or two directly."
"By George !" said Rudolf, " here's a fine opening to display
your ability. I should like to give you handsel. The fresh air
has given me an appetite, and I will taste your chops."
"You are very good, M. Rudolf," said the Knifer, joyfully;
"you flatter me: I will do my best."
"Shall I take two sheep into the slaughter-house, master?"
ssked the lad.
"Yes, and bring a sharp-pointed knife not too fine at the edge,
/nd with a stout back."
"I have just the thing for you, master—one that you might
fhave with. Here it is."
"Thunderation, M. Rudolf!" said Chourineur, throwing off
his coat, rolling up his shirt-sleeves, and exhibiting his athletic
arms, "this brings back my youth and the knacker's-yard. You
shall see how I shall go to work. Name of names! how I long to
be at it! Your knife, lad—the knife! Oh, that's the tool; I see
you know your trade. Here's a blade! What need a man wish
better! Thunder! With such a slasher as this I could slaugh-
ter a mad bull!"
The Knifer brandished the knife. His eyes rapidly became
bloodshot: the brute was getting the upper hand of his better
tiature; the instinct, the thirst for blood, awoke in all its fright-
ful energy.
The slaughter-house was in the yard; it was a vaulted room,
flagged, and lighted by a narrow opening at the top.
The lad brought a sheep to the door, and said: "Shall I
tie it to the ring, master?"
"Tie it! What's a man got knees for? Be quiet, I'll fix him
between my legs like a vice. Give me the beast, and you go and
mind shop."
The lad retired; Rudolf stayed and watched the Knifer with
attention, almost with anxiety.
"Now, then, to work," said he
"Ay, and quickly too! Thunder! You shall soon see how I
can handle a knife! My hands burn! I have a buzzing in my
3ars! my temples beat as when I see red I Come hither, woolly,
till I slash you to death!"
His eyes flashed with a savage brightness; and, no longer ob-
serving the presence of Rudolf, the Knifer caught up the sheep
without an effort, and with one bound rushed into the slaughter-
house. He looked like some ferocious wolf retreating into a cave
with his helpless prey.
Rudolf followed him, and leaned against one of the jambs of
the door, which he shut. The slaughter-house was dark, but a
bright ray of light falling directly down illumined, as in Rem-
brandt's pictures, the harsh countenance of the Knifer, with his
tair hair and red whiskers. Bent double, and holding the long


INQUIRIES.
"Well, thinking it just possible that your inclination might
not tend that way, I had thought of another arrangement. A per-
son who possesses some extensive allotments in Algeria, will
make over to me, for you, one of two extensive farms. The
lands attached to them are extremely fertile, and in full cultiva-
tion; but I must not conceal from you that they are situated
at the base of Mount Atlas-—that is to say, at the furthermost
outposts—and exposed to frequent Arab raids. There, it is nec-
essary to be at least as much soldier as farmer; it is at once a
fort and a farm. Although far from you, I shall not lose sight
of you: and will never forget that I and my best friend owe our
lives to you. The only proof of attachment and gratitude that
I require is, that you will as soon as possible learn to read and
write sufficiently to furnish me with a regular weekly account of
your proceedings; and that you apply directly to me, if you
should want either advice or assistance."
It is needless to describe the joyous transports of the Knifer.
His character and impulses are sufficiently well known to the
reader to give him to understand that no proposal could be more
to his satisfaction.
The day following the Knifer set out for Algeria.
CHAPTER XXI.
INQUIRIES.
The house in the Allee des Veuves, owned by Rudolf, was not
his usual place of residence. He kept one of the largest mansions
in the Faubourg Saint Germain, situated at the end of the Rue
Plumet, and the Boulevard des Invalides.
To avoid the honors due to his sovereign rank, the prince had
preserved his incognito ever since his arrival in Paris, under the
title of the Count of Duren. Notwithstanding his transparent
incognito, Rudolf, as became him, lived in a magnificent manner.
Ten o'clock had just struck. In the centre of a spacious saloon,
situated on the ground-floor, and next to Rudolfs study, Murphy,
seated before a writing-desk, was busy sealing numerous despatches.
An usher, dressed in black, and wearing a silver chain round his
neck, threw open the folding-doors of the apartment, and an-
nounced, "His Excellency Baron Graun."
Murphy, without interrupting himself in his occupation, saluted
the baron with a gesture at once familiar and cordial: "M. le
Charge* d'Affaires," said he, smiling, "will you warm yourself?
I will be at your service immediately."
"M. Private Secretary. 1 wait your orders," replied M. de


io8
INQUIRIES.
Graun, gaily, as he made a friendly but very ceremonious bow t<
the other.
The baron was about fifty years of age: his hair was grey,
curly, scanty, and slightly powdered. His chin, somewhat pro-
truding, was half hidden by a high cravat of very thick muslin,
and of a most dazzling whiteness. His countenance was full of
shrewdness, his figure was aristocratic, and from beneath the
glasses of his gold spectacles beamed a look equally satirical and
penetrating. He placed his hat upon an arm-chair, and stood by
the fire-place, while Murphy continued his occupation.
"His highness has doubtless been up part of the night, my dear
Murphy, for your correspondence appears to me to be rather
voluminous."
"His highness went to bed at about six this morning. Among
other letters, he wrote one of eight pages to the Lord Chamber-
lain, and dictated to me an equally long one to the President of
the Council of State, Prince Herkausen-Oldenzaal, his royal high-
ness's cousin."
"You know that his son, Prince Henry, has entered as lieuten-
ant in the guards of his Majesty the Emperor of Austria?"
"Yes ; his highness has recommended him warmly as his rela-
tion. He is a fine, brave young fellow, with cherubic look, and
a heart of gold."
"The fact is, my dear Murphy, that if young Prince Henry had
been introduced into the grand ducal abbey of Sainte Hermen-
gilda, of which his aunt is the superior, the poor nuns"
"Upon my word, baron"
"You take me, then? ha! ha! 'tis the air of Paris—but let us
talk seriously. Shall I wait the rising of his highness to communi-
cate the information I bring?"
"No, my dear baron. His highness has ordered that he be not
awaked till two or three in the afternoon; he wishes you to send
off these despatches by special courier this morning, instead of
waiting until Monday. You will confide to me the information
you have collected, and I will repeat it when his highness arises;
such are his commands. Nothing new here, my dear baron? Hac
nothing been noised about? Our mysterious adventures"
"Are completely unknown. Since the arrival of his highness
in Paris, he has made a practice of appearing but seldom among
the few persons to whom he has been presented: it is therefore
supposed that he is extremely fond of privacy, that he makes fre-
quent excursions in the neighborhood of Paris. Consequently,
with the exception of Countess Macgregor and her brother, no one
is aware of the disguises assumed by his royal highness; and
neither the countess nor her brother has the smallest interest in
betraying the secret."
"Ah, my dear baron?" said Murphy, sighing, "what a pity
that cursed countess is now a widow."
"Was she not married some fifteen years ago?


INQUIRIES.
109
"Yes, a short time after the death of that unfortunate little girl,
who would now be sixteen or seventeen years old, and whose loss
his highness daily laments."
"His sorrow is the more intelligible, as his royal highness has
no children from his marriage."
"Besides, my dear baron, this may account for the deep inter-
est his highness takes in poor Goualeuse, arising as it does from
the fact that the daughter he so bitterly deplores would have been
of the same age as this unfortunate girl."
"It seems really a fatality that Lady Sarah Macgregor, from
whom one might have supposed him delivered for ever, should
find herself a widow within eighteen months after his highness has
lost the pattern of wives, after years of wedded happiness. The
countess, I feel convinced, believes herself specially favored by
fate in the occurrence of this double widowhood."
"And her insensate hopes have sprung up more ardently than
ever; yet, she well knows that his highness has the deepest and
most fully-merited aversion to her. Did she not cause the death
of his daughter by her indifference? Was she not the cause of
Oh, baron!" said Murphy, leaving the sentence unfinished,
"the coming of that woman casts a shadow before. Heaven
grant that she may not presage further calamity!"
"But at the present time the views of the countess are absurd;
the death of the poor little girl, of whom you just spoke, snapped
the last tie which could attach his highness to that woman; she
must be mad still to entertain such hopes"
"Yes; but she is a dangerous lunatic. Her brother, as you
know, shares her ambitious and obstinate ideas, although that
worthy couple have as much reason to despair now, as they had
to hope eighteen years ago."
"Alas, what miseries the criminal alacrity of that infernal Poli-
dori occasioned during that time!"
"Speaking of that wretch, I have been told that he has been
here within a year or two, steeped in misery, or else subsisting by
disgraceful practices."
"What a fall! what degradation for a man of so much wit,
learning, and talent!"
"But how perverted by a bad heart! Heaven grant that he
may not meet the countess! The union of two such evil spirits
would be dangerous indeed. But the facts you have gathered;
have you them with you?"
"Here they are," said the baron, drawing a paper from his
pocket. "They relate to the researches made respecting the birth
of the young girl called the Goualeuse, and concerning the present
place of abode of an individual known by the name of Francois
Germain, the son of the Schoolmaster."
"Will you read your notes to me, my dear De Graun? I know
the intentions of his highness, and I shall soon see whether your


no
INQUIRIES.
intelligence is satisfactory. You are quite satisfied with your
agent ?''
'' M. Badinot is a perfect specimen of one of those mysterious
beings which are only to be met with,—nay, which cannot possi-
bly be produced elsewhere but in Paris. He would greatly amuse
his highness, if it were not important that they should not be known
to each other."
"You can increase the pay of M. Badinot, if you think proper."
"But his notes, my dear baron?"
*' Here they are, almost entirely digested from the report fur=
nished by M. Badinot."
*' I am all attention."
De Graun then read as follows:—
"Note relative to Fleur-de-Marie.—PibovX. the beginning of the
year 1827, a man known as Pierre Tournemine, under sentence
in Rochfort Prison, for the crime of forgery, proposed to a woman,
named Gervaise, commonly called the Owl, to take the entire
charge for the future of a little girl of six or seven years old, in
consideration of the sum of one thousand francs, in a single pay-
ment.
'' The bargain struck, the child was handed over to this woman,
with whom she remained two years; at the end of which time, in
order to escape the ill-treatment to which she was subjected, the
young girl disappeared. The Owl had heard no more of her for
some years, when she again saw her about six weeks ago in a
cabaret in the City. The child, now grown into a young woman,
was then known by the name of Goualouse.
"A few days before this meeting, the said Tournemine, whom
the Schoolmaster knew at the Rochfort galleys, had found means
to transmit to one Red Arm (a secret and habitual correspondent
of imprisoned convicts as well as those discharged) a long letter
concerning the child formerly entrusted to the woman Gervaise,
alias Owl.
"From this letter, and from the declarations of the Owl herself,
it appears that a certain M. Seraphine, housekeeper to a notary
named Jacques Ferrand, in the year 18—, commissioned Tourne-
mine to find out some woman, who, for the sum of one thousand
francs, would consent to take charge, altogether and permanently,
o* a child which was wished to be got rid of, as above mentioned.
The Owl accepted the offer.
"The object of Tournemine in addressing this information to
Red Arm, was to enable him, through some third party, to extort
money from M. Seraphine, by threatening to dig up this long-
buried scandal. Tournemine further asserted that this M. Sera-
phine was merely the tool of some unknown personages.
"Red Arm had communicated this letter to the Owl, some time
the accomplice in the crimes of the Schoolmaster; which explains
how this information came into the possession of the ruffian, and
why, so soon as she recognized Fieur-de-Marie in the White Rab-


INQUIRIES
III
bit, the Owl, in order to torment her, said, ' we nave found ou'
your parents, but you shall never know who they are.'
"The point to be cleared up next was whether the letter writter-
by Tournemine concerning the child formerly handed over by him
to the Owl, was strictly true.
"It has been ascertained that Mme. Seraphine and the notary
Ferrand are both living. The address of the latter is No. 41 Rue
de Sentier. He passes for being austere and pious—at least, he is
a great church-goer; in business he is so strict as to be accused of
harshness; his practice is first-rate; and he lives with an economy'
bordering on parsimony; Mme. Seraphine is still his housekeeper.
M. Ferrand, formerly very poor, has purchased his appointment
for three hundred and fifty thousand francs. Part of this money
was furnished to him by M. Charles Robert, a superior officer of
the Paris National Guard, an extremely handsome young man,
who is very fashionable and popular in certain company. Some
evil speakers affirm that in consequence of certain lucky specs upon
the Stock Exchange entered into with M. Charles Robert, the-
notary must at present be in a situation to repay the cost of his
place. But the reputation of M. Ferrand is so well established,
that these reports ar pretty unanimously set down as horrible
calumnies. It seems, then, pretty certain, that the housekeeper
of this holy man, Mme. Seraphine, must be able to throw entire
light upon the birth of Goualeuse."
"Excellent, my dear baron !" said Murphy, "there is much
that looks like truth in the declarations of this same Tournemine,
Perhaps we may obtain, from this notary's housekeeper, some
means of discovering the family of that unfortunate girl. And
next, have you equally good information about the Schoolmaster,
boy?"
"Less precise, perhaps—but still very satisfactory."
"Why, your M. Badinot is a treasure."
"You see that this Red Arm is the bearing-shaft of all. M.
Badinot, who must have some connection with the police, had
already pointed him out to us as being the go-between of many
convicts, since the first steps taken by his highness for the discov-
ery of the son of Mme. George Duresnel, the unfortunate wife of
.that monster Schoolmaster."
"No doubt: and it was while seeking Red Arm in his dirty den
in the City, Rue aux Feves, that Knifer and Goualeuse were met
with. His highness was resolved to embrace this opportunity to
visit these horrible haunts, thinking that he might find there some
unfortunates to drag out of the gutter. His anticipations have
been fulfilled; but at the cost of what perils!"
"Perils, my dear Murphy, which you have bravely shared."
"Why else do I hold the appointment of Coalheaver in Ordi-
nary to his royal highness? " replied the squire, with a smile.
'' Rather say, his brave body-guard, my worthy friend. But to
speak of your courage and devotion is to repeat a thrice told tale;


INQUIRIES.
II?
some office or house of business, as he left home ni the morning
and returned about ten o'clock at night. The only person who
precisely knows the residence of the young man is a female lodger
in the house No. 17, Rue du Temple; this young girl, who
appeared to be very intimately connected with Germain, is an
extremely pretty grisette, known as Rigolette. She occupies a
room next to that in which Germain had lodged. That room,
empty since Germain's departure, is still to let; and, under the
pretext of hiring it, further information may be obtained."
"Rigolette!" cried Murphy, suddenly, after a few moments 01
deep reflection; "I have heard that name somewhere."
"How, Sir Walter Murphy," replied the baron, laughing.
"You, the worthy and respectable father of a family, know such
people as grisettes? What! the name of Rigolette not new to
you? Oh, fie, fie!"
"I'faith, his highness has put me in the way of making such
strange acquaintances that you have no occasion to be so much
astonished at that. Sir Baron: not so fast, if you please—yes,
now I recollect it perfectly ; in telling me the story of Goualeuse,
his highness could not avoid laughing at-the very odd name of
Rigolette; and, as well as I can remember, it was the name of a
prison-companion of that poor Fleur-de-Marie."
"Well, just now Rigolette may be of vast service to us. But I
will finish my report:—
"Perhaps some benefit might arise from hiring the room at No.
17, Rue du Temple. There were no orders to push the investi-
gations any further; but, from some words which fell from the
portress, there is every reason to believe, not only that it would be
possible to find in this house traces for the discovery of the School-
master's son, through the means of Rigolette, but that the place
itself would afford his highness an opportunity of studying human
nature amid wants, difficulties, and misery, the very existence of
which he is far from suspecting."
'' Thus you see, my dear Murphy," said DeGraun, finishing the
reading of his report, and presenting it to the gentleman—"you
see that it is from the notary, Ferrand, we must expect to obtain
information as to Goualeuse's parents, and it is from Rigolette that
we must seek the present abode of Germain. It seems to me a
great thing to have ascertained the direction in which to search
for what we want to find."
"Undoubtedly, baron. His highness, too, I am sure, will find
an ample field for observation in the house of which you speak.
But I have not yet done: have you gained any tidings relating to
Marquis d'Harville?"
"Yes; and so far as money matters are concerned, the fears of
his royal highness are wholly unfounded. M. Badinot affirms (and
he is very likely to be well informed on the subject) that the wealth
of the marquis was never better secured, nor more ably managed."
"After having in vain conjectured the possible cause of the


114
INQUIRIES
deep and secret grief which preys upon D'Harville, his highness
imagined that perhaps the marquis was involved in pecuniary
difficulties. Had it been so, he would have removed them in that
mysteriously delicate manner which you know he adopts to veil
his generosity: but since he is mistaken in his surmises, he must
abandon all hope of solving this riddle; which he will do with the
greater reluctance on account of his ardent friendship for D'Har.
ville."
“Which is easily accounted for. His royal highness has never
forgotten the highly important services rendered to his father by the
father of the marquis. Are you aware my dear Murphy, that at the
period of the remodeling of the States of the Germanic Confeder-
ation, the sovereignty of his royal highness's father was in immi-
nent peril of annihilation. The deceased Marquis d'Harville was
enabled to render the greatest service to our patron's father, for
whom he preserved to our patron's father his wide domains. As
to the friendship between the present marquis and his royal high-
ness, I believe that dates from when the old Marquis d'Harville
resided for some time at the court of the then reigning Grand
Duke, their respective sons being playmates."
" Yes; they have cherished the sweet remembrance of those
pleasant boyhood days. Nor is this all. So profound is his high-
ness's gratitude for the services rendered to his father, that all
belonging to the family of D’Harville possess a powerful claim on
the kindness of the prince. Thus, it is not less to her virtues or
her misfortunes than to this relationship poor Mme. George owes
the unwearied kindness of my lord.'
"She is D'Harville's mother's cousin, and her most intimate
friend : the old marquis entertained the most perfect friendship for
Mme. George.“
"But how came it, that the D’Harville family allowed a scion of
their family to marry this villain Duresnel ? "
"This unfortunate woman's father was one De Lagny, who pos-
sessed immense property and he naturally longed to see his daugh-
ter married well. The chief suitor was a member of a wealthy
and respectable family with influence in the political world. Con-
cealing depravity under a specious outside, this man was united to
Malle. de Lagny. In a very short time the mask was stripped
from his character and his natural propensities were displayed. A
gambler, spendthrift, and profigate addicted to the lowest vices
that can disgrace a human being, he soon dissipated not only his
own fortune, but also his wife's in gaming and debauchery. Even
the estate to which Duresnel had retired was involved in the gen-
eral ruin. Taking her son with her, she sought an asylum with her
relation the Marchioness of Harville, whom she loved with the
tenderness of a sister. Duresnel, utterly ruined, was reduced to
desperation : he sought in crime new resources to supply his prof.
ligacy. He became a forger, robber, and murderer ; was detected,
and sentenced to the galleys for the term of his natural life. Yete


INQUIRIES
115
zven there, he found means to carry off his son from his unhappy
wife, and confide him to a villain of his own kidney. You know
the rest. After the condemnation of her husband, Mme. George,
without assigning any reason for the step, quitted the Marchioness
of Harville, and went to hide her shame in Paris, where she soon
fell into destitution. It would occupy too much time to tell you
by what train of events our patron became cognizant of the mis-
fortunes of this excellent woman, and the ties which connected her
with the D’Harville family : it is sufficient that he came most gen-
erously to her assistance, induced her to quit Paris, and keep the
farm at Bouqueval, where she now is with Goualeuse. In this
peaceful retreat, she has found tranquility, if not happiness; and
the overlooking and the management of the farm may serve to
prevent her thoughts from dwelling too deeply on her past sor-
rows. As much to spare the almost morbid sensibility of Mme.
George, as from a disinclination to blazon his own good deeds,
my lord has not even acquainted D'Harville with the fact of his
having snatched his kinswoman from frightful want."
"I now understand the double interest which his highness feels
in discovering the traces of this poor woman's son."
" You will also judge from this, my dear baron, of the affection
borne by his highness to the whole of his family, and how intense
is his grief at seeing the young marquis so sad, amidst so many
reasons for being happy.'
“In fact, what is it that D'Harville can pine for? He unites
everything that is desirable-birth, fortune, wit, and youth ; his
wife is handsome, and as lady like in all behavior as she is
lovely-
" That is all true; and his highness never thought of the in-
quiries of which we have been speaking, until he had, in vain,
sought to discover the origin of D'Harville's dark melancholy; in-
deed, the latter has shown himself deeply sensible of the kindness
of his highness, yet always observes the same guarded reserve as
to the subject of his sadness. Perchance, it is some affair of the
heart?”
“And yet he is said to be strongly attached to his wife ; and
she gives him no cause for jealousy. I often meet her in society :
she is much followed, as a young and lovely woman always is ;
but her reputation has never received the slightest blemish."
"Yes, the marquis takes the utmost pride in his wife. There
has been only one slight difference between them, and that was on
account of the Countess Macgregor."
“She sees her, then ?"
“. By the most unfortunate chance, the father of D'Harville was
acquainted some seventeen or eighteen years since with Lady
Sarah Seyton, of Halsbury, and her brother Thomas, at that time
residing at Paris, where they were patronized by the English Am-
bassador's lady. Learning that the brother and sister were going
to Germany, the old marquis gave them letters of introduction to


INQUIRIES.
117
"I am astonished! His highness had always shown the ut-
iaiost possible horror of that woman."
"And he now manifests more of that horror than ever; if, in-
deed, that is possible."
"And, notwithstanding, he desires her to be brought to him.
To be sure, it is a very easy matter to deport Cecily again, if she
do not accomplish what he expects of her. Orders have been
transmitted to the son of the gaoler of Gerolstein fortress to carry
her off, under the pretext of being in love with her. and all neces-
sary facilities will be given to the accomplishment of his project.
Enraptured with this opportunity of obtaining her liberty, the
octoroon will follow her supposed abductor. Arrived in Paris she
will still remain under the weight of her sentence; she will still be
an escaped and convicted offender ; and I have so arranged it that,
whenever his highness requires it, he will only have to apply to
obtain her extradition.'1
"I must also tell you, my dear baron, that when David learned
that Cecily was about to return, he was horrified. At length he
cried: 'I hope that your highness will not oblige me to see that
monster.' 'Do not be alarmed,' replied my lord; 'you shall not
see her, but I may require her presence in aid of certain projects
of my own.' David was relieved from an enormous weight of care
by those few words ; nevertheless, I am sure that this circumstance
awakened most painful feelings in his mind."
"Poor negro! he still loves her! She is said to be so extremely
beautiful too!"
"Beautiful; far too beautiful. It would require a slave-driver's
practised eye to discover the mixed blood in the almost impercep-
tible blue which lightly colors her rosy finger-nails; our fairest
northern beauties have not a more transparent complexion, nor a
whiter skin."
"I was in France when his highness returned from America,
bringing with him David and Cecily ; I know that the excellent
negro has ever since been attached to his highness by the warm-
est gratitude; but I have never learned how he became thus de-
voted to our master's service, or how he happened to marry Cecily,
whom I saw for the first time about a year after her marriage : and
heaven knows how much scandal she had already caused!"
"I can inform you of every particular you desire to know, my
dear baron, for I accompanied his highness in his voyage to the
West Indies, where he snatched both David and this octoroon
from a most frightful condition."
"You are truly kind, my dear Murphy; I am all attention,"
said the baron.


DAVID AND CECILY
CHAPTER XXII.
DAVID AND CECILY.
"Senor Doris, a wealthy Cuban planter," began Murphy,
"perceived in one of his black slaves, named David, engaged ip
the infirmary attached to the plantation, a remarkable degree of
intelligence ; a deep and attentive sympathy with the poor patients,
to whom he showed with delight those attentions which were
ordered by the doctors; and furthermore, such a singular talent
for botany, as applied to medicine, that he had, without any in-
struction, composed and classified a sort of Flora of the plants of
the grounds and its neighborhood. The Doris plantation, situated
on the sea-coast, was fifteen or twenty leagues distant from the
nearest town; and the doctors of the country, besides being ex-
tremely ignorant, were unwilling to travel so far over bad roads
and by indifferent conveyances. Wishing to provide a remedy
for this great inconvenience, so serious in a country subject to
violent epidemics, and to possess constantly a really able resident
practitioner, this planter conceived the idea of sending David to
France, there to study surgery and medicine. Delighted with the
offer, the young negro set out for Paris; the planter defrayed all
the costs of his studies, and, at the end of about eight years of dili-
gent application, David received, with distinguished applause, the
diploma of physician, and returned to the West Indies to place
his skill at the disposal of his master."
"But David was entitled to look upon himself as emancipated
from slavery, both in fact and in law, by treading the soil of
France."
"True; but David possesses a rare feeling of loyalty; he had
promised Doris to return, and he did so. He did not, so to speak,
consider that science his own property which had been acquired
at the expense of his master; and further, he entertained the
hope of bestowing amelioration, both moral and physical, upon the
slaves, his former companions. He proposed to himself to be not
only their physician, but also their support and their defender with
the colonists."
"He must indeed possess a rare honesty, and a holy love for
his fellow-creatures, to have returned to a master after living eight
years at Paris, amidst the most democratic youth in all Europe
it
"By this trait, judge of the man. Behold him, then, again in the
W-est Indies; treated by Doris, it must be confessed, with kind-
ness and consideration, eating at his table, and lodging beneath his


DAVID AND CECIL*.
roof. 'i..e slave-owner, stupid, malignant, sensuai, and like mcst
all Creoles, very despotic—considered himself extremely generous
in giving David a hundred and twenty dollars per annum. Some
months after, typhus fever ravaged the estate. Doris was
attacked by it, but was promptly cured by the excellent treatment
of David. Out of thirty negroes who were seriously affected, there
were but two who sank under it. Delighted with the ability dis-
played by David, Doris raised his salary to two hundred and fifty.
The black doctor was now the happiest man in the world; his
brethren looked upon him as a friend especially provided for them
by Providence. He was their idol. Thus a year rolled by. Among
the prettiest female slaves on this estate, the most remarkable was
an octoroon, named Cecily. Doris took a fancy, after the sultan-
fashion, to this young girl ; for the first time in his whole life, per-
haps, he was met by a refusal. Cecily loved ; she loved David,
who during the raging of the recent epidemic, had attended her
with devoted care. Love, a chaste love, now repaid that atten-
tion. David had too much delicacy of feeling to be capable of
noising abroad his happiness before the day when he could espouse
Cecily, which he intended to do at the commencement of her six-
teenth year. The master, ignorant of this'mutual attachment, had
proudly thrown the handkerchief to the pretty octoroon ; and she,
with a passion of indignant tears, communicated to David the
brutal attempt from which she had with great difficulty escaped.
The latter comforted and encouraged her, and went, on the
instant, to Doris to ask permission to marry her."
"Egad! my dear Murphy," said the baron; "I can easily
guess the reply of our West Indian sultan: he refused?"
"He did so. He had, he said, an inclination for this girl; in
his whole life he had never put up with the insolence of a slave;
he coveted this wench, and assuredly he would possess her. David
might choose for himself another wife or another mistress, just as he
liked ; there were at least a dozen yellow or saddle-colored girls on the
plantation as pretty as Cecily. David talked of his love, long since
reciprocated: the planter whistled. David persisted: but in vain.
His owner had the impudence to tell him, that it was a bad example
for a master to yield a point to a slave, and that it was an example
which he would not set for the sake of satisfying a mere notion.
David now condescended to supplicate; the master grew petulant,
and David, too proud to humble himself further, spoke in a firm tone
of his services, of his disinterestedness, the paltry stipend he con-
tentedly raceived. Irritated at this, Doris replied, that he was
treated a thousand times too well—for a slave! These words
roused the spirit of David. For the first time, he spoke like a
man who had tasted rights by his residence of eight years in
France. The don- was furious; threatened to clap him in irons
as a rebellious slave. David replied in bitter and violent terms.
Two hours afterwards he was tied to a post, and flogged; while
Cecily, before his eyes, was dragged to the harem of the planter."


120
DAVID AND CECILY.
"The conduct of this slave-owner was at once stupid and bar-
barous. He was absurd in his cruelty. He had need of this man
after all"
"So much need, that, on that very day, the rage into which
he had thrown himself, added to the intoxication in which the
beast indulged every evening, brought on an inflammatory attack
of the most dangerous description, the symptoms of which were
developed with the rapidity peculiar to such affections. The
planter was confined to his bed in a state of high fever. He sent
an express for a doctor; but the leech could not possibly arrive at
the plantation in less than six-and-thirty hours."
"Upon my word this attack seems providential, this fellow's suf-
ferings were richly merited."
"The malady increased with alarming rapidity. David alone had
the power to save him ; but Doris, suspicious as the wicked always
are, imagined that the black would take revenge by administering
poison in the medicine ; for after David had been flogged, he had
been thrown into a dungeon. At length, terrified at the progress of
the fever, humbled by suffering, and, thinking that, at the worst, he
had at least a chance of safety in trusting to the generosity of
David, the Cuban, after a violent internal struggle, gave orders
for him to be released from his chains."
"And David saved the planter?"
'' For five days and nights he watched over him, as though he
had been his father, combating the disease in each successive
stage with admirable skill, and in the end he triumphed, to the
exceeding astonishment of the other doctor, who had not arrived
until the second day."
'' And, on his restoration to health, the planter"
"To avoid blushing before his slave, whose unparalleled gen-
erosity continually reproached him, the Cuban, at a great expense,
contrived to attach to his establishment the doctor he had sent for
—and David was sent back to his dungeon."
"The act was atrocious, but does not by any means surprise
me; David would have been to this man a personification of
remorse."
*' A short time after these events, we arrived in the West Indies.
His highness had freighted a Danish brig at St. Thomas's, and we
visited incognito all the islands along which we were sailing. We
were received with much ostentation by Senor Doris; at an enter-
tainment which took place the day after our arrival, the planter,
heated with wine into a cynical, boasting fit, told us, with horrible
jestings, the story of David and Cecily—for I have hitherto for-
gotten to tell you, that, after dishonoring Cecily, he had thrown
her also into prison, by way of punishing the disdain with which
she had first received his proposals. On hearing this disgusting
recital, his highness imagined that the Cuban was either drunk or
lying: though drunk, however, this man had told no lie; and to


DAVID AND CECILY.
121
satisfy his apparent incredulity, he desired a slave to take a lan-
tern, and lead us to David's dungeon."
"And what then?"
'' In the whole course of my life, I never saw a sight so distress-
ing. Haggard, meagre, half-naked, and covered with festering
stripes, David and the poor girl—chained by the middle one at
each end of the dungeon—resembled two spectres. The lantern
that lighted us, threw a deeper tinge over this mournful picture.
David said not a word on our appearance; there was a dreadfu!
vacancy in his stare. Doris said to him, with a cruel irony o'
tone: 'Well, doctor, how do you find yourself by this time i
You who are so 'tarnal smart—why don't you cure yourself?'
The black replied with a sublime gesture and a single word;
slowly raising his right hand, and extending his forefinger toward
the roof, he, without even deigning to look at the planter,
said, in a solemn tone: 'Heaven!' and then was silent.
* Heaven!' repeated the planter, with a burst of laughter; 'ask
it, then, to snatch you from my hands. I'll bet ten bales it can't!'
Then, maddened by rage and intoxication, the planter shook his
clenched fist at heaven, and blasphemously exclaimed: 'Yes, I
defy heaven to give my pickers free tickets till they are dead. If
not done, I deny its existence !'"
"He was a brutal fool."
"His blasphemy filled our hearts with disgust. His high-
ness said not a word. We left the dungeon as well as the
plantation, which was situated on the sea-shore, and returned to
our vessel, which was moored at a short distance. At one o'clock
in the morning, when all in the building were buried in deep sleep,
our patron landed with eight men, well armed, went straight to the
dungeon, forced the doors, and carried off both David and Cecily.
The two victims were safely on board our ship, without any one
on shore even suspecting our expedition: his highness and I then
went to the house of the planter. Strange hardihood! These men
torture their slaves, yet take no precaution against their vengeance,
but sleep with both doors and windows open. Thus without
obstruction we made our way to the planter's bedroom, the interior
of which was lighted by a small glass lamp. His highness awak-
ened the man, who sprang up in alarm, his brain yet seething with
the fumes of his debauch. * You have to-night blasphemously
defied God to snatch your two victims from you before their death
—He has taken them !' said his highness, solemnly. Then, tak-
ing a bag which I carried, containing five thousand dollars in gold,
he threw it upon the bed of the man and added: 'That will
indemnify you for the loss of your two slaves. To your violence
which slays, I oppose a violence that saves. God will judge
between us.' We then departed, leaving Doris motionless and
stupefied, and imagining himself under the influence of a dream.
In a few minutes we had regained our brig, and set sail."
"It seems to me, however, my dear Murphy, that his highness


DAVID AND CECILY.
overpaid this wretch for the loss of his two slaves; for, in strict-
ness, David did not belong to him."
"We calculated, as nearly as we could, the expense of his
studies during eight years, and then tripled the price of himself
and Cecily as common slaves. Our conduct, I am aware, was an
infraction of the law of property ; but if you had seen the horrible
condition in which we found the two victims, who seemed almost
in their last agony, and if you had heard the drunken tyrant utter-
ing his impious defiance, you would feel why his highness wished,
as he said, upon this occasion to act, humbly, the part of a Provi-
dence."
"It appears to me that this is open to censure, as well as to praise
—like the act of punishing the Schoolmaster, my worthy Sir Wal-
ter. But had this affair no result?"
"It could not have. The brig was under Danish colors, his
highness's incognito was rigidly kept, and we were taken for wealthy,
eccentric Englishmen."
"David doubtless married Cecily on reaching Europe?"
"This marriage, from which so much happiness might reason-
ably have been expected, took place in the chapel of his high-
ness's palace. But by a strange revulsion of feeling, scarcely
was Cecily in the enjoyment.of a position she could so little have
hoped for, when, forgetful of all that David had suffered for her,
and all that she had suffered for him, she blushed, in the new world
into which she was thrown, at having married a fullblooded negro!
You know the scandal of her subsequent adventures. After two
years of marriage, David, whose confidence in her was only
equalled by his love, learned the full extent of her infamy. A
thunderbolt aroused him from his blind security."
"It is said that he wished to kill his wife."
"Yes ; but thanks to the entreaties of his highness, he con-
sented to have her shut up for life in a fortress; and it is this
prison which his highness is now about to throw open—to your
great astonishment, as well as mine—for I will not conceal that
from you, my dear baron. But it is growing late, and his royal
highness desires that your courier should start for Gerolstein with
as little delay as possible."
"Before two o'clock he will be on the road; so now, my dear
Murphy, adieu till evening."
"Adieu till evening, dear baron; and rather late in the evening
too, for I am certain that his highness will not let the day pass
without paying a visit to the mysterious house in the Rue du
Temple."


A ^LAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE. 12*
CHAPTER XXIII.
A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
On the day of the conversation between Baron de Graun and
Murphy, Rudolf, humbly clad, directed his steps, about three
o'clock on a dreary winter's afternoon, toward the Rue du Temple.
Situate in the centre of a dense trading neighborhood the house
externally presented nothing very remarkable; it was composed
of a ground floor, occupied by a man keeping a low drinking shop,
and of four stories, surmounted by garrets. A dark and narrow
alley led to a small court-yard, or rather to a sort of square, dry
well, five or six feet wide, completely excluded from air and light,
and serving as a receptacle for all the filth thrown down by the
several occupants of the respective chambers; for unglazed aper-
tures on each landing-place, opened upon this offensive pit.
At the foot of a dark and damp stair-case, a dull, lurid light, in-
dicated the housekeeper's room; a nook besmoked and begrimed
by the burning of a lamp, necessary even at noonday, to light the
gloomy den into which Rudolf entered for the purpose of asking
leave to see the empty room.
When Rudolf ventured into this dungeon, Pipelet, the porter,
temporarily absent, was represented by Mme. Pipelet. This lady,
seated near a stove about the centre of the apartment, seemed to
listen with grave interest to the singing of her pot.
Imagine the ugliest, the most wrinkled, the most ragged, the
most carbuncled, the most toothless, the most morose, the most
serpent-slimy of all portresses immortalized. The only trait which
we will permit ourselves to add to this beau-ideal, is a head-dress
composed of a Brutus wig, originally of a flaxen color, but
changed by time into every conceivable tone of red, brown, and
yellow, somewhat resembling the tints of autumnal foliage, and
which was matted into an inextricable mass of hard, stiff and
staring cork-screws. Mme. Pipelet never laid aside this tasteful
covering to her sexagenarian skull.
At sight of Rudolf, the portress inquired in a surly tone the reg-
ular challenge: "Where are you going?"
'' Madame, I believe there is a room with bed-room to let in
this house?" said Rudolf, laying upon the word madante an
emphasis which seemed not a little to flatter La Pipelet, for she
answered less acidly: "There is a room to let on the fourth floor,
but you cannot see k just now; Alfred has gone out."
"Your son, no doubt, madame? Will he return soon?'
"I


124
A FLAr IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
"I am not speaking of my son, but of my husband, sir. Whj
should not Pipelet be called Alfred, pray?"
"There can be no doubt, madame, of his perfect right to be so
called: but, if you will permit me, I will await his return. I
rather wish to take this room, for both the street and the neighbor-
hood suit me; the house too pleases me, because it seems to me
to be admirably taken care of. However, before I look at the
room, I should like to know if you, madame, can take charge of
my little affairs? I make a point of always employing the author-
ised housekeeper, when such an arrangement is agreeable."
This proposition was expressed in such flattering terms—the
housekeeper, too!—it completely won La Pipelet, who replied,
"Oh ! certainly, sir; I will attend on you. 1 shall feel it an honor
to do so; and I will treat you like a prince for six francs a month."
"Then be it six francs, madame. Your name, if you please?"
"Pomona Fortunata Anastasia Pipelet."
"Good, Madame Pipelet; I close with your terms of six francs
the month; and if the apartment suits me what will be the rent of
that?"
"With the closet the apartment is a hundred and fifty francs a
month; not a farthing can I abate: the leaseholder is a regular
screw—a skinflint."
*' And his name?"
"M. Bras Rouge (Red Arm).
That name and the remembrances which it called up, made
Rudolf start.
"You say, Madame Pipelet, that the lessee of the house is"
"M. Red Arm." -
"And he lives"
"Rue aux Feves, No. 13 ;. he also keeps a wine-shop by the
Champs Ely sees."
There was no longer room for a doubt; it was beyond all ques-
tion the same man. This coincidence astonished Rudolf.
*' If M. Red Arm is only lessee,*' said he, "may I ask who
the proprietor is?"
"M. Bourdon; but I have never had anything to do with any-
body except M. Red Arm."
Wishing to ingratiate himself more fully with the portress,
Rudolf resumed: "Look you, my dear Madame Pipelet, I am rather
tired, and almost frozen ; do me the favor to go to the spirit-shop,
on the ground-floor, and bring me a bottle of bitters, and two
glasses, or rather three glasses, as your husband will return pres-
ently." He placed a five-franc piece in the old woman's dirty
paw.
"Oh! what, sir! you wish, then, that one should adore you at
the very outset!" exclaimed the portress, whose carbuncled nose
seemed to be suddenly illuminated by the fires of a Bacchante's
thirst. "I will run to the dram-seller; but I will only bring a
couple of glasses. I and Alfred always drink out of the same


A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE I2f
glass! Poor old darling! he is so fond of showing delicate »tten'
tions to women."
"Go, Madame Pipelet; we will wait for Alfred."
"Ah! but if anyone comes, will you mind the lodge."
"Never fear, madame."
The old woman went out.
A few minutes after, a postman tapped at the window of th»
lodge, and putting his hand into the apartment, merely said,
'' Three sous!"
"Six sous, I suppose you mean, as there are two letters," said
Rudolf.
"One is paid," replied the postman.
Having paid the demand, Rudolf at first looked mechanically
at the two letters, which had been given to him ; but he quickly
saw they were worthy of a more careful examination. One of
them, addressed to Mme. Pipelet, exhaled through its cream-laid
envelope a strong odor, upon its seal of red wax were the initials
C. R., surmounted by a helmet, and resting on the starred sup-
porter of the cross of the Legion of Honor; the address was traced
in a bold, firm hand. The heraldic ostentation of this cross and
casque made Rudolf smile, and confirmed him in the idea that
the letter was not written by a female. But who, then, could be
this scented and emblazoned correspondent of La Pipelet? The
other letter, written upon blue coarse paper, and fastened with a
wafer, which had evidently been impressed with dots, made by a
pin's head, was addressed to '' M. Caesar Bradamanti, Dentist."
Evidently disguised, the writing of this superscription was entirely
composed of capital letters. Whether it was mere fantasy, or a
presentiment, that letter appeared to Rudolf to have a melancholy
aspect. He remarked that some of the letters of the address were
half effaced in one part of the paper, which seemed as though
rubbed. A tear had fallen there.
Mme. Pipelet returned, bringing the bottle of bitters and two
glasses.
"I have loitered, have I not, sir? but when once one gets into
Daddy Joseph's shop, there is no such thing as getting out again.
Oh, the old rascal—he is so talkative."
"Here are two letters that the postman left for you, madame,'1
said Rudolf.
'' Oh, dear me! Pray, excuse me, sir. Have you paid fen
them?"
"Yes."
"You are very kind. Then I will pay you o'lt of the change 1
have brought you back. How much is it?"
"Three sous," replied Rudolf, smiling at the singular mode of
repayment adopted by La Pipelet. "But may I observe, without
wishing to be impertinent, that you have there a correspondent
whose notes smell exceedingly nice."
"Let us see," said the portress, taking up Oie cream-laid nw


126
A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
"Upon my word, that is true; this note looks just like a billei
doux. Oh, indeed! a real love-letter, depend upon it; yet, who
is the villain that would dare to"
"Suppose your husband had been here, madame?"
"For heaven's sake, don't mention that or I shall faint in your
arms! After all, how stupid I am !" said the portress, shrugging
licr shoulders; '' I know all about it, now; it is from the Com-
mandant. Bless my soul! what a fright I should have been in.
Tor my Alfred is as jealous as an Arab!"
"But here is another letter, addressed to M. Caesar Brada-
uanti."
"Oh! yes, the dentist on the third floor; I will let Jack hold
it."
Rudolf fancied he had not heard aright; but he saw Mme.
Pipelet gravely throw the dentist's letter into an old Jack-boot
which was hanging against the wall. He looked at her with sur-
prise, and said: "What! you have put that letter"
"Well, sir, I have put it into the letter-ioot; it is safe there;
when the lodgers come in, either I or Alfred shake the boot, and
every Jack has his Joan."
While thus speaking, the portress had broken the seal of the
letter addressed to her; she turned it about in every direction,
and after a few moments of hesitation, said to Rudolf: "It is
Alfred who always undertakes the reading of my letters, because
I am not able to do so myself. Will you be so kind, sir, as"
"To read that letter? most willingly, madame," said Rudolf,
not a little curious to know something of this correspondent of
Mme. Pipelet. He read as follows, written upon cream-laid
paper, in the corner of which were repeated the casque, the letters
C. R., the heraldic supporters, and the Cross of Honor:—"To-
morrow, Friday, at eleven o'clock, let the fires be lighted in both
rooms, clean the mirrors, let all the coverings be taken off the fur-
niture, especial care being taken not to injure the gilding while
dusting, or to soil or burn the carpet while lighting the fires. If,
perchance, I should not be here when a lady arrives in a coach,
about one o'clock, and asks for me under the name of M. Charles,
show her up to my apartments, bringing the key down, that I may
receive it on my arrival."
Spite of the ungrammaiical style of this note, Rudolf perfectly
understood what was going on, and he said to the housekeeper:
"Who lives, then, on the first floor?"
The old woman laid her skinny yellow finger upon her hanging
lip, and said, with a malicious grin, "Mum! it's a woman's little
game."
"I only ask you, my dear Madame Pipelet, because before one
lodges in a house, one likes to know"
"That's quite right and proper; for that matter, I will willingly
.ell you all I know about it, which will not take me long. About
six weeks ago, an upholsterer came here, looked at the first floor,


A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE. 127
which was to let, and asked the rent of it; the following morning
he came again, with a handsome, fair young man, with small
mustaches, tine linen, and the cross of the Legion of Honor. The
upholsterer called this young man—Commander."
"He is a military man, then?"
"Military!" returned Mine, Pipelet, shrugging her shoulders:
'get along with you !—Military! why about the same as if Alfred
were to dub himself a cavalier."
"How so ? '*
*' He only belongs to the National Guard : the upholsterer merely
called him 'Commander' just to flatter him, just the same as it
would flatter Alfred to call him a dragoon. At length, when the
Commander (we know him by no other name) had seen all, he
said to the upholsterer, 'This is good, this will suit me; see the
proprietor, and arrange about it.' 'Yes, Commander,' said the
other. And, on the following day, the upholsterer signed the
agreement in his own name, and paid M. Red Arm six months in
advance, because, as it seems, the young man did not wish to be
known. Very soon afterwards the workmen came, turned the
first floor topsy turvy, brought couches, silk curtains, glasses in
gilt frames, and other superb goods, and made the place as grand
as a restaurant on the Boulevards. Not to mention carpets to
cover every corner, so thick and so soft that you would fancy
yourself walking upon furs. When all was done, the Commander
returned to see it, and said to Alfred, 'Can you undertake the
care of this apartment; I shall not come here often : light the fires
occasionally, and have everything ready to receive me, whenever
I drop you a letter?' 'Yes, certainly, Commander,' said my
flattering Alfred. 'And how much will satisfy you for that?'
'Twenty francs a month, Commander.' 'Twenty francs a month,
porter? Why, you surely must be joking!' And behold our
handsome swell, haggling like a pitiful miser, and trying to get
the best of poor folks; and all for two or three beggarly francs,
after going to the most abominable expenses tor an apartment that
he does not even live in. At length, by dint of battling, we got
twelve francs a month out of the snob. Twelve francs! is not that
enough to make one perspire? Away with such a paltry split-farth-
ing commander! What a difference between him and you, sir?"
added the portress, with 'ier blandest smile !" You do not call
yourself Commander; you have no paltry pride; you are not
rich, or you would not mount to the fourth story, and yet you
agree for six francs at the first word."
"And has this Commander been again?"
"You shall hear: tuat's the drollest part of it. It would seem
that our Commander is prettily fooled. He has already written
three times the same as to-day, to light the fire, and get every-
thing ready for the arrival of a lady. Well! all has been got
ready, but"
"No lady has come?"


128 A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
"Listen. The first of the three times the Commander arrived,
all flurry and joy, humming tunes, and swaggering like a peacock.
Well, he waited two long hours—not a soul came. As he was
going out by our lodge, to see how he looked, and just to annoy
him a little, Pipelet and I stopped him, and said, 'Oh! Com-
mander, there has been no little lady to ask for you at all!'
* Very well! very well!' he replied to us, with a look of shame
and anger; and away he strutted, biting his nails with rage. The
second time, before he arrived, a messenger brought a little note-
addressed to M. Charles. I guessed that the Commander was
done a second time; and Pipelet and I were just laughing about
it, when my gentleman came in. 'Commander,' said I, carrying
the back of my left hand to my wig, like a regular trooper, * here
is a letter for you; it seems there is another counter-order to-day.'
He looked at me fierce as Alexander, tore open the letter, read it,
grew red as a lobster, and then off he shot, strutting and humming
with close lips, but he was confoundedly vexed for all that; for
he's a passionate fellow—he has a white tip to his nose, and that's
a sure sign; but it's fun to see him storm. * Oh, ho! my bogus
commander,' thought I, 'there's another dose for you; that will
teach you to give only twelve francs a month for looking after
your fine rooms!"
"And the third time?"
"Oh! the third time I really thought it was all right. Th«
Commander came; he looked as if the game was his own; his
eyes were almost out of his head with joy and success. To do
him justice, though, he is really a handsome young man, for all
his meanness; well dressed, and stinking of musk like a civet
cat. The ground was not good enough for him, he was so puffed
up. He took the key, and, pointing to his apartment, said, with
a joyous and consequential tone, as though he would revenge
himself for having been fooled twice before, 'When the lady
comes, you will direct her to my apartments.' Well, Pipelet and
I were so curious to have a peep at the little lady—though even
now we had our doubts as to her coming—that we left our lodge-
and went and hid ourselves behind the door-post at the corner of
the passage, to watch for her. This time, sure enough, a small
blue cab, with the blinds closely drawn down, stopped just oppo-
site the door. 'Good! here's the lady at last,' said I to Alfred;
'I see her black and white hood: let us stand a little aside, or
perhaps we shall offend her.' Then we saw a little lady, with a
muff upon her knees, whose countenance was hidden by a black
veil, to say nothing of the pocket-handkerchief which she heid
constantly to her mouth, for she seemed to be weeping; but,
behold you, when the steps were down, the lady, instead of alight-
ing, said a few words to the coachman, who, very much aston-
ished, shut the door."
"Then the lady did not get out?"
"No, she threw herself back in the coach, and pressed her


A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE. 129
hands to her eyes. I rushed forward and said to the coachman,
before he had got up into his seat, 'What! my good fellow! are
you going to drive back again?' 'Yes,' said he. 'And where
to?' asked I. 'To where I came from?' 'And where did you
come from?' 'From the Rue Saint Dominique, corner of the
Rue Belle Chasse.'"
At these words Rudolf shuddered. The Marquis d'Harville,
one of his dearest friends, as has already been stated, and who
had for some time past labored under the deepest melancholy,
lived in the Rue St. Dominique, at the corner of the Rue Belle
Chasse. Was it the marchioness thus hastening to her ruin?
Had her husband suspicious of her misconduct—misconduct
which, probably, was the sole cause of the misery by which he
was devoured? These doubts rushed upon the mind of Rudolf.
Yet he was acquainted with all the friends of the marchioness, and
he could not remember to have ever seen her visited by any one
who answered to the description of the Commander. After all,
the young woman who had been spoken of might possibly have
taken a coach in the Rue St. Dominique, without living there.
That was no proof that this imprudent woman really was the
marchioness; nevertheless, vague and painful suspicions haunted
him. His abstracted and thoughtful air did not escape the notice
of the portress.
"Well, sir, what are you in such a brown study about?" asked
she.
"I was wondering what could be the reason for the lady, after
coming as far as the very door, so suddenly changing her mind."
"What wonder, sir? a fright, an idea, a superstition! We poor
women are so weak and timid; are we not, sir?" said the horrible
portress, with an air of hideous affectation. "It seems to me,"
she continued, "that if I had been going secretly like that—to
play false to Alfred, for instance—that I should have been
obliged to go backward and forward I don't know how often. But
never! No, never! Poor old dear: there is no breathing soul
under the canopy of Heaven that can say"
"I believe you, Madame Pipelet. But this young woman?"
"I do not know whether she was young : we could not see even
the tip of her nose; however, she went away as she had come,
wit. out trump or drum. If Alfred and I had received ten francs
to drmk her health, we could not have been better pleased."
*' Why so?"
"Because we were thinking of the wry face the Commander
would pull; we knew that it would make us die of laughing. So,
instead of going at once to tell him that the bird had flown, we
allowed him to wait, and fret, and fume for a whole hour. Then
I went :<p, with only my list shoes on my poor little feet; I reached
his door, which was halt open. I pushed it, and it gave a creak.
The staircase is as dark as pitch, and so is the entrance to the
apartment; so, behold you, as I entered the room, my Commandei


I30 A FLAT IN THE WE DU TEMPLE.
catches me in his arms, and cries in a drawling voice—' My dear-
est angel! in the name of heaven, what makes you so late?'"
Notwithstanding the more than grave thoughts which possessed
him, Rudolf could not repress a smile, as he surveyed the gro-
tesque wig and the repulsive, carbuncled, and wrinkled visage of
the heroine of this ridiculous mistake.
Mine. Piplet resumed, after indulging in a hilarious grimace,
which, for the moment, made her look uglier than ever; "He!
he! he! that was a good one, wasn't it? But you shall hear. I
did not reply, but held my breath, reclining in the arms of the
Commander. All of a sudden the brute cried out, thrusting me
from him as if he had clutched a spider, 'What the devil have I
here?' 'It is I, Commander, the portress,' replied I, coolly,
*and, as such, I must request you will keep your hands to your-
self, and not take me by the waist, nor call me your angel, and
tell me that I am late in coming!* Only supposing Alfred had
been in the way!' 'What do you want here?' cried he, furi-
ously. 'Commander, the little lady has been here in a coach.'
'Well! and why don't you make haste and show her up? You
are an ass! Did I not tell you to show her up?' 'Yes, Com-
mander, it is true that you told me to show the little lady up.'
'Well?' 'Only the little lady ''Speak out, woman!' 'Oh!
then the little lady has gone away again.' 'Ah! you nave said or
done something to cause her to do so,' cried he, more furious than
ever. 'No, Commander, the lady did not even alight from the
coach; as soon as the driver opened the door, she told him to
shut it, and take her back to the place from which he had brought
her.' 'The carriage cannot have got far!' exclaimed the Com:
mander, rushing toward the door. 'I am afraid it has,' replied I,
'for it has been gone above an hour.' 'An hour!—an hour!
Why did you not let me know sooner?' roared he with increased
rage. 'Because, Commander, we thought we would spare you,
as long we could, the heavy tidings of your third sell,' said I, in
the gentlest and most delicate manner. 'There!' thought I,
'that's a bite for you my scented fop; I hope you will feel com-
fortable now at the thought of having taken me to your arms,
instead of your fine madame.' 'Get out of the room! you are
eternally boring me with your infernal stupidity!' shouted the
Commander, tearing off his grand plaid dressing-gown, and
throwing it, with his fine smoking cap, made of velvet embroid'
ered with gold, on the floor. It was a handsome dressing-gown,
too. Such magnificent stuff! It dazzled the eyes: the Com-
mander looked like a glowworm!"
"But you ran the risk of his not employing you again?"
"Oh, he knew better than that, he was under our thumb. He
knew that we had discovered the residence of his fine lady, and
had he said anything to us, we would have threatened to blow the
whole affair. And then, who does he suppose is going to look
after his rooms for his shabby twelve francs!—some stranger, 1


A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE. 131
Suppose; but no, no—we would soon make the place too hot to
hold her. Miserly wretch! Do you know, sir, that he had the
meanness to examine his wood, that he might keep count how
many blocks we burned in warming his rooms. Oh! he is some
mushroom, some upstart, who has suddenly become rich. The
fellow has the head of a lord, and the heart of a beggar, who
squanders with one hand, and nips and pinches with the other. I
don't wish him any harm, but it does exceedingly amuse me to
see how the little woman balks him. I will wager anything it
will be the same thing to-morrow. She has appointed to come,
but she won't. I must go and inform the fishwoman who lives
next door, she likes a joke as well as I do, and is quite anxious to
catch a glimpse of 'madame.' If she comes this time, we'll see
whether she is fair or dark, and whether she is pretty. Now, sir,
when we remember that there is some poor devil of a husband in
the affair—oh! it's very laughable, isn't it?—but that is the poor
man's own lookout. Oh, dear, oh, dear! pray excuse me—my
pot has ceased to sing, it bubbles; the meat cries, 'Come and eat
me!' It is honey-comb tripe. Won't it delight little Alfred! for,
as he himself says—the old dear—for thick tripe he would betray
France! Yes, his beautiful France !—the dear old creature!"
While Mme. Pipelet thus busied herself with household matters,
Rudolf gave himself up to the most painful reflections. The
female spoken of (whether or not the Marchioness d'Harville)
had, no doubt, a long time hesitated, before she had agreed to a
first and second rendezvous; then alarmed at the consequences of
her own imprudence, a salutary remorse had prevented her from
fulfilling her dangerous promise. Supposing that the Marchioness
d'Harville was the heroine of this lamentable adventure, Rudolf
writhed with heartfelt agony, and this was rendered more acute
by the remembrance that he had once felt a warm and sincere
affection for that lady, as we shall hereafter see. But with Rudoli
this honorable passion had ever remained mute and concealed, foi
he loved the Marquis d'Harville as a brother. He questioned
himself, how D' Harville, young, intellectual, devoted, generous,
kind, and, above all, tenderly fond of his wife, could possibly be
sacrificed by her to such a ridiculous puppy, such an empty cox*
comb as this Commander. Could the marchioness have been
taken by the face of this silly fellow, which was said to be very
handsome? Yet Rudolf knew Lady d'Harville to be a woman of
a warm heart, of delicate taste, and elevated character: one
against whose fair fame the slightest whisper had never been
breathed. After mature reflection, he almost persuaded himself
that the wife of his friend was out of the question in this connec*
tion.
Mme. Pipelet having finished her culinary arrangements,
lesumed her conversation with Rudolf. "Who lives on the sec-
ond floor?" inquired he of the portress.
"Mother Burette—a wonderful woman at cards. She reads in


A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
your hand as though it were a book. There are many pe'ple who
come to her to have their fortunes told: and she makes her weight
jn money. However, fortune-telling is only one of her trades."
-'What does she do beside?"
'' She keeps a sort of private pawnbroker's—a leaving shop!"
"Oh! I understand; then the second-floor lodger lends upon
pledges?"
"To be sure she does, and is far more reasonable than the
licensed three-balls. Besides, she does not puzzle your brains
with a heap of tickets, and memorandums, and reckonings—not
she, it's all quite simple and plain. Suppose you take a shirt
worth three francs to Mother Burette; she lends you ten sous; at
the end of a week, you take her twenty sous, or else she keeps
the shirt. How simple all that is—eh? All in round figures, you
see; a child might understand it! And to see the comic objects
they bring to her!"
"Mother Burette has no other trade, I suppose?"
"She has no other, that I know of. And yet, I don't exactly
understand her secret doings in a little room, into which no one
goes except M. Red Arm and an old one-eyed woman, called the
Owl."
Rudolf looked at the portress with astonishment. The latter
putting her own interpretation on the surprise of her future lodger,
said to him, '' It's a funny name, is it not, the 'Owl?'"
"Yes; does this woman often come here?"
"She had not made her appearance for six weeks, but the day
before yesterday we saw her again. She limped a little."
"And what did she want with the fortune-teller?"
"That's more than I know: at least, as to what takes place in
the little room which I told you of, where nobody but the Owl, M.
Red Arm, and Mother Burette, ever go in. I have remarked
nothing more than that on those occasions the one-eyed woman
always brings a parcel in her basket, and that M. Red Arm
always carries a bundle under his cloak, and that they never take
anything away."
"And what do those parcels contain?"
"I know nothing at all about that, except that they make a sort
of devil's tattoo; and then there's a whiff upon the staircase of
sulphur, charcoal, and melted lead, or the like, and you hear puff,
puff, puff! like a smith's forge. I verily believe that Mother
Burette, at those times, deals with the old one, or practises magic
—at least, so says M. Caesar Bradamanti, the third-floor lodger.
Oh! there is a learned individual, M. Caesar! When I say an
individual, I ought to say an Italian, although he speaks French
as well as you or me, if he hadn't a very strong accent—but that's
nothing. He is a real learned man, that: and he understands
rimples, and will take out your teeth, not for the sake of money,
but merely for the honor. Yes, sir, for pure honor: for if you
have six bad teeth—and he cares not who knows it, for he says s«


A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE. 133
himself—he will pull out the first five for nothing, and only charge
for the sixth! Then he sells all sorts of remedies for all sorts of
complaints—diseases of the chest, coughs, colds—every nice ill a
body can enjoy! He mixes his own drugs and medicines, and
employs as his assistant, the son of our lessee, little Crooky. The
boy says his master is going to buy a horse and a red coat, and
proclaim his medicines in all places of public resort, and that he
(young Crooky) is to be dressed like a troubadour, and bang a
drum to attract customers."
"It seems to me that the son of your landlord fills but a very
humble situation."
"His father says he wishes to break the child in betimes, other-
wise he would end his days in a slip-knot. He certainly is the
ugliest and most mischievous little monkey in the world. He has
played off more than one trick upon poor M. Bradamanti, who is
the very pink of worthy creatures. Since he cured Alfred of his
rheumatism, we have worn him on our hearts; and yet, sir, there
are people ill-natured enough to say—but no—it makes the hair
of one's head stand on end! Alfred says, that if it were true, it
would send him to the galleys."
"But what is it?"
"Oh! I dare not—I can never venture to"
"Well, say no more about it."
"On the faith of an honest woman, it would be improper to
disclose such a thing to a young man"
"Say no more about it, Madame Pipelet."
"And yet, as you will be our lodger, it is but proper to forewarn
you that there are falsehoods going about. You are, I suppose, in
a position to be on terms of acquaintance and friendship with M.
Caesar? Now, if you should believe these reports, you would
probably be disgusted with his acquaintance, so I'll whisper in
your ear that"
Rudolf inclined his head, and the old woman muttered a few
words, which caused him to start with an exclamation of horror
and disgust.
"Oh, but this is abominable."
"Shocking, isn't it—if it was true? But treat it as I do—all
scandal and lies. Is it likely that a man who has cured Alfred of
his rheumatism—a man who offers to draw five out of six of your
teeth gratis—a man who has certificates of having cured I don't
know how many princes, all over Europe, and who pays his rent
down on the nail? I'd believe anything before that."
While Mme. Pipelet thus displayed her indignation against
slanderers, Rudolf called to mind the letter addressed to the
quack; that letter written upon coarse paper, and in a counter-
feited hand, half effaced by the dropping of a tear! In that tear,
in that mysterious letter, Rudolf saw the outline of a drama, a
Iragic drama. An involuntary presentiment told him that the
frightful reports about this Italian were founded in truth.


ttf A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
"Oh! here comes my Alfred!" exclaimed the portress; '' he
'< ill tell ;'ou as well as I; that they are wicked slanderers, who
iccuse poor M. Bradamanti—who has completely cured dear
Alfred's rheumatism."
M. Pipelet entered the lodge with a grave and magisterial air.
'rte was about sixty years of age ; had an enormous nose, a pro-
'uberant corporation, and a broad countenance, carved and col-
ored after the fashion of the droll mannikin nutcrackers of Nurem-
berg. This strange mask of a face was shaded by a broad-
brimmed chimney-pot hat, rusty with age. Alfred, who was as
-.onstant to his hat as his wife was to her grotesque wig, was envel-
oped in an old green coat, with enormous skirts, and lappels which
Vere, so to speak, turned up with grease, so brightly did the great
jrayish patches here and there shine. Notwithstanding his hat
ind green coat, which had about them an air of full-dress, M.
Pipelet had not laid aside the humble emblem of his craft as cob-
bler—a leathern apron described a tan triangle upon his long
Vaistcoat, which was checkered with as many colors as the patch-
Vork counterpane of Mme. Pipelet. The porter's salutation of
Rudolf was not without affability; but, alas! the smile was mel-
incholy, and his whole manner bespoke the man with *' a silent
borrow here."
"Alfred, this gentleman wishes to take the room and closet on
Ihe fourth floor," said Mme. Pipelet, presenting Rudolf to her hus-
band ; '' and we have waited for you to drink a glass of bitter
beer, which the gentleman has sent for."
This delicate attention on the part of Rudolf at once won the
heart of Alfred Pipelet; who, raising his hand to the front of the
brim of his hat, said, in a bass voice, that would have done honor
to a cathedral singer, "We shall, I hope, satisfy the gentleman as
porters, and the gentleman will, doubtless, satisfy us as a lodger
—birds of a feather flock together." Then suddenly interrupting
himself, Pipelet said to Rudolf in a tone of anxiety "Provided
that the gentleman is not a painter !''
"No, I am a merchant's clerk."
"Then, sir, my humble service to you. I congratulate you that
Nature did not make you one of those monsters called artists.
They are the plague, the pest of a house—they are its ruin, its
destruction!"
"So you have had a painter lodging with you?"
"Alas! yes, sir; we have indeed had one," said Pipelet, bit-
terly; "a painter, too, whose name was Cabrion!" At this
remembrance, despite his apparent meekness, the porter convul-
sively clenched his fists.
"Was he the last occupant of the apartment that I am about to
take?" inquired Rudolf.
"No, no; the last lodger who had it was a worthy, excellent
young man, named Germain; his predecessor was Cabrion. Oh,


A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
i3S
sir! since his departure this Cabrion has driven me almost stark
staring mad.''
"Have you then so much regretted him?" asked Rudolf.
"Regretted Cabrion!" exclaimed the astounded porter;
"regret Cabrion! Picture this to yourself, sir. M. Red Aim
paid him two months' rent to get rid of him, for we had been
unfortunate enough to let him the room on an agreement. A
sweet agreement! You have no idea, sir, of the horrible tricks
that he played upon us and the lodgers. More than twenty peti-
tions were sent to M. Red Arm, to expel the wretch. At last he
got rid of him by paying two months' rent. That's droll, isn't it,
for a landlord to pay rent to his lodger? But it would have been
better to pay him three months than allow him to stay. Well, he
went; and then you would suppose that was the end to Cabrion.
But no! from that day forth we have had no peace, morning,
noon, or night; that frightful Cabrion sends a swarm of black-
guards like himself, who come here one after the other, at all
hours and at all times, to ask me for a lock of my hair; and
always for Cabrion! Oh, sir!" sighed Pipelet, "had I committed
the most dreadful crimes, I could not have my slumbers more
cruelly disturbed. Every instant I awake with a start, expecting
to hear the voice of that accursed Cabrion. I suspect everybody
that approaches me; in every one I see a tormentor who seeks a
lock of my hair. I have lost all the natural sweetness of my
manner, and have become gloomy, suspicious, and crabbed, and
as fretful as a porcupine's quills. That infernal Cabrion has poi-
soned my existence !''
And Pipelet, heaving a profound sigh, bowed down his chimney-
pot beaver under the weight of his mighty misery.
"I can now understand your dislike to painters," said Rudolf,
"but the M. Germain of whom you have spoken made you some
amends for this Cabrion!"
'' Oh, yes, sir! he was a kind, good young man; free as the
day—so obliging, and so gay—but then his gaiety was kept within
proper bounds, and was of the r'ght sort, and did no harm to any
one—not like that of the wretch Cabrion, who I wish the devil
may pitchfork!"
"Come, come, calm yourself, my dear M. Pipelet; and don't
use such violent language. Who, now, is the happy housekeeper
to that excellent young man, that pattern of lodgers, M. Ger-
main?"
"No one knows, or will know, where he now lodges—that is
to say, with the exception of Mdlle. Rigolette."
'* And who is she?" asked Rudolf.
"A little needlewoman, the other lodger on the fourth floor,"
replied Mine. Pipelet; '' there's another jewel of a lodger; always
pays her rent in advance, and keeps her little place so clean, and
is so obliging to every one, and as gay and as happy as a lark
Industrious, too; always fagging away, like a little beaver ; some


136 A FLAT W T/tK RUE DU TEMPLE.
times earning as mivh as lwo francs a day—but that's by going it
hammer and tongs.'
"But how happens i* that Mdlle. Rigolette is the only one
acquainted with the present residence of M. Germain?"
"When he left the house," returned Mme. Pipelet, "he said to
us: 'I do not expect any letters; but if by chance any should
come for me, you wi\l give them to her.' And she would be well
worthy this confidence, even were it an unpaid money-letter—
wouldn't she, Alfred?"
"The fact is 'hat there wouldn't be a syllable to say against
her," said the porter sternly, " if she had not had the weakness to
M'ow herself to be cajoled by that atrocious Cabrion."
"Oh, as to tfiat, Alfred," replied the portress, "you' know very
•veil that the
 intimacy was quite harmless—although a few jokes
might pass between them. For although Rigolette is so merry
*nd good-natured, she is as prudent as I am myself. You should
nee the strong bolt on the inside .of the door! If her next-door
neighbor will make love to her, that's no fault of the little girl;
*t's entirely owing to the situation. For it was just the same with
Mie traveling clerk who had the room before Cabrion, as after that
infamous painter it was with M. Germain. Again I say, there is
<\o harm in that; it arises from their being next door to each
other, which naturally brings about a little love-making, but
nothing further."
"Oh," said Rudolf, "then I suppose whoever lodges in the
►00m I am about to take, must, as a matter of course, make love
to Mdlle. Rigolette?"
"Of course, sir; how can you be on neighborly terms without?
the two rooms are adjoining each other. Well, between two young
oeople there is always something wanted—a light or a bit of live
coal, or a match, or a drop of water; and as for water, Mdlle.
Rigolette i» never short of that. It is her luxury, she is a regular
little duck; the moment that she is at leisure, she washes her
floor and her hearth ; and so everything about her is so clean!
You will see that"
"So M. Germain, taking ihe locality into account, was a good
neighbor to Mdlle. Rigolette?"
"Yes, sir: it would not be too much to say that they were born
for each Mher. So polite, so young, it was quite a pleasure to see
them come down-stairs together on Sundays to take a walk; it
ivas the only holiday the poor things had! She, prettily set off in
a smart little cap, and a nice neat gown at twenty-five sous the ell,
which, *hough she had made herself, became her like a little
queen ', and he looking like a born gentleman!"
"And M. Germain has not seen Mdlle. Rigolette since he left
this house?"
"No sir, unless he has seen her on Sundays; for on other days
\Mlle. Rigolette has no time to think of sweethearting, I assure
f**. She gets up at five or six o'clock in the morning, and works


A FLAT IN THE RUE 2>t' TEMPLE. 137
till ten, and sometimes eleven, at night. She never leaves her
room, except in the morning to buy provisions for herself and her
two little finches, the three of them put together don't eat much.
What do they need? A penn'worth of milk, a little bread, a
bunch of chickweed, some salad, bird-ieed, and clear fresh water;
and upon that they chirrup and sing so merrily, the girl and her
two birds, and it's as good as a blessing to hear. them. And then,
she is kind and charitable; that is, as far as her means go—she
bestows her time and her cares on others: for, though working
twelve hours a day, she is barely able to support herself. Oh!
those poor wretches in the attics, whom Red Arm will turn into
the street in a day or two at the very farthest; many and many
a night have Rigolette and Germain watched over those poor
creatures' children!"
"There is an unfortunate family her*, then?"
"Unfortunate, sir? Great heaven! they are, indeed, unfortu-
nate. Five young children, the mother at the point oMeath, and
confined to her bed, the grandmother an idiot: and to support all
these, the labor ot one poor man, who scarcely tastes bread
through the weary hours, though he slaves like a nigger: yet he's
a first-rate workman. Three hours' sleep in twenty-four is all that
he will allow himself: and then what sleep ! broken by his hungry
children, who cry, 'Give us bread! Bread, father!' by the groans
of his poor, sick wife, tossing on her miserable straw ted, or by
the idiotic screams of his wretched mother, who will sometimes
howl like a wolf, from sheer hunger—for she has no more sense
than an animal—and when she is very hungry, we hear her down
the stairs; she howls like"
"Why, this is dreadful!" critd Rudolf. "And does no one
assist these poor creatures?"
"Oh, sir! we do as much for them as poor people can. Since
the Commander has given me his twelve francs a month, for look-
ing after his room, I have boiled my pot once a week, and then
these poor creatures always have some soup. Mdlle. Rigolette,
too, breaks her night's rest at the expense of candles, to make
night-clothes and petticoats for the poor children, out of her ends
and cuttings of stuffs. Then poor M. Germain, though he wasn't
too well off, pretended every now and then to receive some bottles
of wine from his friends, and Morel—that's the poor workman's
name—used to take a good drink or two, which warmed his heart
and gave him his heart again."
"And did the working deiitist do nothing for these poor
creatures?"
"M. Bradamanti?" said the porter. "He cured my rheumat-
ics, it is true, and for that I venwrate him; but, sinrp that day, I
said to my wife: 'Anastasia—M. Bradamanti—e^/(-.;a!' Didn't I
pay that to you, Anastasia?"
"Exactly; that is what you saiQ. <o me."
"Well, and what did he do?" - - .


/38 A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE.
"I'll tell you, sir. When we told M. Bradamanti about th^
misery of the poor Morels, on account of his complaining of the
screams of the old idiot when she was howling with hunger all
one night, he said to me: 'Since they are so much distressed, if
they have any teeth that want drawing, I will not even make them
pay for the sixth."
'' Decidedly, Madame Pipelet," said Rudolf, " I have abad opin-
ion of that man. And the female pawnbroker, has she been
more charitable ?''
'' Hum! After M. Bradamanti's style,'' said the portress. "She
has lent them money on their wretched goods. All has passed
into her hands, even to the last mattress, and that was no burden;
they never had but two."
"And now aids them no further?"
"Mother Burette! Bless you, she is as complete a hard case
in her way, as her lover is in his; for, between you and I," added
the portress, *' M. Red Arm and Mother Burette are—" and the
old woman gave a knowing wink of the eye, and a spiteful shake
of the head.
'' You don't say so?" said Rudolf.
"Oh! upon my life I think so. Midsummer hares are as mad
as March hares; ain't they, my old darling?"
Pipelet's sole reply was a melancholy shake of the head, which
gave a corresponding motion to the brim of his hat. As for Mme.
Pipelet, since she had shown some charitable feeling for the
unhappy family, she had become somewhat less repulsive in
Rudolfs eyes, who asked: "And what is this poor workman's
trade ?''
"A maker of bogus jewelry. He works by the piece; and
pretty well round shouldered working by the piece has made him-
After all, a man is only a man, he can do no more than he can,
can he. And when he has to give a crust to a family of seven
people besides himself, he has a tough job of it! Yet his eldest
daughter helps him all she can—though that is but little, very
little."
"How old is this daughter?"
*' About eighteen, and very handsome, too. She is servant to a
miserly old hunks, rich enough, they say, to buy all Paris; he is a
notary, named M. Jacques Ferrand."
"Ferrand !" said Rudolf, amazed at this new coincidence; for
it was from this notary, or at least from his housekeeper, that he
expected information relative to Goualeuse. "M. Jacques Fer-
rand, who lives in the Rue du Sentier ?" added he.
"The same, sir; do you know him?"
"He is the notary of the house of business to which I belong."
"Oh! then you must know what a famous money grubber he
is. But, let us be just to the man. He is extremely charitable
and devout. A saint of a man, eh? but as avaricious and hard-
hearted toward others as he is toward himself. It is eighteen


A FLAT IN THE RUE DU TEMPLE. 139
months since Louisa, the daughter of the lapidary, went to live
with him. She is a very lamb in mildness, but a horse at hard
work. She's slavey there, and has only eighteen francs wages,
neither more nor less. She keeps six francs a month for herself,
and all the rest she gives to her brothers and sisters. It is some-
thing, that; but what is it when there are seven mouths to feed!"
"But what does the father earn, if he is so very industrious?"
'' Industrious! The poor fellow is the steadiest of men; never
took his drop: he suffers all like a martyr; and his only prayer
seems to be, that each day should be forty-eight hours long, that
he might earn a little more bread for his family."
"His labor must be very ill paid, then?"
"Why, the poor fellow has been confined to his bed for three
months, which is the cause of his being thrown back so much.
His wife ruined her own health in nursing him, and she is now
fast dying. For these three months he has been obliged to live
upon poor Louisa's twelve francs, what they could borrow on
pledges from Mother Burette, and a few crowns lent to him by
the mock-jewel dealer for whom he works. But, eight people!
that's what I cannot help thinking of. And to see the hole they
live in! But I must not speak of that, sir, for our dinner is
ready, and only to think about that filthy garret would turn my
stomach. Happily, M. Red Arm is going to turn them out 01
the house. When I say happily, I- don't say it out of any ill-
will to the poor creatures, I can assure you. But as these
Morels are so very wretched, and we can do nothing to prevent
it, it is as well that they should be wretched elsewhere. It will
be an eyesore the less to us."
"But if turned out of here, where will they go?"
"My! that's what I really don't know."
"And how much can this poor man earn a day?"
"If he were not obliged to attend on his mother, his wife, and
the children, he could earn three or four francs, working so
hard as he does; but as he loses three-fourths of his time in
household work, it is doing well if he makes forty sous."
"That is indeed little, poor souls!" *
"Yes. it is easy to say poor souls! But there are so many
poor creatures, that as one cannot help them all, we must con-
sole ourselves as well as we can—isn't that about it, Alfred?
Oh! talking of consolation, you have not tasted your bitters."
"Why, to say the truth, Mme. Pipelet, what you have told
me has so affected me that But you and M. Pipelet will be
good enough to drink my health."
"You are very kind, sir," said the porter; "but would you like
Jo go up and look at the room?"
"Willingly; and, if it suits me, I will pay you a deposit."
The porter left his den, followed by Rudolf.


THE FOUR FLOORS.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FOUR FLOORS.
The dark and damp staircase seemed doubly dingy on this
gloomy winter's day. The entrance to each of the apartments of
this house had, to the observant eye, a physiognomy peculiar to
itself. Thus, the door which led to the Commander's abode was
freshly painted of a brown color, grained in imitation of wainscot;
a copper-gilt knob shone on the lock, and a handsome bell-rope,
with a red silk tassel, was in striking contrast with the mouldy
antiquity of the walls.
The door of the second story, inhabited by the fortune-teller
and pawn-broker, presented a singular aspect. A stuffed owl, a
bird signally cabalistic and symbolical, was nailed over the room-
door by the feet and wings; and a little wicket, latticed with iron
wire, enabled those within to examine their visitors previous to
admitting them.
The dwelling of the Italian quack doctor, who was suspected of
pursuing a frightful avocation, was also distinguished by the
strangeness of the entrance. His name was done in horses' teeth,
inlaid on a tablet of black wood, screwed on the panels; and the
bell-rope, instead of the classic termination of a hare's or a deer's
foot, was appended to the wire by the dried fore-arm of an ape;
this withered limb, with its five articulated ringers and its perfect
nails, had something of the horrible in its appearance. One might
have taken it for the hand of a child!
As Rudolf passed by this ominous-looking door, he fancied that
he heard the sound of smothered sobs; then, all at once, an ago-
nized, convulsive, horrible scream, which seemed as if wrung from
the inmost soul of some wretched sufferer, awakened the echoes
of that silent house. Rudolf shuddered: then quick as thought,
he rushed to the door, and pulled the bell violently.
"What ails you, sir? " asked the astonished porter.
"That shriek!'' said Rudolf; '' did you not hear it?"
"Yes, sir, I heard it; no doubt it is one of M. Caesar's patients
having a tooth drawn—or perhaps two."
This explanation seemed plausible, but it did not satisfy Rudolf.
He had rung the bell violently; yet no one came to answer him.
He could hear several doors shut in succession; and through a
glass bull's-eye which was above the door, Rudolf indistinctly saw
a haggard, cadaverous, and pallid countenance. A perfect forest
of wild, red hair r**»wned that hideous visage, which was fringed


THE FOUR FLOORS.
141
below by a long beard of the same color. This hideous face dis-
appeared in a moment. Rudolf felt completely petrified.
Brief as had been the vision, he believed that he recognized
those features. Those green eyes, that shone bright as aqua-
marine beneath those staring and yellow eyebrows—that livid
paleness—that slender and prominent aquiline nose, the nostrils
of which, strangely dilated and arched outward, exposed the nasal
septum—reminded him in a fearful manner of a certain Polidori,
whose name had been so execrated by Murphy in his conversa-
tion with Baron de Graun. Although Rudolf had not seen Poli-
dori for sixteen or seventeen years, he had a thousand reasons for
not forgetting him: the only thing that contradicted his remem-
brance was, that the man, whom he fancied he saw in the person
of this fair-skinned and red-haired quack, was extremely dark.
Although he had last seen Polidori in the prime of life, and
although he would be about the same age as the charlatan, there
were still between the two persons certain differences so remark-
able, that Rudolf remained in great doubt as to whether they were
one and the same person. At length turning to Pipelet, he inquired
—" Has M. Bradamanti long resided in this house?"
"About a year, sir; now I recollect, he came in January quar-
ter. He is a very punctual lodger; he cured my dreadful rheu-
matism ''
'* Madame Pipelet tells me that there are certain horrible reports
about him."
"She has told you of them?"
"Make yourself quite easy; I am very discreet."
** Well, sir, I don't believe there's the least truth in these reports
—and I never will believe it—I trust I have too much modesty to
do anything of the kind," rejoined Pipelet, blushing, and preced-
ing his new lodger to the next landing-place.
More than ever resolved to clear up his doubts—feeling that
Polidori's presence in the same house might greatly interfere with
his projects, and experiencing a growing inclination to put the
worst interpretation on the horrible cry he had heard, Rudolf
resolved to assure himself of this man's identity, and followed the
porter to the tipper story, where was situated the apartment he
wished to rent.
Rigolette's lodging, next-door neighbor to the chamber for which
Rudolf was in treaty, was easily recognized, thanks to a charming
gallantry of the painter described as the mortal foe of Pipelet.
Half-a-dozen chubby little Cupids, very freely and spiritedly
painted in the style of Watteau, were grouped about a shield. One
held a thimble, another a pair of scissors, another a flat-iron, and
another a hand-glass; and in the midst of them, in pink letters on
a sky-blue ground, was "Mdlle. Rigolette, dressmaker;" the
whole being surrounded by a garland of flowers, which stood out
in admirable relief from the sea-<yeen color of the door. T>>6


142
THE FOUR FLOORS.
beautiful little panel had all the better effect from its strong con'
trast with the filthiness of the staircase.
At the risk of opening afresh Alfred's wounds, Rudolf said,
pointing to the door: "That, I suppose, is the work of M. Cab-
rion ?*'
"Yes, sir; he took the liberty of spoiling the painting of the
door, by daubing it over with those fat, indecent brats, stark
naked, which he called ' Cupids.' If it hadn't been for the en-
treaties of Mdlle. Rigolette, and M. Red Arm's weakness, I would
have scratched all that out, as I also would this palette, filled with
horrid-looking monsters, amongst whom you may detect their
equally abominable creator—you may know him by his sugar-
loaf hat."
And, there, sure enough, on the door of the room Rudolf was
about to engage, might be seen a palette surrounded by all sorts
of odd, strange-looking figures, the witty conceit of which might
have done honor to Callot. Rudolf followed the porter into a
good-sized room, which communicated with a small bedroom,
and was lighted by two windows which opened upon the Rue du
Temple. Some wild fancies, which had been painted on the
same door, had been scrupulously respected by M. Germain.
Rudolf had many reasons for wishing to occupy this apartment;
therefore, modestly placing in the porter's hand forty sous, he said
to him :—
"This apartment exactly suits me; here is the deposit. I will
send my furniture in to-morrow. But let me beg of you not to
efface that palette. It is so very funny. Don't you think so?"
"Funny! Oh, sir! I have seen every one of those monsters
in my nightmares; hunting me, sir, in my dreams, with Cabrion
at the head of them, till I have awoke in a cold sweat: oh, there
was a horrid chase!"
"I can imagine that they were not pleasant visitors. But tell
me, have I any need to see your M. Red Arm about the hiring of
this apartment?"
"No, sir; he seldom comes here, except now and then on busi-
ness with Mother Burette. I always treat directly with the lodg-
ers. I will only further trouble you for your name?"
"Rudolf."
"Rudolf what?"
*' Plain Rudolf, M. Pipelet."
"I am satisfied, sir; I did not ask from idle curiosity—names
and inclinations are free."
"Tell me, M. Pipelet, cannot I call to-morrow upon poor Morel,
as a next neighbor, to ask if I can be of any use to him, since my
predecessor, M. Germain, was so good to him?"
"Oh, yes, sir, that can be done; it is true that will not be of
much use to him, as they are to be turned out; but still it will
ease his mind." Then, as if struck with a sudden thought, Pipe-
let, looking slyly at his new lodger, said: "I understand, I under-


THE FOUR FLOORS.
143
stand; it is a beginning, so that you can also call by-and-by, with
a good grace, upon the little neighbor next door!"
"Oh! I reckon upon that as a matter of course."
"There is no harm in that, sir—it is the custom—understand, I
mean honorably; and I am sure Mdlle. Rigolette has heard us in
the room, and is in a fever to see us go down again. I will make
a noise on purpose with the key, and if you look behind, you will
see her watching us." And, sure enough, Rudolf perceived that
the door, so handsomely decorated with the Cupids a la Watteau,
was ajar, and, through the narrow opening, he could see the turn-
up tip of a little rosy nose, and a large inquisitive black eye; but,
as he slackened his step, the door suddenly slammed to. '' Did
I not tell you, sir, that she was watching us?" said the porter;
then he added: "Pray excuse me, one moment, while I step into
my warehouse."
"Where is that?"
"At the top of that ladder is the landing upon which opens the
door of Morel's garret, and behind a panel of the wainscot is a
little dark hole, where I keep my leather: the partition is so
warped and full of cracks, that I can see and hear there as if I
was in their room. It is not, God knows, that I wish to act the
spy upon them.—on the contrary. But pray excuse me for a min-
ute or two, sir, while I get my bit of leather. If you will be good
enough to step down-stairs, I will rejoin you."
And so saying, Pipelet began to mount the crazy ladder, an
ascent which seemed perilous at his years.
Rudolf threw a last glance at the next door, as he reflected that
that young girl, the companion of poor Goualeuse, was doubtless
acquainted with the retreat of the Schoolmaster's son, when he
heard some one in the lower story come out of the apartment of
the charlatan; he distinguished the light step of a female, and the
rustle of a silk dress. Rudolf stopped for an instant, lest he
should intrude. Hearing no more, he went down. Arrived at
the second landing-place, he saw and picked up a handkerchief
that lay upon the lower stair—doubtless it belonged to the female
who had just left the lodging of Polidori. He took it to one of the
narrow stair-case windows, and examined it. It was magnifi-
cently trimmed with costly lace, and embroidered in one of the
corners were the initials L. N., surmounted by a ducal coronet.
The handkerchief was literally soaked with tears. Rudolfs first
impulse was to follow the person from whose hand this mute evi-
dence of grief had fallen, with the intention of restoring it; but
reflecting that such a step might be taken for impertinent curiosity,
he determined to keep it as the first link in the chain of a myste-
rious adventure, in which he had found himself suddenly and unin-
tentionally involved. On arriving at the porter's lodge, he said to
Mme. Pipelet : " Did not a woman come down-stairs just now?"
"No, sir—but a very fine lady, tall and slender, in a large black
veil did. She came fron the apartmc * of M. Bradamanti. Little


144
THE FOUR FLOORS.
Crooky went for a coach, in which the lady lias just gone away.
But what astonished me was to see that little blackguard get up
behind the coach. I dare say, though, it was to see where the
lady goes to; for he is as mischievous as a magpie, and active as
a ferret, spite of his club-foot."
"So, then," thought Rudolf, " the charlatan will most likely
discover this lady's name and address, since doubtless it.ishe who
has ordered Crooky to follow her."
'' Well, sir, does your room suit you?" asked the portress.
* It suits me excellently! I have hired it: to-morrow I will
send in my furniture."
*' May heaven bless you for coming by our door, sir; we shall
have one good lodger the more."
"I hope so, Madame Pipelet. It is understood that you will see
to my little domestic affairs. To-morrow my goods will be
brought. I will see them arranged myself." And Rudolf left the
lodge.
The results of the visit to the house of the Rue du Temple were
sufficiently important, alike to the solution of the mystery he
hoped to penetrate, and to the noble curiosity with which he
found out every occasion of doing good, and of preventing evil.
On reflection, he thought he had achieved the following results:
That Rigolette must be acquainted with the residence of Francois,
the Schoolmaster's son. A young woman, who, according to
some appearances, might unfortunately be the . Marchioness
d'Harville, had made, for the morrow, an appointment with the
Commander, which might ruin her for ever; and, for a thousand
reasons, Rudolf took a most lively interest in his friend D'Har-
ville, whose peace and honor seemed so cruelly compromised.
An honest and laborious artizan, crushed by the most frightful
misery, was about to be turned into the street with his family by
Red Arm.
Further, Rudolf had involuntarily come upon some traces of an
idventure in which the charlatan, Caesar Bradamanti (perhaps
ir'olidori), and a lady, who appeared to be of rank and fashion,
were the chief actors.
And lastly, the Owl, recently emerged from the hospital, to
which she had been taken after the scene in the Allee des Veuves,
had some very suspicious communications with Mother Burette,
fortune-teller and money-lender, who occupied the second floor of
this house.
Having carefully noted these points oi information, Rudolf re-
turned to his house in the Rue Plumet, deferring to the following
day his visit to the notary, Ferrand.


THOMAS AND SARAH.
145
CHAPTER XXV.
THOMAS AND SARAH.
Sarah Seyton, at this time widow of Earl Macgregor, and
thirty-seven or thirty-eight years of age, belonged to a noble
Scotch family; and was daughter of a baronet. Of rare beauty,
Sarah, left an orphan at seventeen years of age, had quitted Scot-
land in the company of her brother, Sir Thomas Seyton-of-Hals-
bury. The absurd predictions of an old Highland nurse had ex-
cited, almost to insanity, the two cardinal vices of Sarah's mind—
pride and ambition, by prophesying for her, with an incrediblt
obstinacy and persistence the very highest destinies ; in a word,
sovereign rank.
Strange to say, Seyton, superstitious as his sister, encouraged
her extravagant hopes, resolved to consecrate his life to the reali-
zation of Sarah's dream—though as dazzling as preposterous.
Nevertheless, the brother and sister were not sufficiently blinded
to take the prediction of the seer in its precise and literal sense,
and to look absolutely for a throne of the first order, in lofty dis-
dain of second-rate royalty, or of sovereign princes : provided that
a regal crown should one day encircle the brow of the Scottish
beauty, the proud couple were willing to shut their eyes upon the
actual power of that crown. Aided by the Almanack de Gofha,
Seyton, on leaving Scotland, arranged a sort of synoptical table,
in which he set down, in order of seniority, all the unmarried
kings and sovereign princes of Europe.
Although extremely absurd, the ambition of brother and sister
was at least free from all dishonorable intentions. Seyton was
fully prepared to aid his sister in matrimonially entangling any
crown-wearer whomsoever; he was perfectly willing to participate
with her in all the schemes and intrigues which might tend to the
success of her plans: but he would far rather have killed the sister
he so devoutly loved, than have seen her become the mistress of a
prince, even with the certainty of subsequent marriage.
The sort of matrimonial inventory which resulted from Seyton's
study of the Almanach presented a very satisfactory aspect. The
Germanic Confederation, especially, furnished a numerous array
of young sovereigns-presumptive. Sir Thomas was not ignorant
of the facilities offered by the German species of marriage called
left-handed: to which, as being legitimate to a certain extent, he
would, as a last resource, have resigned his sister. It was decided,
therefore, that Germany should be the first ground of their hunt.
Let us add, that Sarah, to rare beauty and a singular aptitude oj


THOMAS AND SARAH.
else, was greatly prejudiced in favor of Sarah, whose beauty,
grace, and charming simplicity of manners, he could not suffi-
ciently admire.
It is needless to say, that the heir-presumptive to the Grand
Duchy of Gerolstein was Gustavus Rudolf, who, at the period at
which the Seytons were presented at the court of his father, was
scarcely eighteen years of age. The arrival of the young and
lovely Scotch lady was quite an event in this petty German-
court—so calm, so simple, we may almost say, so patriarchal.
Thanks to the recommendation of the Marquis U'Harville, Lady
Macgregor and her brother were received at the court of Gerol-
ftein with peculiar kindness and distinction. A fortnight after her
arrival here, the young lady, endowed with a keen spirit of observ-
ation, had easily penetrated the firm, honorable, and frank char-
acter of the grand duke. Before entrapping the affections of the
son, it was infallibly certain that she must make sure of the good-
will of the father. Although he appeared passionately attached to
his son, she soon perceived that the firm and upright duke, tender
father as he was, would never depart from certain fixed principles
—from certain ideas upon the duties of princes: and that he
would never consent to that which he might consider ''marriage
oeneath him ;" more especially as his attachment to these prin-
ciples did not arise from mere pride, but from conscience, reason,
and dignity.
Her generalship and that of her brother at this juncture was of a
vTiasterly character. The young lady, on her part, conciliated the
jood feelings of the whole court, and more especially of those per-
eonages who might have been jealous or envious of her advant-
ages; she caused all around to forget her grace and beauty by
veiling them beneath an exquisitely skilful assumption of sim-
plicity. She soon became the idol not only of the grand duke,
but also of his mother, the Dowager Grand Duchess Judith, who, in
spite of, or because of, her ninety years of age, was passionately
fond of having herself surrounded by youth and beauty.
Sarah and her brother from time to time talked of the necessity
for their departure. The sovereign of Gerolstein would not hear it;
and that he might completely attach the two to him, he pressed on
Sir Thomas the acceptance of the vacant post of Master of the
Horse, and entreated Sarah not to quit the Grand Duchess Judith,
who could no longer live without her.
After many hesitations and objections, which were combated by
as many pressing inducements, the Seytons accepted the brilliant
offers that were made to them, and established themselves at the
court of Gerolstein, at which they had been presented but two
months before.
Behold then the ambitious brother and sister flrmly and honor-
ably established at the court of the grand duke, before a word had
been said about young Prince Rudolf. By a fortunate chance,
only a few days subsequent to Sarah's arrival, the young prince


148
THOMAS AND SARAH.
had left the court for the purpose of inspecting some troops,
accompanied by an aide-de-camp and the faithful Murphy. This
absence, doubly favorable to the views of Sarah, allowed her at
her leisure to arrange the meshes of the net matrimonal, without
being interrupted by the presence of the young prince, whose
too evident admiration might probably have awakened the fears
of the grand duke. Unfortunately, however, in the absence of
his son, he never reflected that he was admitting to his family
circle, a young girl of rare and exquisite beauty, and of a fasci-
nating mind, as Rudolf did not fail to discover in his hourly inter-
course. -
Sarah remained perfectly insensible to this reception, so touch-
ingly generous: to this noble confidence, which thus introduced
her into the bosom of this sovereign family. Neither she nor her
brother shrunk for a moment from their evil designs; they came
with preconcerted plans, to sow trouble and sorrow in this peace-
ful and happy family. They coldly calculated the probable results
of the cruel differences which they were sowing between a father
and son hitherto so tenderly united.
It may here be necessary to take a retrospective glance, and to
revert to Rudolf s early years.
During his infancy, he had been of a veiy delicate constitution;
and his father reasoned thereon in this somewhat strange manner:
"English country gentlemen are, generally speaking, remarkable
for their robust health. This vast advantage is, in a great meas-
ure, owing to their physical training; simple, rough, and rural, it
develops all their vigor, Rudolf must leave the hands of women;
his constitution is delicate: perhaps by accustoming this youth to
live (with few exceptions) like the son of an English farmer, I
shall strengthen his constitution."
The grand duke accordingly sent to England to seek a man able
and worthy to superintend this sort of physical training; and, in
the end, this important trust was confided to Sir Walter Murphy,
an athletic specimen of a Yorkshire country gentleman. His
mode of training the young prince admirably justified the choice,
and met the views of the young duke. For several years
Murphy and his charge inhabited a beautiful farm-house, a few
leagues distant from the capital of Gerolstein, situated amidst fields
and woods, in a most picturesque and healthy part of the country.
Rudolf, freed from the trammels of etiquette, and engaged, with
Murphy, in agricultural labors proportioned to his years, lived the
sober, manly, and healthy life of the country, using as pleasures
and recreations such active exercises as wrestling, boxing, riding,
and hunting.
Murphy, then, gave to Rudolf, health of body and health of
soul, he rendered him robust, active and daring, with a love of all
that is good and laudable, and a hatred of all that is wicked and
bad. Having thus admirably fulfilled the important trust com-
mitted to him, the worthy gentleman, called into England by


THOMAS AND SARAH.
I49
urgent private affairs, was for some time absent from Germany, to
the great grief of Rudolf, who loved him sincerely.
Assured of the bodily health of his son, the grand duke began
to deliberate seriously on the culture of the mind of this beloved
child. A Dr. Caesar Polidori—a renowned philologist, a distin-
guished medical man, an erudite historian, and a philosopher con-
versant with the study of the exact and physical sciences—was
entrusted with the task of cultivating the rich but virgin soil that
had been so perfectly prepared by Murphy.
This time, the choice of the grand duke was most unfortunate;
or, rather, his goodness was nnst cruelly abused by the person
who introduced the doctor, and caused him to accept him as the
preceptor of the young prince. Irreligious, knavish, hypocritical,
full of art and trickery, disguising the most perilous immoral-
ity, the most impious scepticism, beneath an austere exterior;
possessing a profound knowledge of human nature, but in its
worst aspect alone—the disgraceful passions of humanity—Doctor
Polidori was the most detestable Mentor that could have been
entrusted with the mental formation of a youth.
Rudolf, at the very outset, declared to Polidori, that he felt no
relish for study, that it was above all things necessary to him to
exercise his legs and arms, to inhale the pure air of the fields, to
track the woods and the mountain; and that a good gun, and a
hunter well up to his weight, appeared to him to be far preferable
to the finest books in the world.
The doctor expected this antipathy, and was secretly delighted
at it; for, although pointing another way, the hopes of this man
were as ambitious as those of Sarah. Although the Grand Duchy
of Gerolstein was only a secondary state, Polidori indulged in the
dream that, at some future day, he might be its Richelieu, and
form young Rudolf for the part of '' Prince Sluggard." But
desirous, above all things, to render himself acceptable to his
pupil, and, by dint of condescension and servility to cause him to
forget Murphy, he concealed from the grand duke the young
prince's repugnance for study; nay, went so far as to boast of and
praise his assiduity and surprising progress, whilst some set ques-
tions and answers, concerted beforehand between the tutor and
the pupil, but skilfully made to appear impromptu, kept the grand
duke (himself by no means learned) in a state of blind confidence.
By degrees, the aversion with which the doctor had in the outset
inspired Rudolf, became exchanged, on the part of the young prince,
for a cavalier familiarity, very unlike the real attachmenthe bore to
Murphy. Gradually, Rudolf (though from very innocent causes)
found himself leagued with Polidori in that species of partnership
which unites two accomplices. Sooner or later, Rudolf would have
necessarily despised a man of the character and age of the doctor,
who could basely coin falsehoods to excuse the idleness of his
pupil. This Polidori knew : but he also knew, that if we do not at
the very outset revolt with disgust from vicious associations, by


THOMAS AND SARAH.
degrees we ^ccustom ourselves to their often seductive spirit and
conversation, and thus insensibly learn to hear, without shame or
indignation, railleries and sarcasms upon what we formerly held in
veneration. -
The doctor, however, was too consummate a tactician to shock
suddenly noble convictions, which Rudolf owed to Murphy's rear-
ing. Having sufficiently ridiculed the rude vulgarity of the pas-
times of his pupil's early years, the doctor, half laying aside his
mask of austerity, aroused the curiosity and heated the imagina-
tion of the young prince, by glowing and warmly-colored tales of
the gallantries which had made illustrious the reigns of Louis
XIV., of the Regent, and especially of Louis XV., the latter being
Caesar Polidori's hero.
In this well-regulated and virtuous court, accustomed, from the
example of its sovereign, to blameless pleasures, and innocent
diversions, Rudolf, instructed by Polidori, already dreamed of the
wild nights of Versailles, of the orgies of Choisy, of the fierce volup-
tuousness of the Parc-au-Cerfs, and occasionally, in contrast
with these, of some romantic amours.
Rudolf, while yielding himself to suppositions which were so far
innocent that they were confined within the circle of inevitable
contingencies, resolved, whenever it should please Providence to
call away his father, the grand duke, to devote himself to the sort
of life that Caesar Polidori painted to him in such glowing and
enchanting colors, and to take for his prime minister the man whose
blind devotion he already fully appreciated.
Eighteen months thus passed. At the end of this time, Murphy
returned from England, and shed tears of joy as he once more em-
braced his pupil. After a few days, though he could not account to
himself for a change which deeply grieved him.the worthy gentleman
observed Rudolf to be cold and constrained in his manner toward
him, and almost bitterly ironical when he reverted to his rural and
sequestered life. Confident in the natural goodness of Rudolf s
disposition. Murphy felt a secret misgiving that his heart had been for
a moment perverted by the pernicious influence of Doctor Polidori,
whom he instinctively detested, and on whom he determined to
keep a strict watch. The latter personage, on his part, felt griev-
ously embarrassed by Murphy's return, whose frankness, penetra-
tion, and sound good sense he held in awe, and he now entertained
no other idea than how most effectually to ruin the English gentle-
man in the opinion of Rudolf. Affairs were at this crisis, when
Seyton and his sister were presented at the court of Gerolstein,
and received with such extreme distinction. We have said that
Rudolf, accompanied by Murphy, had been absent from the court
some weeks on a journey.
During this absence, the doctor was by no means idle. It is
said that there is a mysterious freemasonry among intriguers by
which they recognize, understand, and observe each other, until
interest deckles them in fav<»r of an alliance or of a declared


THOMAS AND SARAH.
hostility. Within a few days after the establishment of Sarah and
her brother at the court of the grand duke, Polidori was on pecu-
liarly intimate terms with Seyton. On the return of Rudolf and
Murphy, all three, combined for one common purpose, tacitly con-
spired against the Briton, their most dreaded enemy.
What is to be, will be. On his return, Rudolf, daily in the
society of Sarah, became desperately enamored of her. It was
not long ere she confessed that his passion was returned, although
she prophesied that love must cause them the deepest misery. He
could never be happy: no, the gulf that separated them was too
broad! Therefore she entreated Rudolf to observe the most
guarded caution. The amorous secret was consequently completely
preserved. When the brother and sister at lerigth perceived that
Rudolfs frenzied passion had reached its height, and that his
increasing infatuation, every day restrained with more and more dif-
ficulty, was on the point of bursting forth, they resolved to make their
final effort. The doctor's character authorized a confidence in
which, moreover, there was nothing contrary to morality. Seyton
made the first overtures to him upon the necessity of the marriage
of Rudolf and Sarah; otherwise, he added, with perfect sincerity,
he and his sister would immediately leave Gerolstein. Sarah, he
proceeded to say, returned the love of the prince, but she would
infinitely prefer death to dishonor and could be his highness's
wife, or—nothing.
Certain that Sarah's views were no longer mistakable, the doc-
tor was sorely perplexed. There were three courses for him to
pursue—to inform the grand duke of this matrimonial conspiracy;
to open the eyes of Rudolf to the manoeuvring of the Seytons; or
to lend his assistance in bringing about the marriage. After the
most mature reflection, he therefore decided on assisting Sarah;
but with a restriction, of which we shall speak hereafter.
Rudolf s passion had now reached its crisis. Heightened by
constraint, and by the skilful seductions of the Scotchwoman, who
pretended to suffer even more than he from the insuperable obsta-
cles interposed by honor and duty to their felicity—a few days
more, and the young prince would have betrayed himself.
Thus, when the doctor proposed to him the alternative of either
never again seeing this intoxicating beauty, or of possessing her
wholly and at once, by means of a private marriage, Rudolf
threw himself on Polidori's neck, calling him his saviour, his
friend, his father. Had the temple and the minister been at hand,
the young prince would have been instantly married.
The doctor, for his own good reasons, volunteered the neces-
sary arrangements. He found a minister and witnesses ; and the
union, (of which all the formalities were carefully examined and
verified by Seyton) was secretly celebrated during a brief absence
of the grand duke, who was summoned to a conference of the
Germanic Diet. The predictions of the Highland nurse were real-
ized—Sarah married the heir to a crown!


THOMAS AND SARAH.
Without diminishing the ardor of his love, possession rendered
Rudolf more circumspect, and calmed that violence which had
threatened to betray the secret of his passion for Sarah. The
young couple, protected and advised by Seyton and the doctor,
managed so well, and practiced so much reserve toward each
other, that they escaped suspicion.
An event, impatiently expected by Sarah, speedily changed this
calm into a tempest. She was about to become a mother! It was
then that this woman made demands upon Rudolf, which were ac
alarming as they were unexpected.
Paternity had increased the love of Rudolf for Sarah. Torn
with the desire to accede to her wishes, and the dread of his
father's anger, he experienced the most bitter anguish. Seyton
sided with his sister. "The marriage is indissoluble," said he to
his royal brother-in-law. "The grand duke may exile you and
your wife from his court, but nothing further. He loves you too
much to do even that, and will prefer to tolerate that which he
now cannot remedy."
These arguments, though plausible in themselves, did not suffice
to calm Rudolfs anxieties. In this state of affairs, Seyton was
ordered by the grand duke to visit certain of the Austrian breed-
ing-studs. This mission, which he had no plea for declining,
would, at the most, occupy him a fortnight; and he set out, with
much regret, at so critical a period for his sister. Sarah was at
once glad and sorry at her brother's departure. She lost the sup-
port of his counsels ; but, in the event of all being discovered, he
would at least be safe from the grand duke's anger. Sarah wrote
to her brother daily, and kept him fully informed of the progress
of the business so important to both. That their correspondence
might be more secure, they made use of cipher, which they con-
trived for that purpose, and to which Polidori also held the key.
This precaution alone suffices to prove that Sarah had to write to
her brother about something more than merely her love for Rudolf.
In truth, this selfish, cold, and ambitious woman, never felt the
ice of her heart melt by the ardent flame of the love she had her-
self enkindled. Motherhood was regarded by Sarah merely as
another means of subjecting Rudolf, but shed no softening influ-
ence on her bronze soul. The youth, the delirious love, and the
inexperience of the prince, still almost a boy—so cruelly betrayed
into an inextricable labyrinth, scarcely interested this soulless
woman. In her private communication to her brother, she bit-
terly and disdainfully complained of the weakness of this young
man, who trembled before the most fatherly of German princes—
who all lived so very long! In a word, this correspondence be-
tween the brother and sister clearly exhibited their interested
selfishness, their ambitious designs, their almost homicidal impa-
tience, and laid bare all the springs of a dark plot which had been
consummated by the marriage of Rudolf. One of Sarah's letters


THE BALL.
to her brother was abstracted by Polidori, who was the medium of
this correspondence: for what purpose will be seen hereafter.
A few days after the departure of Seyton from 'Gerolstein,
Sarah was present at a drawing-room held by the dowager grand
duchess. Many of the ladies present stared at her with astonish-
ment, and whispered to each other. The Grand Duchess Judith,
notwithstanding her ninety years, had good sight and a sharp ear,
and this little caballing did not escape her. She motioned to one
of her ladies-in-waiting to approach her, and in reply to her
inquiries, was informed that everybody fancied that Lady Mac-
gregor looked less slender, less graceful, than usual. The old
princess was passionately fond of her favorite, and so confident of
Sarah's virtue, that she would have ventured to answer for it to
heaven. Indignant at what she thought the malevolence of the
reply, she shrugged her shoulders disdainfully, and said, in a tone
to be heard by all present: "My dear Sarah, I wish to speak to
you."
Sarah rose, and approached the dowager. The least clear-
sighted could not but perceive what, in truth, Sarah had no wish
to conceal; but the ambitious woman had sought this exposure, for
the purpose of forcing Rudolf into a declaration of their marriage.
The dowager grand duchess, however, refused to credit the evi-
dence of her own sight, whispered to her: "My dear child, how
frightfully you are dressed to-day! You are scarcely recogniz-
able."
Hereafter we shall relate the consequences of this discovery,
which brought with it important and terrible events. But we may
now say what, probably the reader has already guessed—that
Fleur-de-Marie was the fruit of the secret marriage of Rudolf and
Sarah, and that both parents believed their unhappy daughter to
be dead.
Rudolf, after visiting the house in the Rue du Temple, had
returned to his own home; and he was engaged in the evening
to be present at a ball to be given by the ambassadress. It
is to this fete that we shall follow his royal highness the reigning
Grand Duke of Gerolstein, Gustavus Rudolf, traveling in France
under the name of the Count of Duren.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE BALL.
At eleven o'clock that evening a Swiss, in state livery, threw
open the coachdoors of a mansion in the Rue Plumet, to let out a
magnificent blue coach, drawn by a pair of beautiful grey horses.
The lamps threw a brilliant light into the interior of this car-
riage, which was lined with satin *- and within were to be seen


THE BALL.
attte-chamber, and thence to the waiting-rooms, where they were
replaced by grooms of the chamber.
The count and countess had stationed themselves in the first
reception-room, to await the arrival of Rudolf, who shortly
entered, followed by Murphy and De Graun.
Rudolf, at this period, was in his thirty-sixth year; but though
on the down-hill of life, his handsome features, and dignity,
would always have rendered him a distinguished man, even had
he not possessed the advantages bestowed by the splendor of his
sovereign rank. In fact, he was a prince.
Rudolf, on this occasion, was simply attired. He wore a white
cravat and waistcoat; a blue coat, buttoned very high up, on the
left breast of which shone a diamond star, displaying to perfection
the light, yet admirable proportions of his elegant figure; while
his well-fitting pantaloons of black cassimere, defined the finely
formed legs, and disclosed the handsome foot in its embroidered
stocking.
The grand duke so rarely appeared among the "Four Hun-
dred," that his arrival caused a great sensation ; every eye was
fixed upon him, when, followed by Murphy and Baron de Graun,
he entered the first saloon. An attache, who had been charged
to watch for his appearance, immediately announced him. to the
countess, who, with her noble husband, approached Rudolf, say-
ing, *' I cannot sufficiently express my sense of the honor which
your highness confers on us on this occasion."
"Your ladyship is aware that I am always anxious for an oppor-
tunity of paying my respects to you, and extremely happy to
embrace every occasion of offering the assurance of the high con-
sideration in which I hold his excellency, for we are old acquaint-
ances, Sir Count."
"Your royal highness, in condescend'ng thus to remind me,
gives me a new cause not to forget former favors."
"I assure you, Count, that it is not my fault that certain remi-
niscences are ever present to my mind. I have the happy faculty
of remembering only that which has been extremely agreeable to
me."
"Your highness is, indeed, marvelously endowed," said the
countess, smiling.
"Am I not, my lady? Thus, for many years, I hope to have
the pleasure of reminding you of this day; and of the taste, the
exquisite elegance, which preside at this entertainment ; for, to
speak candidly, I may say to you in confidence, that it is you
alone who have the secret of giving such entertainments."
The countess accepted the offered arm, and proceeded with
Rudolf to the other apartments, and the count remained behind,
in conversation with the Baron de Graun and Murphy, with whom
he had long been acquainted.
Nothing, indeed, could be imagined more worthy of the fairy


i56
THE BALL.
marvels of Arabian Nights, than the winter-garden of which
Rudolf had spoken.
Chinese lanterns of transparent silk, some of a pale blue, others
of a delicate blush-color, half-hidden among the foliage, threw a
soft light upon the scene. A sweet, mysterious light proceeded
from the mingling of these two tints—a delicious, fantastic gleam,
which partook of the azure clearness of a fine summer's night,
delicately tinted by the crimson gleams of an aurora borealis.
This immense conservatory, sunk two or three feet below the
ground level, was approached by a long gallery, glittering with
gold, mirrors, crystals, and lights. This dazzling glare deepened,
if we may be allowed the term, the penumbra whereon the out-
lines of these gigantic exotics were indistinctly traced, which were
perceivable through a wide and lofty opening partially narrowed
by two high door-curtains of crimson velvet. One might have
imagined it to be a gigantic window opening on some beauteous
oriental landscape in the calm serenity of a twilight night.
The notes of the orchestra, subdued and mellowed by the dis-
tance, and by the low and joyous hum that proceeded froir the
gallery, died languidly away among the motionless foliage of the
stately exotic trees. The voices of those who wandered in this
garden involuntarily became hushed to gentle whispers; the air,
at once light, warm, and balmy with the thousand odorous breath-
ings of the perfumed plants, the distant and half-audible music of
the orchestra soothed every sense into a sweet and languid calm.
On reaching this enchanting spot, Rudolf could not restrain an
exclamation of surprise, and said to the ambassadress:
"Truly, I could not have credited the possibility of this wondrous
reality. It is not only luxuriousness joined to the most exquisite
taste, but it is poetry in action : instead of writing as a poet, or
painting as a painter, your ladyship creates that which they
hardly dare to dream!"
"The praises bestowed by your royal highness are the more
dangerous, by reason of the polished language which frames
them, and hence one listens to them despite one's self with unal-
loyed delight. But, see, your royal highness, is not yonder an
enchanting young woman? Your royal highness will at least
concede to me that the Marchioness d'Harville must look lovely
everywhere. Is she not charmingly graceful? And does she not
even gain by contrast with the severer beauty of the lady who
accompanies her?"
Countess Macgregor and Marshioness d'Harville at this mo-
ment were descending the few steps which led from the gallery to
the winter-garden. The ambassadress's laudations upon the
beauty of the marchioness were not exaggerated.
Too dignified, too eminently gifted to seek homage, the mar-
chioness, nevertheless, seemed as affectionately grateful for that
paid to her, as though she had not been worthy of it. She was


THE BALL.
157
not proud of it, but pleased. Indifferent to flattery, but tenderly
alive to kindness, she well knew how to distinguish sympathy.
A character at once timid and almost proud in its reserve, in-
spired Lady d'Harville with a friendly interest.
The dazzling white complexion of the Marchioness d' Harville
was tinged with the most delicate carnation; long ringlets of
light chestnut hair fell upon her rounded shoulders, firm and
clear as the finest marble. It would be difficult to paint the an-
gelic beauty of her large, dark grey eyes, fringed with long black
silken lashes. Her coral lips, with their angelic meekness, bore
the same relation to her charming eyes that her touching and affa-
ble voice did to her gentle and melancholy glance. It is unnec-
essary to speak of her perfect figure, or the exquisite distinction
of her whole person. She wore a robe of white crape, orna-
mented with natural camelia flowers, intermixed with the rich
green leaves of the same shrub, among which half-hidden dia-
monds here and there shone like trembling drops of sparkling
dew. A garland, similarly composed, sat gracefully on her pure
white brow.
The style of beauty of Countess Macgregor heightened, by
contrast, the loveliness of the Marchioness d'Harville. Although
she counted thirty-five years, Sarah scarcely appeared thirty; for
nothing seems more effectual in preserving physical soundness
than cold self-worship: the body keeps a long time fresh in that
kind of refrigerator. The high preservation of Sarah is a proof of
this position: making allowance for a slight plumpness, which gave
to her figure (taller, but not so slender as that of the marquise)
a voluptuous grace. Sarah shone in the brilliancy of quite youth-
ful beauty. Few could gaze steadily upon the blaze of her spark-
ling black eyes ; her nose was aquiline; her finely formed mouth
and rich ruby lips expressed haughtiness, pride, and resolution.
The countess wore a robe of straw-colored moire under a crape
tunic of the same color; a simple crown of natural leaves of
japonica, of emerald green, encircled her head, harmonizing with
the bandeaux of hair, black as jet. This severe style of head-
dress imparted a classical character to the imperious profile of this
woman.
The marchioness and Sarah had perceived Rudolf in the win-
ter-garden as they descended thither ; but the prince feigned not
to see them.
"The prince is so attentive to the ambassadress," said the
marchioness to Sarah, "that he has not noticed us."
"Do not fancy that, my dear Clemence," said Sarah, who was
already deep in the confidence of Lady d'Harville ; "on the con-
trary he did notice us ; but he is afraid of me. His sulkiness still
continues."
"His obstinate avoidance of you is more than ever unintelligi-
ble to me. I have often reproached him with the strangeness
of his conduct toward you, who are so old a friend. 'The


THE BALL.
Countess of Macgregor and I are mortal enemies,' he jocularly
replied: 'I have made a vow that 1 will never speak to her, and
that vow must be sacred, indeed,' he added, 'to induce me to re-
frain from conversing with so lovable a lady!' And so, my dear
Sarah, singular as this reply appeared to me, I was obliged to be
satisfied with it."
"I assure you that the cause of this mortal quarrel, which par-
takes both of the serious and the comic, is extremely innocent,
and I should long ago have explained to you, were not a third
person concerned in the grand secret. But what is the matter
with you, my dear girl? You seem thoughtful."
""Tis nothing—nothing, I assure you! It was so warm in the
gallery just now, that I feel a slight headache ; let us sit down
here for a minute, and I hope it will go off."
"Let us do so; see, here is a nice retired nook. Here you will
be completely hidden from the search of those whom your ab-
sence will plunge into despair," added Sarah, smiling, and pro-
nouncing the last words with marked emphasis.
The two ladies seated themselves upon a divan.
"I said those whom your absence will drive to despair, my
dear Cle'mence," resumed Sarah; *' do you not thank me for my
discretion?"
The marchioness blushed slightly, bowed her head, and made
no reply.
"How unreasonable you are!" said Sarah, in a tone of friendly
reproach. "Can you not confide in me, child?—I say child, be-
cause I am old enough to be your mother."
"I not confide in you!" said the marchioness, sadly; "have I
not, on the contrary, revealed that to you which I ought never to
have confessed even to myself?"
"Excellent! well, come then, let us speak of him. Is not M.
Charles Robert a man full of honor, delicacy, and heart? If I
defend him with so much warmth, it is because you have never
met him but at my house, and that I know his respect for you
is only equalled by his attachment."
"I have never doubted his noble qualities, of which you have
so often assured me ; for you must be aware that it is especially
his misfortunes which have rendered him so interesting in my
eyes."
"And well does he merit and justify that interest. How can
such a handsome countenance be other than the reflection of a
noble mind? With his tall and beautiful figure, he reminds me
of the gallant cavaliers of the days of romance. I once saw
him in the uniform of a commander of the National Giiard,
and none could have looked more noble. I could not help
thinking that, if nobility depended upon carriage and counte-
nance, he would be a duke and peer, instead of simply M.
Charles Robert. Would he not admirably represent one of the
great names of France?"


THE BALL.
159
"Hold, I entreat you," said Lady d'Harville, after a long
pause; "let us change the conversation."
"Why?"
"It makes me so miserable—so melancholy—what you have
told me of his deep depression and unhappy looks."
"Believe me that, in his excessive grief, a man of his nature, so
impassioned, is very likely to seek in death a period to"
"Oh! no more! no more, I implore you!" exclaimed Lady
d'Harville, interrupting Sarah ;—" that dreadful idea has already
crossed my mind." Then, after a long silence, the marchioness
added: "Again I say, let us change the theme ; let us talk of—of
your mortal enemy for instance," said she, with an air of assumed
gayety: "So well did you play the part of 'mortal enemy' to
the prince, such fearful revelations did you make of his profligacy
and his misconduct, that I must confess aversion took the place
of that infatuation which alarmed you for my heart's repose: a
repose which your 'mortal enemy ' had no apparent design of
disturbing; for, a short time before your revelations, the prince,
though he continued to be as intimate as ever with my hus-
band, ceased almost entirely to honor me with'his visits."
"Talking of your husband—is he here this evening ? "asked
Sarah.
"No! he preferred remaining at home," replied Lady d'Har-
ville, with embarrassment.
"It seems to me that he goes less and less into fashionable
society."
"He never had a taste for it."
The marchioness was visibly embarrassed. Sarah perceived it,
and continued: "The last time I saw him, good heaven! how
can I word such an idea intelligibly ?" and Sarah paused;
then, laying great stress upon the following words, and looking as
though she would read the inmost soul of Cle'mence, she said:
"Yes, your whole countenance betrays a feeling of—fearful aver-
sion!"
The impassible features of Lady d'Harville at first defied the
scrutinizing gaze of Sarah, but her practised eye soon detected
a slight though scarcely perceptible nervous quivering of the un-
happy woman's lips. Not wishing to push her investigation fur-
ther, and especially not desiring to arouse the suspicions of her
friend, the countess hastened to add : "Yes, a timid aversion, such
as is generally inspired by a jealous, peevish, ill-tempered"
At this explanation, the slight quivering of Lady d'Harville's
lip ceased; she appeared to be relieved of a heavy load, and re-
plied: "Oh, no, my lord is neither cross nor jealous, I assure
you." Then, as if seeking some pretext to turn a conversation
so painful to her feelings, she suddenly exclaimed: "Ah! here
comes the insupportable Duke de Lucenay, one of my husband's
friends. How dreadful! I know nothing in the world more in-
supportable than this man; he is often so vulgar, he laughs so


THE BALL.
loudly at his own stupidities, and is so noisy, that it is quite horri-
fying. If you have any regard for your smelling-bottle or your
fan, guard them from him with desperation; for, to his other
agreeable qualities, he adds a determined propensity to break
everything that he touches, and that, too, in th , pleasantest and
most self-satisfied manner imaginable."
Descended from one of the first families of France, still young
and with a face which would not have been unpleasing but for the
grotesque and disproportionate length of his nose, the Duke de
Lucenay added to perpetual turbulence and restlessness of voice
and manner, a laughter so tremendously loud and long, speeches
often in such detestable taste, and attitudes so abrupt and awk-
ward, that he was shunned as a pest, although he was by no
means destitute of a sort of wit which glanced here and there
through the most incredible exuberance of words. He was one
of those avenging beings into whose hands one would always
wish to see the ridiculous and the contemptible fall.
The Duchess de Lucenay, one of the most agreeable and most
fashionable women in Paris, though full thirty years of age, had
caused herself to be often spoken of; but the world almost ex-
cused the levity of her conduct, in consideration of the insup-
portable oddities of her husband.
Having stated thus much, the reader must now suppose that he
hears the sharp and piercing voice of his Grace of Lucenay, who,
the instant he espied Sarah and Lady d'Harville, though he was
still at a distance from them, called out: "Well, well—what's
all this mean? What do I see? The prettiest woman at the
ball hiding herself from everybody! I can't allow this. Was it
necessary that I should return from the antipodes to put a stop to
such shamefnl doings. In the first place, my most noble mar-
chioness, if you persist in hiding yourself from general admira-
tion, I will cry out like a scalded child— I will scream aloud at
the disappearance of the most charming ornament of this fete."
By way of a finish to this address, the marquis rolled over
backwards, and entangled himself in a network of climbing
plants, which he began drawing upon him by a succession of
slight jerks. He at length succeeded in detaching them from
the tree which supported them ; they fell, and the duke might be
said to be crowned with them. Pleased with his exploit, he burst
into laughter so shrill, so wild, and so deafening, that Lady
d'Harville would have fairly fled from this troublesome and in-
convenient personage, had she not perceived M. Charles Roberl
(the Commander of Mme. Pipelet's little history), who was ap-
proaching from the other end of the walk; the marchioness, fear-
ing to appear to seek a meeting, resumed her seat beside the
duke.
"Tell me now, Lady Macgregor, don't I marvelously resemble
the god Pan, a Naiad, or some sylvan deity, or a savage, under
this bunch of foliage?" said the ^uke to Sarah, against whot» he


THE BALL.
161
Sprung, with all his leafy honors thick upon him. "Talking of
savages, here comes M. Charles Robert. I met him at the Pyre-
nees watering-places last summer—deuced smart fellow—sings
like a goo—swan, I mean. Now, Marchioness, I'll show you
some sport. Would you like to be introduced to him?"
"Pray be quiet, and don't interfere with us, I beg," said Sarah,
turning her back most unceremoniously upon the speaker.
While M. Charles Robert had been slowly advancing, affecting
to be engaged in admiring the flowers, the Duke de Lucenay had
adroitly contrived to possess himself of Sarah's smelling-bottle,
and he was now silently and carefully busied in depriving it of its
gold top.
M. Charles Robert slowly advanced ; his tall figure was finely
proportioned, his features of unimpeachable regularity, his attire
extremely tasteful; nevertheless, his countenance, his whole per-
son, were wanting in charm, in grace, in distinction: his gait was
stiff and embarrassed, and his hands and feet large and vulgar.
When he perceived Lady d'Harville, his insipid and unintellectual
countenance assumed an expression of deep melancholy, far too
sudden to be genuine, nevertheless the acting was perfect in its
way. M. Robert had the air of being so frightfully unhappy, so
naturally despairing, as he drew near to Lady d'Harville, that she
could not refrain from thinking of the dreadful words in which
Sarah had hinted at the extremity to which despair might drive
him.
"Oh I good evening, my dear sir," said the Duke de Lucenay,
intercepting the 'Commander. *' I have not had the pleasure of
seeing you since we met at the Springs. What's the matter with
you? What a used-up devil you look I"
M. Robert cast a long and melancholy look at Lady d'Harville,
and replied to the duke, in plaintive accents: "Indeed, my lord,
I am in a state of great suffering."
"God bless me I whatever is the matter with you? Are you
still troubled with that wretched bark? " asked the duke, with an
air of the most serious interest.
At this impertinent question, M. Charles Robert remained for a
moment stupefied ; then a blush of anger rose to his very fore-
head, and he said to the Duke de Lucenay, in a sharp, firm voice:
'* Since your grace takes so much interest in my health, I trust
that you will not fail to call and inquire for me to-morrow morn-
ing."
"What! how, my dear sir !—oh ! certainly, I will send," said
the duke, haughtily. M. Charles Robert made a half-bow, and
walked away.
"Isn't that a famous joke! he has no more cough than the
Grand Turk," said the Duke de Lucenay, again throwing himself
by the side of Sarah, " at least, as far as I know. Anyhow,
coughs are easy catching. What say you, Lady Macgregor, does


(62
THE BALL.
it seem to you that the tall boy is troubled with phlegm?" Sarah
replied by abruptly leaving her seat without replying.
All this passed very quickly. Sarah had with difficulty resisted
her inclination to laugh outright at the absurd question put by the
Duke de Lucenay to the Commander ; but Lady d'Harville pain-
fully sympathized with the feelings of a man thus ridiculously
questioned in the presence of the woman he loved: then, alarmed
at the idea that a duel would probably take place, and urged by
an irresistible feeling of pity, Clemence rose suddenly, passed her
arm within that of Sarah, overtook M. Charles Robert, who
could scarcely restrain his rage, and whispered, as she passed
close to him: "To-morrow, at one o'clock, I will be there."
Then quickly re-entering the gallery with the countess, she quitted
the ball.
Rudolf, in going to this party, in addition to a duty of polite-
ness imposed on him by his position in society, wished to take the
opportunity of endeavoring to discover if his fears and suspicions
as regarded Lady d'Harville were well founded, and whether she
really was the heroine of Mme. Pipelet's-story. After leaving the
winter-garden with the Countess W., Rudolf had vainly traversed
the various rooms in the hope of meeting with Lady d'Harville
unattended. He was returning to the conservatory, when, having
stopped for an jnstant at the top of the steps, he witnessed the
rapid scene that passed between Lady d'Harville and M. Charles
Robert, after the abominably foolish joke of the Duke de Luce-
nay. Rudolf, surprised at the very significant glances that passed
between Clemence and the Commander, felt a secret assurance
that the tall and handsome young man was the mysterious lodger
of the Rue Du Temple.
Rudolf could now only pity Lady d'Harville for an error, which
was all the more dangerous if, as he had a vague presentiment,
Sarah was an accomplice or a confidante in the matter. With
this discovery came the additional pain of believing that here lay
the origin of the secret grief of the Marquis d' Harville, whom he
most tenderly loved ; jealousy was the 'cause. His wife, endowed
with such excellent gifts, had sacrificed herself to a man unworthy
of her. Master of a secret which he had learned by accident,
incapable of abusing it, equally incapable of doing aught toward
warning Lady d'Harville—who, moreover, had yielded to the
blind promptings of passion—the prince saw himself condemned
to be a quiet spectator of the ruin of this young and lovely woman,
whom, in spite of himself, he still loved. He was roused from
these reflections by De Graun.
"If," said the baron, " your highness will favor me with a short
interview in the little hall at the other end of this, which is totally
unoccupied, I will do myself the honor to relate to you the result
Df the inquiries you instructed me to pursue."
Rudolf followed the baron.
"The only duchess to whose names the initials N.I. can pos*


THE BALL.
163
sibly relate, is the Duchess de Lucenay, whose maiden name was
Noirmont," began the baron. *' She is not here this evening, but
I have seen her husband, who set out about five months since on
a tour in the East, which it was understood was to occupy a year,
but who suddenly returned within the last two or three days."
It will be remembered that the prince, during his visit to the
house in the Rue du Temple, had found on the staircase leading
to the apartment of the charlatan, Caesar Bradarhanti, a handker-
chief saturated with tears, richly bordered with lace, and having
in the corners the letters N. and L., surmounted by a ducal coro-
net. According to his orders, though in ignorance of these partic-
ulars, M. de Graun had inquired the names of all the duchesses
then at Paris, and had obtained the information which we have
just detailed. Rudolf at once comprehended how matters stood.
He had no especial reason to interest himself about her grace of
Lucenay; but he could not help shuddering as he reflected that,
if it really was she who had visited the charlatan, that wretch—
who was no other than Polidori—being in possession of the name
of this woman, as he had caused her to be followed by Crooky,
was fully capable of abusing the terrible secret which placed the
duchess in his power.
"Chance is sometimes very singular, your highness, is it not?"
resumed M. de Graun.
"It is; but why remark it now?"
"At the moment when M. de Grangeneuve was giving me the
information about the Lucenays, and was maliciously remarking
how much the unexpected return of his grace must have annoyed
his duchess and one of the most elegant and fashionable bloods
in Paris,'the Viscount de Saint-Remy, his excellency the ambassa-
dor asked me if I thought that your highness would permit him to
present the viscount, who is here; he has just received the
appointment of attache to the Gerolstein legation, and would be
only too happy to seize this opportunity of paying his respects to
your royal highness."
Rudolf gave a start of impatience, then said: "It is very dis-
agreeable, but I do not know how I can refuse; let the count
know that I am ready to receive M. de Saint-Remy."
Notwithstanding his vexation, the prince was too perfect in king-
craft to show any want of affability on such an occasion; more-
over, common report gave M. de Saint-Remy as a favored lover
to the Duchess de Lucenay, and this circumstance was sufficient
to excite Rudolfs curiosity. The Viscount de Saint-Remy now
approached, conducted by the Count of .
Saint-Remy was a handsome young man, twenty-five years of
age ; slender, graceful, of a most distinguished appearance, and
with a prepossessing countenance. Once seen, it was impossible
to forget the face and figure of M. de Saint-Remy, so much did it
differ from the ordinary style of dandies.
His luxuriousness in carriages and horses was extreme. He


164
THE BALL.
played high and showily ; while the annual amount of his betting-
book reached many " thous."
By way of accounting for the incomprehensible prodigalities of
Saint-Remy, the envious and malignant spoke, as Sarah had done,
of the great wealth of the Duchess de Lucenay; but they forgot
that, even setting aside the vileness of the supposition hinted at,
De Lucenay naturally had a control over the fortune of his wife,
and that M. de Saint'Remy tossed away at least two hundred
thousand francs per annum. Others spoke of usurers—imprudent,
because Saint-Remy had no further inheritance to expect. Others,
again, spoke of him as finding "luck ready-made" in his turf
transactions, and whispered about trainers and jockeys being
bribed to make certain horses safe against which he had betted
heavily; but the greater number of his acquaintances never gave
themselves the slightest concern about the means to which Saint-
Remy had recourse for maintaining himself in style.
By birth he belonged to the best and highest society; he was
gay, brave, witty, and an excellent companion; he gave famous
bachelors' dinners, and after dinner would cover every stake at
play his guests chose to offer. What need he do more? The
women adored him, and he could boast unvaried success in all his
love affairs: he was young and handsome, gallant and magnifi-
cent on all occasions where a man could be so with women of
good society ; in fact, the infatuation was such, that even the very
cloud which veiled the source of the Pactolus from which he
derived his golden supplies, threw a certain charm of mystery
around his life. It was said by some, with an incredulous sneer:
—" In fact, this devil of a Saint-Remy must have discovered the
philosopher's stone!" When it was reported that he was attached
to the French legation at the court of the Grand Duke of Gerol-
stein, there were some that deemed that the viscount wished to
make an honorable retreat. Such was the Viscount de Saint-
Remy.
The embassador, as he presented him to Rudolf, said: "I have
the honor to present to your royal highness my Lord the Viscount
de Saint-Remy, attached to the legation of Gerolstein."
The viscount bowed low, and said, "Will your royal highness
deign to forgive my impatience to pay my respects? I have per-
haps been too hasty to enjoy an honor to which I attach so high a
value."
"I shall be happy, sir, to welcome you to Gerolstein. As far as
depends upon me, sir, you shall have no cause to alter your opin-
ion during your stay at Gerolstein."
Rudolf, by a slight nod, announced that the presentation was
over. The viscount bowed and retired. The prince, a practised,
physiognomist, was subject to antipathies and sympathies whicl.
were almost always justified in the sequel. From the few word:-
he had exchanged with M. de Saint-Remy, Rudolf felt an unac-
countable aversion to that specious young man. He detected


THE BALL.
something treacherously mean in his look, and his face danger-
out.
This presentation over, Rudolf, reflecting on the strange
encounters that chance had brought about, returned to the
winter-garden. The time for supper had arrived, and the saloons
were nearly deserted. The most private spot in the conserva-
tory was at the foot of one of the clumps of trees, at the angle
of a wall, which an enormous banana, thickly covered with
climbing plants, almost entirely concealed: not far from thir
leafy tree was a small side-door, masked by the uniform trellis
work, and leading to the banqueting-room by a long corridor:
this door had been left ajar.
Hidden beneath this verdant screen, Rudolf seated himself, and
became lost in a deep reverie, when his name, spoken by a well-
known voice, caused him to start. Sarah, seated on the opposite
side of the thicket which concealed Rudolf, was conversing in
English with her brother Thomas. The prince listened attentively
to the following dialogue :—
"The marchioness is gone for a few minutes to the ball of Baron
de Nerval," said Sarah; "fortunately she was obliged to retire
without having any opportunity of speaking to Rudolf, who was in
search of her; for I fear the influence he might exercise over her,
unknown to himself—an influence I have already had so much
trouble even partially to combat. At length this rival, this mar-
chioness, whom I have always dreaded with a boding presentiment,
and who, by and by, might so much embarrass my plans, to-
morrow will be lost for ever. Listen to me brother, for this is
important."
"You are mistaken; Rudolf never has loved the marchioness."
"It is time that 1 should enlighten you on that subject; many
things have happened during your last absence; and as the blow
must be struck sooner than I had anticipated—this very night, as
soon as we leave here—this conversation is indispensable. Hap-
pily, we are quite alone."
"I am all attention."
"Until she saw Rudolf, Clemence d'Harville, I am convinced,
had never loved. I know not the cause, but it is certain that she
feels an unconquerable aversion for her husband, who adores her;
it is a mystery which I have vainly endeavored to penetrate. The
sight of Rudolf excited in her heart a thousand new and delightful
emotions. I stifled this growing attachment by certain disclosures,
or rather crushing calumnies against the prince. But the first
yearnings of love were awakened in the young marchioness, and
her heart required some object to fill the void. Having met
M. Charles Robert at my house, she was struck with his beauty,
just as one might be struck at sight of a splendid picture. Unfor-
tunately, this man is as silly as he is handsome ; yet there is
something very touching in his glance. I praised extravagantly
Vhe loftiness of his soul, the nobility of his character. I knew the


166
THE BALL.
sympathizing goodness of Lady d'Harville's nature, so I painted
him as oppressed by the most interesting sufferings; I directed
him to look always most miserably and pitiably despairing, to
make his advances by sighs, and, above all, not to utter a single
word not absolutely indispensable. He has followed my advice.
Thanks to his talent as a singer, to his countenance, and especially
to his incurable melancholy, he has attracted the pity of Lady
d'Harville, and diverted to him that yearning for an object of
affection which Rudolf first awakened. In short, the marchioness
has made an appointment with M. Robert for to-morrow; I have
no doubt that she will go. The Duke de Lucenay has so grossly
ridiculed the young man, that the marchioness, overwhelmed by
the humiliation of her admirer, has granted to pity what otherwise
she would have continued to deny. This time, I repeat, she will
keep her promise."
"What then are your plans?"
"I wish her to be for ever lost to Rudolf. This will be the
more easily accomplished, as I have lsarned from Clemence,
that the marquis has suspicions already, without being able to fix
them on any particular person. It is now midnight; we will
shortly quit the ball; you will alight from the carriage at the first
cafe we pass, and write to inform Lord d'Harville that his wife has
an assignation for one o'clock to-morrow, at No. ly, Rue du
Temple. He is jealous—he will surprise Clemence—the conse-
quences must be left to themselves."
"It is an abominable action," said Seyton, coldly.
"You consent nevertheless?"
"I must do so. This night Lord d'Harville will learn all. But,
Sarah—I do not think the marchioness so dangerous to your
future projects a-s you suppose. The prince has principles which
nothing can induce him to break through. The young girl whom
he, disguised as a workingman, conducted about six weeks ago
to the farm; whom he watches over with such care ; to whom he
is giving an exemplary education, and whom he has several times
been to visit, seems to me to be an object of far greater appre-
hension. We know not whom or what she is, though she probably
belongs to an obscure class of society; but the rare beauty with
which she is endowed, the disguise which the prince adopted in
order to take her to the village, and the increasing interest he
evinces for her, all prove that his attachment is not a slight
one. I have, therefore, anticipated your wishes with respect to
her. To remove from your path this, as I think, far greater
obstacle, it was necessary to act with extreme caution; to obtain
the best possible information about the farm-people, the house,
and the habits of the girl herself. This information I have pro-
cured, and the moment for action has arrived. Chance has
thrown into my way that horrible one-eyed old wretch who had
kept my address. By her conne -tion with men of the stamp of
the robber, by whom we were attacked on the night of our trip


THE ASSIGNATION.
167
into the City, she may be of immense service. Everything is
arranged; and there can be no proof against us. Besides, if, as
appears to be the case, this creature belongs to the working-
classes, she will not hesitate between our offers and the most
brilliant condition that she can possibly dream of, for the prince
has preserved an impenetrable incognito. But to-morrow this
question will be solved, if not—we shall see."
"These two obstacles removed, Tom, then for our grand
project!"
"It presents difficulties; but may yet succeed."
"And will it not be doubly fortunate if we can make our grand
effort at the moment when Rudolf will be doubly overwhelmed
by the scandal of Lady d'Harville's conduct and by the dis-
appearance of that creature in whom he takes such a deep inter-
est? Would not that be the juncture at which to persuade him
to believe that the daughter which he continually deplores still
lives! and then"
"Silence, sister!'' said Seyton, interrupting Sarah; "the
company are retiring from the supper-room. Since you think
it will be useful to warn the Marquis d'Harville of to-morrow's
rendezvous, let us go; it is late."
"The late hour at which this information will reach the mar-
quis will be a strong proof of its importance." Thus saying,
Sarah and her brother quitted the ambassadress' house.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE ASSIGNATION.
Resolved, come what might, to warn Lady d'Harville of the
danger that threatened her, Rudolf had quitted the winter-garden
without Wc.iting to hear the conclusion of the conversation between
Sarah and her brother; he was, consequently, ignorant of the
plot formed against Fleur-de-Marie, and the imminent peril which
threatened the poor girl. Despite his determination, the prince
unfortunately could not meet with Lady d'Harville, as he had
hoped, for Lady d'Harville abandoned her intention of appearing
at a second fete, and drove directly home.
After much time spent in vainly seeking the marchioness. Baron
de Graun returned with intelligence of his want of success.
Rudolf was in despair; he had wisely decided that it was above
all things indispensable to forewarn the marchioness of the treach-
ery of which she was to be the victim ; for in that case the denunci-
ation of Sarah, which she could not prevent, would pass for a base
calumny. It was too late ; the infamous letter dictated by the
Countess Macgregor was delivered to the Marquis d'Harville
before one o'clock on that fatal night!


i68
THE ASSIGNATION.
In the morning the Marquis d'Harville hastened to the coach<
stand contiguous to his mansion, and entering a carriage, said:
"Rue Belle Chasse, corner of Rue Saint Dominique, pull up,
and wait by the garden wall there."
"Yes, master."
D'Harville pulled down the blinds: the coach went on, and
soon arrived almost opposite to Harville House, at which point the
marquis was so placed that no one could enter or quit his hous?
unseen by him. The rendezvous was appointed for one o'clock ,
with his eyes fixed steadfastly upon his own door, the marquis
waited in maddening suspense. His thoughts were whirled along
by such a torrent of frightful feelings, that the time seemed to him
to pass with an incredible rapidity. Twelve o'clock struck from
the dome of St. Thomas Aquinas, when the door of the marquis's
house was slowly opened, and Lady d'Harville stepped timidly
into the street.
"Already!" exclaimed the wretched husband. "How punc-
tual she is! She fears to keep the other waiting," said the
marquis with scathing irony.
The air was piercing cold and the pavement quite dry. Clem-
ence wore a black bonnet, with a lace veil of the same color, and
a pelisse of currant-colored silk. Her large cashmere shawl of
deep blue descended almost to the hem of her dress, which she
lightly and gracefully raised as she crossed the street. Thanks to
this, the small taper foot and graceful ankle of Lady d'Harville
was displayed, encased in a well-fitting satin boot.
Strange that, despite the bewildering ideas which crowded the
brain of D' Harville at that moment, he noticed his wife's foot—and
that foot and ankle had never looked more tempting. The sight
maddened him. The idea of his rival presented itself, and the
next instant all the ardent follies of his happy and devoted love
for that woman retraced themselves on the tablet of his memory
in lines of flame! Then, for the first time, he felt a dreadful pain
in his heart, a cutting pang, that seemed to penetrate his soul, and
extorted from him a hollow groan.
Hitherto his soul alone had been tortured; until now, he had
thought only of the sanctity of outraged duties; but this last
impression was so cruel that, as he half raised the blind, he could
with difficulty conceal the agitation of his voice, as he said:
'' Coachman, you see that lady in the blue shawl and black bon-
net, walking beside the wall?"
"Yes, sir."
*' Follow her at a walking pace. Should she enter a coach at
the rank where you took me up, stop till her coach goes on, then
follow it."
"Yes, sir," said the coachman. "Come—here's to be some
sport!"
Indeed, Lady d'Harville, as soon as she reached the stand, did


THE ASSIGNATION.
169
call a coach, get in and drive off, closely followed by the vehicle
containing her husband.
The coach reached the Quays, the Hotel de Ville, the Rue
Sainte-Avoye, and, at length, the Rue du Temple.
"Master," said the coachman, turning round to M. d'Harville,
"the other one has stopped at No. 17—we are at 13 now; shall
we stop too?"
"Yes."
"Master, the little lady has gone into Number 17."
"Let me out."
"Yes, master."
In a few seconds the Marquis d'Harville had entered the pas-
sage, following the footsteps of his wife, who had already entered
the house. .
Urged by curiosity, Mme. Pipelet, her dear Alfred, and the
oyster-woman, were assembled on the threshold of the porter's
lodge. The staircase was so dark that, on reaching it from with-
out, the steps could scarcely be discerned. The marchioness,
compelled to address Mme. Pipelet, said to her, in a broken,
scarcely audible tone: "Madame, where is the staircase, if you
please?"
"Stop a moment; who might you want, madame?"
"I wish to see M. Charles, madame."
"Monsieur who?" replied the old woman, pretending not to
have understood her, in order that her husband and the oyster-
woman might have sufficient leisure to examine the features of the
unfortunate lady through the folds of her thick veil.
"I asked for M. Charles, madame," replied Clemence in a
voice still more agitated than before, and hanging down her head,
to conceal her features from the stare of a familiar and insolent
curiosity.
"Oh! M. Charles—very good; you spoke so low, that I could
not hear you. Well, my little lady, as you want M. Charles, and
a very handsome young man he is, go straight up; his door is
opposite to you on the first floor.
The marchioness, overwhelmed with confusion, placed her foot
dii the first stair.
"He, he, he!" added the old woman, chuckling; "it seems
it's all right to-day! Marriage for ever, say I!"
"The Commander has a tidy taste though, Madame Pipelet,"
said the oyster-woman, in a coarse voice: "she's a decent piece
of goods, that I"
which was occupied by these creatures, Lady d'Harville, half dead
with shame and terror, would have descended instantly. She
made a last effort, and reached the landing-place
What was her stupor! She found herself face to face with Rudolf,
who, putting a purse into her hands, said hastily: "Your hus-
band knows all, and is following you"
Had it not been for the necessity


170
THE ASSIGNATION.
At this instant, the shrill voice of Mme. Pipelet was heard, ex-
claiming: "Where are you going to?"
"It is he!" said Rudolf. Then he rapidly added, almost forc-
ing Lady d'Harville toward the stairs of the second floor;
"Hasten up to the fifth floor—say you have come to relieve an
unfortunate family, named Morel."
"Sir, if you don't tell me who you are going to, you shall pass
only over my body!" screamed Mme. Pipelet, as she placed her-
self in the way of Lord d' Harville.
Seeing from the end of the alley, his wife stop to speak to the
portress, the marquis had adopted the same course.
"I am accompanying the lady who just now went up-stairs,"
said the marquis.
"Oh, that's a very different thing: you can pass," replied
Mme. Pipelet, taken all aback, making way for him.
Hearing an unusual bustle, M. Charles Robert half opened his
door; Rudolf hastily entered the Commander's apartment, and
closed the door upon them both, at the very instant that Lord
d'Harville reached the landing-place. The prince, fearing, in
spite of the darkness, that the marquis might recognize him, had
seized this opportunity to avoid coming in contact with him. M.
Charles Robert, magnificently attired in his morning-gown of
scarlet damask, gorgeously flowered with orange, aud his Greek
cap of embroidered velvet, stood for an instant completely
astounded at the sight of Rudolf, whom he had seen at the
embassy on the preceding evening, and who at this moment was
very commonly dressed.
"Sir," said the Commander, angrily, "what is the meaning of
this?"
"Silence!" said Rudolf, in a low but imperative tone, and
with such an expression of agony in his features, that the Com-
mander stood mechanically silent.
A loud noise, like that of a body falling and rolling down sev-
eral steps, broke the silence of the gloomy staircase.
"Unhappy man !—he has murdered her!" exclaimed Rudolf.
"Murdered! who? What then is going on?" said M. Charles
Robert, in a low voice, turning very pale.
Without replying to this inquiry, Rudolf partially opened the
door, and saw little Crooky hurriedly hobbling down the stairs,
having in his hand the purse that Rudolf had given to Lady d'Har-
ville. In another instant, Crooky disappeared. The light foot-
step of Lady d'Harville, and the heavier one of her husband, who
continued to follow her to the upper apartment of the house, could
be distinctly heard.
Reassured of the safety of Lady d'Harville, but not understand- -
ing how the purse recently entrusted to her had come into the pos-
session of the cripple, Rudolf said to M. Robert, with an air of
authority: "Do not leave your room for the next hour at least."
"What, sir, not go out, if I please!" cried M. Robert, in an


THE ASSIGNATION.
impatient and angry tone. "And pray, who are you, that you
dare dictate thus to me; and by what authority? Perhaps you'll
tell me what all this means ?''
"Lord d'Harville knows all; he has traced his wife to your
very door, and he is at this instant following her up-stairs."
"Oh!" exclaimed M. Robert, clasping his hands in stupefac-
tion, " but what can she want at the top of the house? How will
she manage to get out there?"
"Remain quietly where you are, until the portress gives you the
signal," said Rudolf, and hurrying down to the lodge, he left the
Commander in a state of nervous apprehension.
"Pray tell us all about it?" said Mme. Pipelet, chuckling with
delight; "the plot grows thicker! There's a gentleman follow-
ing the little lady. No doubt he is the dandelion—the husband.
I guessed that at once, and so I let him go up. There will be
murder between him and the Commander, and that will make a
noise all through the quarter; and mobs of people will make
holiday to come and see the house, just as they went to Number 36,
where a man was killed. I wonder we don't hear them fighting
yet.''
"My dear Madame Pipelet, will you do me a great service?"
said Rudolf, putting five louis into the old woman's hand. "When
the little lady comes down-stairs, ask her how the poor Morels are
going on: tell her that she does real charity in assisting them, as
she promised, when she called on you the last time to make in-
quiries respecting them."
Mme. Pipelet, amazed, looked first at the money and then at
Rudolf.
"What, sir! this gold for me—and this little lady—is not with
the Commander?"
"The gentleman who follows her is her husband. Being warned
in time, the poor lady has gone up to the Morels, as if she came
here for the purpose of relieving them. Do you understand?"
"Do I understand? to be sure I do. A wink is as good as a
nod to a blind horse. I am to help to ' do ' the husband. That's
the very thing I'm clever at! It's as easy to me as an old glove
—ha! ha! wouldn't any one suppose that I had done nothing all my
life but deceive a husband?"
Here the huge beaver of M. Pipelet was observed to throw its
dark shadow across the semi-obscurity of the lodge.
"Anastasia," said Alfred, gravely, " have you then, like Brad-
amanti, no respect for anything sacred here on earth? There are
things that should not be the subject of a jest, even in the welkin
of friendship."
"Get along, you dear old creature: don't play the monk, and
roll your big eyes about like billiard-balls; can't you see plain
enough, I'm only joking? Do you not know, that there is no one
on earth who can boast of having—but no matter. If I serve this
young person, it is on account of our excellent lodger, who, for


THE ASSIGNATION.
his generosity, may well deserve to be called the king of lodgers."
Then turning to Rudolf, she said: "You shall see how I'll man-
age the matter! Will you just stand there, behind the curtain?
Quick, quick! here they come."
Rudolf hastily hid himself. Lord and Lady d'Harville de-
scended; the marquis gave his arm to his wife. When they
arrived in front of the lodge, the features of Lord d'Harville ex-
pressed happiness, mingled with astonishment and confusion.
Clemence was calm and pale.
"Well, my kind-hearted lady?" cried Mme. Pipelet, stepping
out of the lodge; "you have seen those poor Morels then? Is it
not enough to break one's heart! Oh! it is a real charity to assist
them. The last time you were here, when you came to inquire
about them, I told you they were much to be pitied. Oh ! depend
upon it, you cannot do too much for such worthy people. Don't
you agree with me, Alfred?"
Alfred, whose modesty, as well as his natural integrity, revolted
at the thought of assisting in this anti-marital plot, replied by a
grunt, as unintelligible as discordant.
"Pray, excuse my Alfred, madame, he has cramp in the lung,
which makes him speak so that you can't understand him : else he
would tell you as I do, that these poor creatures will pray to
heaven to bless you, my worthy lady!"
Lord d'Harville looked at his wife with admiration, and said:
"An angel! an angel! Oh, slander!"
"An angel!" repeated Mrs. Pipelet; "you are right, sir; an
angel of charity, too!"
"Pray let us go," said Lady d'Harville, who felt that she was
on the point of fainting under the excessive emotion she had en-
dured from the moment she had entered the house.
"Let us go, then," said the marquis; and, as they passed from
the gloomy passage, he said to his wife: "Clemence, how m he
do I need your pardon and your pity!"
"Alas!" said the marchioness, sighing deeply, "who does not
need pardon and pity?"
Rudolf came out of his lurking-place deeply moved by the scene
of terror mixed with the ridiculous and the vulgar: this odd term-
ination of a mysterious drama which had brought into play so
many different passions.
"Well now,' said Mme. Pipelet, "I hope I played my part
well, eh? Poor dear green-eyed monster, he should put his wife
under a glass shade, and ticket it: 'Visitors are requested,' and
all that. Poor dear man! it grieves me to pity him!-—But, about
your furniture, M. Rudolf: they haven't brought it yet."
"I am going to see about it. By-the-by, you can now tell the
Commander that he may come down."
"True. What a game! isn't it! The poor Commander seems
to have hired his apartment for the Dutch when they take Hol-
land! Serves him .igh* too, with his shabby twelve francs a


THE ASSIGNATION.
173
month! This is the fourth time he has been made a fool of."
Rudolf left the house. "Alfred," said Mme. Pipelet; "it's the
Commander's turn next; won't I have a famous grin at him!"
She went up-stairs and rang M. Charles Robert's bell, who in-
stantly opened the door.
"Commander!" said the gentle Anastasia, carrying the back
of her left hand to her wig in military style, "you are freed from
arrest. They have gone off, arm-in-arm, the husband and the
wife, under your very nose. That's no great matter to be sure!
however, you have got out of a rare scrape—thanks to M. Rudolf!
You ought to come down handsomely to him, I'm thinking."
"Is that slender gentleman, with moustaches, M. Rudolf then?"
"Yes."
"And who and what is that man?"
"That man," returned Mme. Pipelet in a vexed tone, "is as
good as another man, worth any two others! Here is a drum-
mer, the king of lodgers! who has but one room ; he isn't stingy
—noi he! He gave me six francs for attending on him—six francs
at the first word—six francs without bating!''
"Very good, very good; take my key."
"Shall we light the fire to-morrow. Commander?"—" No!"
"The day after?" "No! No!" roared the Commander.
"Well, Commander, don't you remember, I told you that you
would never get your salt at her table"
M. Charles Robert cast a furious look upon the grinning por-
tress, and rushing past her, left the house; utterly unable to com-
prehend how a commercial traveler, like Rudolf, could have dis-
covered his appointment with the Marchioness d'Harville.
The moment the Commander left the passage, young Crooky
came hobbling up.
"Well, scapegrace, what do you want?" said Mme. Pipelet.
"Has the one-eyed woman been here for me?" demanded the
young Arab, without noticing the portress's question.
"What, Owl? No, you little monster. Why should she come
after you?"
"Why, to give me an outing in the country to be sure," said
Crooky, swinging on the door of the lodge.
'' Has your master given you leave ?''
"My father has asked M. Bradamanti to let me go hunt butter-
flies: 'I'd be a butter—I'd be abutter—but-ter-fly !'" chanted
the son of Red Arm, humming and making a tambourine of the
window-panes of the lodge.
"Leave off, you little rascal, you'll break the glass," exclaimed
Mme. Pipelet. "But here's a coach!"
"Oh! good! That's Owly!" said the urchin. "Oh, what
fun, to go in a four-wheeler!"
In fact, even through the windows and the red blind, one might
discern the Owl's hideous and coarse profile. She beckoned to
Crooky, who ran to the coach. The coachman opened the door,


1/4 . A VILLAGE IDYL.
and the little cripple got in. The Owl was not alone. In the
other corner of the coach, wrapped in an old cloak with a furred
collar, his features half hidden by a black silk cap, which de-
scended to his eyebrows, sat the Schoolmaster. His red eye-lids
exposed (if we may be allowed to use the expression) two dead-
white eyes—motionless, and without pupils, which added yet
another horror to the spectacle presented by his seamed counte-
nance, hideous, and veined by the extreme coldness of the day.
"Come, my kid, sit down upon my man's pins; you will keep
him warm!" said the one-eyed woman to Crooky, who crouched
like a dog between the legs of the Owl and the Schoolmaster.
"Now, then," said the driver of the hackney-coach, "now for
the crib at Bouqueval: that's the ticket, ain't it, Owl?"
"And, above all," said the Schoolmaster, "touch 'em on the
raw, and put on steam a-sliding through the gate; some of the
custom-house sharks may twig you, seem' as you're an old chicken
at smuggling!"
"I'm fly!" said the other, mounting the box.
From the slang that has been used, it will be readily judged
that the driver was a robber, and a worthy companion for the
Schoolmaster. The coach quitted the Rue du Temple.
Two hours afterwards, at the close of the day, the coach, con-
taining the Schoolmaster, the Owl, and Crooky, stopped in front
of a wooden cross, marking out the sunken and lonely bye-road
that led to Bouqueval farm, where Goualeuse resided under the
protection of Mme. George.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A VILLAGE IDYL.
Five o'clock sounded from the church of the little village of
Bouqueval. The cold was intense, the sky clear; the sun sinking
slowly behind the vast leafless woods that crowned the uplands of
Ecouen, empurpled the horizon, and threw his pale slanting rays
upon the extensive plains that lay glittering under their icy
covering.
Hidden during summer in the bosom of the deep woods, like
some little nest amid the branches of some spreading tree, the
firm which gave shelter to Goualeuse was now completely bereft
of its leafy screen. Throughout this farm there prevailed a rare
and perfect order, a most minute attention to cleanliness. With-
out going too much into detail, we may say, in a word, that, in
every respect, this farm was looked upon- and deservedly so, in
all the country round, as a model farm. The poultry-yard was
in no respect inferior to the rest of the farm in the rustic elegance
of Us roots, its nests, and its little brook edged with rock-stones,


A VILLAGE IDYL.
175
where there constantly ran clear water, which, even in this severe
weather, was carefully kept free from the icicles which might have
dammed it.
A sudden stir arose among the winged tenants of this charming
spot; the cackling fowls flew from their perches, the turkeys gob-
bled, the guinea-fowls uttered their shrill squeaks, and the pigeons,
descending from the dove-cote, cooed and strutted on the grav-
eled square. All this joyous bustle was caused by the appear-
ance of Fleur-de-Marie, in a costume of rustic simplicity, to which
the natural beauty of Marie imparted an inexpressible grace.
Holding in one hand the lower end of her apron, she took thence
handsful of grain, and distributed them among the feathered
crowd that surrounded her. One beautiful pigeon, of a silvery
whiteness, with rosy beak and purple legs, more familiar and
more presuming than his companions, after having strutted and
fluttered around Fleur-de-Marie for some time, at length flew to
her shoulder, and perched there. The young girl, used, no doubt,
to these little liberties, went on distributing her grain with a liberal
hand, but half turning her beautiful face, and smiling as she
offered her ruby lips to the beak of her favorite. The last rays of
the setting sun lighted up this simply beautiful picture with pale
gleams of softened gold.
While Goualeuse was busied with her feathered cares, Mme.
George and Abbe' Laporte, the pastor of Bouqueval, seated at the
tire-side, in the parlor of the farm, were speaking about this inno-
cent girl—an always interesting topic of their conversation. The
old priest, pensive, reflecting, his head drooping, and his elbows
resting upon his knees, mechanically spread out his trembling
hands to catch the genial warmth of the fire. Mme. George, busied
with her needlework, looked at the abbe' from time to time, in
expectation of a reply to some remark she had made. After a
short silence, he said: "You are right, Mme. George: it will be as
well to acquaint M. Rudolf, that if he interrogates Marie, who
feels such gratitude toward him, she will probably avow to her
benefactor what she conceals from us."
"Then, since you agree with me, sir, I will write to him this
very evening, to the address which he has given me, in the Alle'e
des Veuves."
"Poor child!" sighed the abbe\ "so happy as she ought to be:
what grief can it be that is now preying upon her? Everyone
respects and cherishes her, though that is not surprising either,
for, thanks to the elevated and generous views of M. Rudolf, the
people employed upon this farm are the best conducted laborers
in the neighborhood. But even the grossest and most indifferent
natures would feel the influence of that gentleness, at once timid
and angelic, which seems perpetually to be asking pardon. Un-
happy child! as though she alone were culpable."
After a few minutes passed in silent reflection, the abbe' resumed:
"Did you not say that the sadness of Marie dated, so to speak.


A VILLAGE IDYL.
from the stay that Mme. Debreuil—wife of the farmei to the Duke
de Lucenay at Arnouville—made here All Saints' Day."
"Yes, M. le Cure, I fancied I noticed that; and yet Mme.
Debreuil, and especially her daughter Clara—who is a pattern of
candor and kindness—felt the charm of Marie's gentleness and
beauty, as everyone else does: both of them daily give her proofs
of their friendship; and, as you are aware, our friends at Arnou-
ville either come to see us on the Sunday, or we go to visit them.
Well, it would almost seem as if each new visit augmented the
melancholy of our dear child, although that kind-hearted Clara
already loves her as a sister."
"Do you find her sufficiently instructed, M. le Cure\ to admin-
ister to her that sacrament which, doubtless, the unfortunate girl
has not received ?''
"Just now, as she returned hither with me from the parsonage,
I told her that the ceremony would be performed very probably
in a fortnight."
"And she received the information with gratitude, for her heart
is deeply imbued with religious feeling?"
"Alas!" said the cure, "she has grave offences to expiate."
"Nay, M. le Cure', consider how she has been situated.
Abandoned so young, without resources, without advice, almost
without knowledge of good and evil, thrown, spite of herself, into
the paths of vice, how was it possible she should not have fallen?"
"Moral sense ot right and wrong should have both enlightened
and sustained her; and, moreover, did she ever make the attempt
to escape from that horrible doom? Are charitable souls so rare
in Paris?"
-' Doubtless they are not, M. le Cure', but where are they to be
sought? Before such could be discovered, how many refusals
must be borne, how much indifference suffered! And then for
Marie, what was required was not a mere passing alms, but a con-
tinued interest, which would have put her in the way of earning an
honest livelihood."
At this, Goualeuse entered the parlor.
"Where have you been, my child?" asked Mme. George;
kindly.
"Visiting the fruit-room, madame, after I shut up the poultry
for the night. The fruit has kept excellently, except a very few,
which I have brought away."
"You must some day pay a visit to Marie's fruit-store, M. le
Cure," said Mme. George—"you cannot conceive with what
taste she has arranged it; garlands of grapes separate each species
of fruit from the others, and these again are divided into com-
partments by borders of moss."
The cure ' smiled, as he exchanged a glance with Mme. George,
and said to Fleur de Marie, " I have already admired the dairy
that you zealously direct, and it would, undoubtedly, satisfy the
most skilful and industrious of housewives; one of these days, I


i78
THE AMBUSCADE.
slope, and I could hear a carter talking to his horse in the yard
down yonder."
"Then, I'll tell you what must be done," said the Schoolmaster,
after a moment's silence: Crooky must place himself on the
watch, at the entrance to the path she has taken; and when he
sees the girl returning, in the distance, he must run up to her,
exclaiming that he is the son of a poor old woman who has hurt
herself by falling into the ravine ; and then he must beg the young
girl to come and help her."
"I see my blade; that poor old woman shall be your own Owl.
You're wide awake still. My man, you are always the werry nob
of artful coves. And when she comes what must I do?"
"Keep yourself concealed in the ravine, on the side where Bar-
billon waits with the coach, and I'll hide myself pretty near you.
When Tortillard's gammoned the wench into the middle of the
ravine, leave off your groaning, and spring upon her ; put one hook
round her squeeze, and the other in her tater-trap, so as to grab
her red rag, and prevent her singing out."
"Righv, my blade! the same trick as we did with the woman
pf the Canal Saint-Martin, when we taught her to swim after hav-
ing prigged the nigger (black oilskin-covered box) she carried
under her arm. This is to be the same dodge, eh?"
"Yes, the very same. While you keep fast hold of the girl,
Crooky will run to my hiding-place and lead me to you; then the
three of us will bundle her up in my cloak, and carry her up to
Barbillon's coach, who will drive us to the plain of St. Denis,
tfhere the long gent in black will be waiting for us."
"That's the way to do the trick! Where can they find your
>>atch! If I had only the coal,my beauty, I'd stick fireworks on
jrour htad, and illuminate you with colored lamps, for a Saint John
Ketch, patron of downy coves. And, you little monkey, do you
hear? If you would be an out-and-outer, keep a bright eye upon
my longheaded bully there—he's a model for you," said the Owl,
boastingly, to Crooky. Then, addressing the Schoolmaster: "By
the way, do you know that Barbilion is in a mad-dog fight lest he
£hould have a Hemper tippet!"
"He be hanged!"
"The other day, returning from Mother Martial's, the knife-
made widow, who keeps the boozing-ken on Mudlark's Island, Bar-
fjillion, the Big Cripple, and the Skeleton had a row with the hus-
band of the chalker (milkwoman) who comes every morning from
the country in a little cart drawn by a Jerusalem, to sell her milk
in the City, corner of the Rue de la Vieille Draperie, close to the
Ogress's of the ' White Rabbit,' and they walked into himwith their
knives."
The son of Red Arm, who had not gained the highest number
of marks in slang, listened w ith a sort of disappointed curiosity.
"You would like to know what we were saying just now,
wouldn't you, little mischief?"


THE AMBUSCADE
"That I should. You were talking of Mother Martial, who
lives near Asnieres. I know her well, and her daughter Cale-
basse, and Francois and Amandine, who are about my age, and
who are made the footballs of all the house. But when you
talked of walking into any one, that's over my head, sure
enough."
"To be sure it is; and if you're a good lad, I'll teach you to
puller flash. You're just the age when it may be useful to you.
Would you like to leain, little mischief?"
"Oh! I believe you; and I would rather stop with you than
with my old thief of a quack doctor pounding his drugs. If I
knew where he hides his ratsbane for men, blest if I wouldn't pop
s^me in his soup, and that would make our reckoning even."
The Owl laughed heartily, and said to Tortillard, drawing him
toward her: '' Come, ducky, and kiss his mammy. What a dear
droll boy it is! But how do you know that your master had rat-
poison for men?"
"Why, 'cause I heerd him say so one day, when I was hid
in the dark closet in the room where he keeps bottles, his brass
machines, and where he's always messing with his little jam-
pots."
"What did you hear him say ?" inquired the Owl.
"I heard him say to a gentleman, as he gave him a powder
done up in a paper: 'When you are tired of'life, take this in
three doses, and you will sleep without sickness or sorrow.'"
"Who was the gentleman?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"A handsome young swell with black moustaches, and a pretty
mug like a nob's fancy. He came another time ; and then, when
he left, I followed him by M. Bradamanti's order, to find out
where he roosted. The pretty-faced gentleman went into a slap-
up crib in the Rue de Chaillot. My master had said to me, 'No
matter where this gentleman goes, follow and wait for him at the
door. If he come out again, dog his steps till he enters some-
where, and does not come out again, that will show that he
lives there. Then Crooky, my lad, I hope you'll hop about to
find out his name, or I will operate on your corns in a style that
will make you think you're in a mill-hopper!'"
"Well?" "Well, I did hop about, and found out his
name."
"How did you come it?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"Oh, let your granny alone for nicking eggs! I'm not such a
duffer. I goes to the porter at the house in the Rue de Chaillot,
where this gentleman did not come out again; the flunkey had
his wool powdered, with a fine brown coat, and a yellow collar
laced with silver. So says I to him, 'My noble lord, I have
come to ask for a hundred sous which the gentleman of the
house promised me for having found his dog, and bringing of
it back to him: a little black animal, called Trumpet. And, by
the same token, the gentleman with dark features, with black


i8o
THE AMBUSCADE.
moustaches, a white riding coat, and light blue pantaloons, told
me he lived at Number II, Rue de Chaillot, and that his name
was Dupont.' 'The gentleman you're talking of is my master,
and is the Viscount de Saint-Remy; we have no pup here but
yourself, you swindling young scamp; so make yourself scarce,ox
I'll tanyour hide for you, just to make you remember trying to do me
out of a hundred sous, says the porter, giving me a thundering
kick. But that was nothing," added Crooky, philosophically,
"for I found out the name of the handsome young gentleman with
black muffstashes, who came to master's to buy the ratsbane Jot
men who are tired of their lives. He is the Viscount de Saint-
Remy—my—my—Saint-Remy," added Red Arm's son, dwelling
on the last words, as was his custom.
"You want to make me eat you alive! you cute little poppet,
you!" said the Owl. "There's an artful one for you! He de-
serves to have me for his mother, dear little rascal!"
And the one-eyed hag embraced Crooky with grotesque affec-
tion. The boy, deeply touched by this proof of affection, and all
anxiety to show his gratitude, eagerly cried, "You only tell me
what to do, and you shall see how I'll do it! I'll do anything you
want me, I will!"
. "Will you? Well, then, you shan't repent of it."
"Oh, I should like always to stay with you."
"If you look out sharp, we shall see about your staying with
us, my little man."
"Yes," said the Schoolmaster, "you shall lead me about like a
poor blind man, and say you are my son; we will get ourselves
into houses in this way, and then—thousand murders!" added
the cut-throat, with sanguinary rage, "the Owl helping us, we'll
make some glorious hits yet. I'll teach that devil of a Rudolf,
who had me blinded, that I have not yet run the whole length of
my tether. He has taken away my eyesight, but he has not made
me incapable of planning mischief. I will be the head, the boy,
the eyes, and you the hand, my Owl! You will help me, won't
you?"
'' Am I not yours to the rope and gibbet, my blade? When I
came out of the hospital, and heard that you had sent to inquire
for me at the Ogress's, by the mouth of that clodhopper from St.
Mande-, didn't I hasten off to you at the village, among those
country turnips, telling them that I was your wife?"
These words of the one-eyed hag brought an evil reminiscence
to the Schoolmaster's mind. Suddenly changing his tone and
language toward the Owl, he said in a fierce voice, " Yes, I grew
tired of being all alone among honest people; at the end of a
month I could stand it no longer, I got frightened, and then I
thought of sending for you to come to me—and nicely I put my
foot into it!" he continued, in a tone of increasing anger; "for
the morning after your arrival I was stripped of the whole
remainder of the money which that devil of the Allee des Veuves


THE AMBUSCADE. l8l
had given me. Yes, my belt, lined with gold, was stolen while 1
was asleep. Nobody but you could have done the trick so neat,
and thus I am now at your mercy. Whenever I think of that, I
don't know why I don't kill you upon the spot—you vile old
thief!" and he made a hasty and angry stride toward the one-
eyed hag.
"Take care of yourself if you hurt Owl!" cried Crooky.
"I'll smash you both, you and her together, cursed vipers that
you are!" cried the enraged ruffian. And hearing Red Arm's
son speaking close to him, he aimed a blow of such terrible force
at the boy, that, had it reached, it undoubtedly would have killed
him. Crooky, as much to avenge himself as the Owl, caught up
a stone, took aim at the Schoolmaster, and hit him on the fore-
head. The blow was not dangerous, but painful for the instant.
The ruffian became furious, raged like a wounded bull, and
rushed forward several paces at random ; he stumbled and fell.
"Go it, you cripples!" hooted the Owl, laughing till the tears
ran down her cheeks.
Notwithstanding the brotherhood of blood which attached her
to this monster, she, for many reasons, looked with a sort of fero-
cious joy upon the degradation and helplessness of this man,
lately so terrible, and so vain of his giant strength. The one-eyed
wretch thus, after her fashion, justified the caustic maxim of La'
Rochefoucauld, that "in the misfortunes of our best friends, we
always find something that gratifies us." The hideous boy, with
his lank yellow hair and weasel countenance, shared the Owl's
merriment. The Schoolmaster stumbled again, when the imp
exclaimed, " Open your peepers, old fellow; why don't you open
your eyes? You tumble about all manner of ways, and cut such
funny capers. Can't you see clear? Just give your spectacle
glasses a rub!"
Finding the impossibility of catching the boy, the herculean
murderer stopped, stamped 11is feet with fury, laid his broad hairy
hands upon his eyes, and uttered a howl, hoarse and horrible as
that of a muzzled tiger.
"What a bad cough you have got, old son," said Red Arm's
hopeful. "Only look, here's some famous fog-drops—look at it I
It was given me by a p'liceman ; but don't let that put you out of
conceit of it!" and taking up a handful of sand, he threw it in
the face of the blind assassin.
Stung by the shower of gravel, the Schoolmaster suffered even
more from this new insult than from the blow of the stone: turn-
ing visibly pale, even beneath his livid and hideous scars, he sud-
denly elevated his arms, crossed them with a gesture of inex-
pressible despair, and turning his frightful face toward heaven,
exclaimed, in a voice of abject supplication, " My God!"
From a man, sullied with every shade of crime, and before
whom the most determined villains lately trembled, this involun-
tary appeal to divine mercy seemed providenti~l retribution.


THE AMBUSCADE.
"Ha! ha! ha! look at my pretty cut-throat making the sign
of the cross!" cried the Owl, sneeringly. "Your head's turned
the wrong way, my man. It is Old Scratch you should call to
your aid.
"Oh, a knife! a knife! that I may kill myself; since all the
world abandons me! A knife!" cried the despairing wretch,
gnawing his fists with savage fury.
"A knife! You have one in your pocket, my blade, and a sharp
one too. The little old man in the Rue du Roule—you know, one
moonlight night—an"4 the cattle-dealer on the Poissy Road, could
tell the inoles all about it this time. But if you want to cut your
stick, pull it out!"
The Schoolmaster, thus dared to do execution on himself,
changed the conversation, and said in a surly and dastardly tone:
"The Knifer had an honest heart; he took pity on me and did
not rob me!"
"What made you say that I had prigged your couters?"
returned the Owl, scarcely able to refrain from laughter.
"Because only you entered my room," said the ruffian; "and
I was robbed on the night of your arrival; who else would you
have me suspect? Those poor country people would not do such
a thing."
"Why shouldn't the yokels snatch as well as other folks?
Because they drink milk, and gather grass for their rabbits?"
"I've been robbed, and—-—"
"And is that your Owly's fault? Do you think if 1 had your
belt, I should have been fool enough to remain with you, after I
had done the trick? What a dolt you must be to dream such a
thing! You may safely take your oath that I would have cleaned
you out, if I could: but, I'll take my oath, you would have seen
me again—when I had got rid of it ; for you please me more'n
ever, with your white eyes, you beauty? Come, come, behave
yourself pretty, and don't break your dominoes by grinding them
that way."
"One would think he was cracking nuts," said Crooky.
"Ha! ha! ha! that's just the thing, you dear little monkey!
Come, cool yourself, my man: let the kid laugh, he's only a child.
Confess, now, that you are down on me; for when the long gent
in mourning, who always puts me in mind of a corpse-carrier,
said to me: ' Here is a thousand francs for you if you will carry
off a girl who is at the farm of Bouqueval, and bring her to a spot
on the plain of St. Denis, which I shall point out to you, answer
me, cut-throat, did I not directly propose to you to be in the job,
instead of choosing some one who could see clear? Why, it's
just like giving you so much money in charity—that's what it is;
for, except to hold the wench still while me and Crooky gag her,
and pack her up, ycu'll be about as useful to me as a fifth wheel
to a 'bus. However, let that pass, for although I would have
robbed you, if I could, yet still I like to do you a good turn. I


THE AMBUSCADE
r«3
wish you to owe everything you have to your beloved Owl; it's a
fancy I have. We shall give two hundred shot to Barbillon for
driving us down in the coach, and for having come here once with
a servant of the long gent in mourning, to nose about a place
where we shall have to hide, in order to catch the little wench;
and so we shall have left for you and I to enjoy ourselves, eight
hundred shot. What do you say to that, eh? Are you still cross
with your old woman ?''
*' How am I to know that you will give me anything at all when
the job is done?" asked the ruffian, in surly distrust.
"Why, I might very easily get off giving you anything at all;
for I have you in my frying-pan, my man, as I formerly had
Goualeuse ; so you may just let yourself be fried to my liking,
until the Baker, in his turn, shall shove you into his oven I Ha!
ha! ha! Do you still sulk with your dearie?" added the one-
eyed woman, slapping the shoulder of the man, who stood silent,
and overwhelmed with despair.
"You are right," said he, with a sob of suppressed rage:
"yes, you are very right, it is my fate! I—I to be at the mercy
of a woman and a child, whom, a short time ago, I could have
killed with a breath. Oh! if I were not so afraid of death!"
cried he, falling back upon the bank.
"What a cur!—what a down-right lime-face you are!" said
the Owl, contemptuously. "Pray, talk a little about your con-
science; that will crown the joke! Well, if you have no more
pluck than this, I shall take an airing, and leave you."
"And not even to be able to revenge myself upon that man,
who, by thus martyring me, has placed me in this horrible posi-
tion, from which I can never escape!" cried the Schoolmaster
with redoubled fury. "True! I have a great horror of death;
but if any one would say to me, 'You shall have that man
placed in your arms—between your arms—and then you shall
both be thrown into a pit,' I would reply, 'Throw me, then, at
once.' Yes, for I should be sure not to loosen my hold ere he
and I both reached the bottom, and then, as we rolled over, I
would fix my teeth in his face—his throat—his very heart! I
would tear him to pieces with my teeth, my teeth !—for I should
be jealous of a knife!
"Capital, my blade! now I like you again. But be calm; we
shall meet with him again yet, that beggar Rudolf, and the
Knifer too. Courage, my man! we will yet have our will with
both—yes, 'tis I that say it, they shall feel our teeth yet."
"And you will not abandon me, will you?" said the ruffian,
in a tone at once submissive and suspicious. "If you now abandon
me, what would become of me?"
"There, now you speak reason. I say, my blade, what a start
it would be if Crooky and I should bolt with the coach, and leave
you here in the fields, and the night so pinching cold, too, I say,
that would be a rum go, wouldn't it, old thief?"


THE AMBUSCADE.
At this threat the Schoolmaster trembled; he drew near the
Owl, and said to her in a faltering voice, "No, no, you will
not do that, Owl—nor you, Tortillard; that would be too
wicked."
"Ha! ha! too wicked! Ain't he a flat? The little old man of
the Rue du Roule, and the cattle-dealer, and the woman of the
Canal Saint-Martin, and the gentleman of the Allee des Veuves,
they must all have thought you very gentle and caressing with
your laniing-pin, no doubt!—and why should not you have a
'tater out of the same can?"
"I am in your power— don't abuse it," said the Schoolmaster
hoarsely. "Come, come, I see I was wrong to suspect you! I
was wrong, also, in wishing to beat Crooky: I beg your pardon;
do you hear? and yours also, Crooky—yes, I beg pardon of you
both!"
"For my part, I will have him kneel down and beg pardon for
having tried to beat you, Owl," said Crooky.
"Dear little mumper, how amusing he is!" said the woman,
bursting into a laugh; "but I should rather like to see what sort of
a figure you would cut playing that game, my man! Come, down
on your marrowbones, as if you were pattering love to your old
mott; make haste, or we shall be angry and leave you, and I can
tell you that in half an hour it will be dark night—though you
don't look as if you thought so, old ' No-eyes!'"
"Night or day, what is the difference to him?" said Crooky,
mocking; "the gent always keeps his shutters up!"
"On my knees, then, 1 ask pardon of you, Owl, and of you,
too. There, will that content you?" said the ruffian, kneeling in
the middle of the highway. "Now say that you will not abandon
me."
This strange group, enclosed by the high scarped banks of the
ravine, and lighted up by the red gleams of the fast-fading twi-
light, was hideous to behold. The shadow thrown out by the
steep wall of the ravine added to the frightfulness.
"Promise me, at least promise me, that you will not abandon
me!" repeated the Schoolmaster whose alarm was increased by
the silence of the pair enjoying his terror. "Are you no longer
nearme?" added the murderer, bending forward to listen, and
extending his arms mechanically.
"Yes, yes, my man, we are here—don't be afraid of that. Cut
your company, partner? I'd rather buss old rawhead without a
nose! I must satisfy you, once for all, upon that point, so I'll tell
you why I will never abandon you. Now, keep your ears open.
I have always dearly loved to have some one thing under my claws
—man or beast. Before I had the little Fawning Kid (may the
Baker send her back to me, for I have still my idea of skinning off
her beauty with my vitriol)—before her, I had a brat who became
a stiff'un through my nursing; it was for that one that I got six
stretch; and during that time I amused myself, as well as I could,


THE PARSONAGE.
with tormenting birds. I bought them to pluck alive; but I could
not get my pennyworth out of them, the little wretches died so
soon. When I came out of prison, Goualeuse fell into my hooks,
but the little beggar slipped through my fingers, while her carcase
would still have yielded some sport. After that, I had a little dog,
who took her place, after a while; I cut off one paw before, and
one behind, and it was so comic to see Toby stir his stumps, that
I used to laugh till I almost burst."
"I must do that trick to a dog I know, that bit me once," said
Crooky.
"When I met with you, my man," continued the Owl, *' I was
rendering a cat miserable. Well, old boy, now you shall be my
cat, my dog, my bird, my Fawning Kid—in a word you shall be
my beast of suffering. Do you understand, my man? Instead of
a bird, or a child to torment, I shall have one we may call a wolf
or a tiger. That's rather good, isn't it, eh?"
"Old fury !" cried the Schoolmaster, leaping from the ground
with rage.
"Let's mizzle; he still scolds his dear old woman! Well, you
can go, then, you are your own master !—Good-night—old fickle-
mind!"
"The gate of the field is open, so shake your freelegs, Bob, by
yourself; keep straight on, and you'll find yourself—somewhere,"
said Crooky, laughing heartily.
"Oh! death, death!'' cried the Schoolmaster, wringing his
hands fit to break each joint.
Suddenly Crooky, stooping to the ground, said in a low voice,
"I hear footsteps in the path. Let us lay low. It's not the girl,
for. the footsteps come the same way as she did."
A sturdy peasant-woman, in the prime of life, followed by a
large sheep-dog, and carrying on her head a covered basket,
appeared, crossed «he ravine, and took the same path which the
priest and Goualeuse had traversed. We will now rejoin these two
personages, and, for the present, leave the three accomplices
ambushed in the hollow way.
'CHAPTER XXX.
THE PARSONAGE.
The last gleams of the sun had gradually disappeared behind
the imposing mass of Ecouen Chateau, and the woods by which it
is surrounded: on all sides, far beyond the reach of sight extended
immense plains, with their brown furrows, hardened by the frost
—a vast solitude, of which the hamlet of Bouqueval appeared
like an oasis. The silence was absolute, the hour solemn. The
pastor stopped for an instant on the hill, to enjoy the contempla-


THE PARSONAGE.
187
shame, when I thought on the past, I fancied myself the equal of
every one, because every one was kind to me, till one day"
Here the speaker's utterance became choked by sobs.
*'Come, come, calm yourself, my dear child; take courage:
go on."
Goualeuse, drying her eyes, resumed: "You remember, father,
when on All Saints' Day, Mme. Debreuil, wife of the farmer to the
Duke de Lucenay, at Arnouville, came to spend some time here
with her daughter?"
"I do; and I was glad to see you become acquainted with
Claire Debreuil : she is endowed with the best qualities."
*' She is an angel, father—an angel of goodness. When I
learned that she was to stay for several days, at the farm, I was
overjoyed. I know not what suddenly passed within me ; but
when I felt Claire's pure face pressed upon my polluted cheek—
that cheek became burning with shame—remorse; I remembered
who and what I was. Such as me receive the caresses of a
virtuous girl"
"But, my child"
"Oh, father!" cried Fleur-de-Marie, interrupting the other
with painful emotion, "when M. Rudolf took me off the town, I
had already become conscious of my degradation. But can you
doubt that education, advice, the examples I receive from Mme.
George and yourself, have not, by enlightening my mind, made
me, alas! comprehend that I have in truth been more culpable
than unfortunate? Before the arrival of Claire, whenever these
thoughts distressed me, I dispelled them by increased exertions to
please Mme. George, and you, my father. If I had blushed for
the past, I had blushed only in my own privacy ; but the sight of
that young girl, of my own age, so charming, so virtuous, con-
vinced me of the distance which separated me from her for ever.
For the first time, I felt that there are stains which can never be
effaced. From that day forth, this thought has never left me; in
spite of myself, I incessantly dwell upon it—in a word, I have not
since had one moment of peace. To overcome what she called
my coolness, and give me a proof of her sincere friendship, Claire
wished to confide a seret to me—she was to be married, she said,
as soon as she should complete her eighteenth year, to the son of
a farmer at Goussainville, whom she loved tenderly. The mar-
riage had for a long time been agreed upon between the two
families. Then, in a few words, she related to me the history of
her life—a life so simple, calm, and happy! She had never yet
quitted her mother, and she would never have to leave her, forhei
husband was to take part in the management of the farm with M.
Debreuil. 'Now, Marie,' said she to me,' you know me as well as
if you were my sister; so tell me all about your early days.' I thought
I should have died of shame. I blushed and stammered; 1 did
not know what Mme. George had said of me, and I was fear-
ful of telling a falsehood I answered that I had been an
'J


188
THE PARSONAGE.
orphan, brought up by very severe people: that I had not been
happy in my infancy, and that my happiness was dated from the
moment I came to live with Mme. George. Then Claire, asmuch
by interest as curiosity, asked me where I had been brought up—
was it in the city or the country? what was my father's name?
Above all, she asked if I had any recollection of my mother. All
these questions embarrassed me as much as they pained me, for I
was obliged to reply with falsehood, and you have taught me, father,
how wicked it is to utter an untruth. But Claire did not think 1
could deceive her. She attributed the hesitation of my answers to
the pain which my early sorrows renewed; she believed me, and
pitied me with a sincerity that cut me to the soul. Oh, father, you
never can know what I suffered in this first conversation, and how
much it cost me to have to utter no words save those of falsehood
and hypocrisy!"
those who, by casting you into the dreadful road of perdition,
have compelled you to bear all your life the awful consequences
of a first fault."
"Oh, yes, they were indeed cruel, father," replied Fleur-de-
Marie, bitterly, "for my shame is ineffaceable."
"You must despair of effacing that desolating page from your
life," said the priest, in a sad and serious voice; "but you should
hope in the infinite mercy of the Almighty. Here on earth, my
poor child, tears, remorse, and expiation, are your lot; but some
day, on high," added he, pointing to the firmament, now studded
with stars—" on high, you will have pardon and eternal happi-
ness!"
"Mercy, mercy. Almighty Creator, I am so young, and my life
may yet be so long!" said Goualeuse, in a thrilling tone, as she
involuntarily fell upon her knees at the feet of the good abbe.
This simple and yet grand scene offered a contrast—a strange
coincidence—with the horrible picture which almost at the same
moment was to be seen in the depths of the hollow way, between
the Schoolmaster and the Owl.
"Oh, my unhappiness!" said Goualeuse, in despair. "Had
my whole life as long to run, and were it as pure as yours, my
father, it must henceforth be sullied by the consciousness and
memory of the past: woe is me!"
"No, i.j, quite otherwise, Marie, happiness is for you. Your
remorse, so full of bitterness, but so salutary, proves the religious
susceptibility of your soul. How many are there who, less nobly
endowed than you, would, in your situation, have speedily for-
gotten the past, and thought only of enjoying the happy present!
Believe me, each pang that you now endure will be recorded in
the world to come. The Lord has left you in the evil way for a
brief moment, to reserve to you the glory of repentance, and the
eternal recompense due to expiation. Hath He not Himself said:
'Those who fight the good fight, and come to me with a smile on

Heaven will weigh heavily on


THE FAILURE.
189
their lips.- they are my elect; but they who, wounded in the
struggle, come to me fainting and dying, they are elect of my
elect.' Courage, therefore, my dear child ; support, help, advice,
nothing will be wanting to you. I, indeed, am very old: but
Mme. George and M. Rudolf have Still long years of life before
them; especially M. Rudolf, who has taken so much interest in
your welfare; who watches your steps with such an enlightened
solicitude."
Marie was about to reply, when she was interrupted by the
appearance of the peasant woman of whom we have spoken,
who, following the same road as Marie and the cure', now came
up with them. She was one of the farm-servants.
"Excuse me, M. le Cure," said she to the priest, "Mme.
George told me to carry this basket of fruit to the parsonage, and
said that I could at the same time see Mdlle. Marie home, for it is
getting late. I have brought Turk with me," added the woman,
caressing an enormous dog of the Pyrenees, a match for a bear
in strength. "Although no one is ever molested in this neighbor-
hood, it's quite as well to be prepared."
"You are right, Claudine; but here we are at the parsonage.
You will thank Mme. George in my name."
Then, lowering his voice and addressing himself to Goualeuse,
the priest said, in a grave tone: "To-morrow I am obliged to
attend the diocesan conference; but I return at five o'clock. If
you wish it, my child, I will await you at the parsonage ; for I see,
by the State of your mind, that you have need of further conver-
sation with me."
"I thank you, father," replied Fleur-de-Marie; "I will come
to-morrow as you are so kind as to permit me to do so."
"But here we are now, at the garden gate," said the priest.
"Set the basket down there, Claudine ; nay housekeeper will take
it in. Return as quickly as you can to the farm with Marie, for it
is almost dark, and the cold increases. To-morrow, Marie, at
five o'clock."
"To-morrow, father."
The abbe' entered his garden; and Goualeuse and Claudine..
followed by Turk, took the road to the farm.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE FAILURE.
The night was clear and frosty. Following the Schoolmaster's
advice, the Owl had accompanied him to a low part of the road,
remote from the path leading to the parsonage, and nearest to the
cross-road where Barbillon awaited them with the coach. Posted
on the watch, Crooky awaited Fleur-de-Mario's return, whom he


THE FAILURE.
was to draw into the snare by begging her to help him in succor-
ing a poor old woman. Red Arm's son had advanced some steps
out of the ravine, the better to look for Marie, when attentively
listening, he heard Goualeuse speaking to the peasant woman who
accompanied her. The plot had failed; and Crooky again hast-
ened down into the ravine to warn the Owl. "There is some one
along with the young woman," said he, in a low whisper out of
breath.
"May the meat-axe chop her neck through, the little beggar!''
exclaimed the Owl, furiously.
"Who is she with?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"No doubt the peasant wench who passed along the road just
now, followed by the big dog. I heard a woman s voice," said
Tortillard. "Hark !—listen !—don't you hear the noise of their
wooden shoes!" In the silence of the night the steps rung dis-.
tinctly on the hard frozen ground.
"There are a pair on 'em; I can manage the girl in the grey
cloak, but how are we to do about the other? My blade can't
see, and Tortillard is not strong enough to make cold meat of her
companion—the devil choke her! What can be done?" repeated
the Owl.
"I'm not strong, but, if you like, I'll throw myself between the
legs of the peasant woman with the dog; I'll hold on there with
tooth and nail, and I'll not leave go depend upon it! While I do
that, you can easily draw away the little one?"
"If they call out or resist, they will be heard at the farm," said
the one-eyed hag; "and there will be time for the people there to
come to their assistance before we can get to Barbillon and the
coach. It's no such easy matter to carry a woman against her
will!"
"And they have a big-tarryer with them," said Crooky.
"Bah, bah ! if that was all, I could settle the brute with a kick,"
said the Owl.
"They are close by," said Crooky, again listening to the sound
of their footsteps; "they are coming down into the ravine!"
"Speak, can't you, my blade?" said the Owl to the School-
master; "what do you advise, you scholard? Are you dumb?"
'' Nothing can be done to-day!" responded the ruffian. "It is
all over; there will be time enough to-morrow."
"What! afraid, old white-liver?" cried the Owl with fierce
contempt.
"I am not afraid," said the Schoolmaster; "but you might
miss your blow, and spoil all."
The dog which accompanied the peasant-woman, no doubt
scenting the persons concealed in the hollow of the road, stopped
short, and barked furiously, refusing to come to Fleur-de-Marie,
who called him repeatedly.
"Do you hear their barker? Here they are. Your knife J—
or, if not "cried the Owl, in a threatening tone.


THE MODEL FARM. 193
Elan, cow-boys, dairymaids, and poultry-wenches, to the number
of twelve or fifteen, thronged gaily into the kitchen. The men
had a frank and hearty appearance, the women looked healthy
and good-humored, while the young maidens seemed active and
sprightly. Every face of this happy party was lighted up with
frankness, gaiety, and contentment ; and they seemed fully pre-
pared to do honor to the repast, which they had fairly earned by
the hard toils of the day.
The head of the table was occupied by an old white-haired
laborer, the trustworthy and bold expression of whose counte-
nance, and rather smiling mouth, bespoke him a fine specimen of
the sound-hearted peasant—keen-witted, steady, rustic, shy, a
genuine descendant of the ancient Gauls.
Father Chatelain (for so this Nestor was named), having been
constantly employed on the farm from his childhood, was now en-
gaged as overlooker. When Rudolf purchased the farm, the old
servant was strongly recommended to him ; Rudolf, consequently,
retained him, and invested him, under Mme, George, with a sort
of superintendence of the .details of labor. Father Chatelain,
therefore, exercised an influence due alike to his age, his experi-
ence, and his knowledge.
All the laborers and servants having taken their places, Chate-
lain, after invoking a blessing, in an audible voice, pursuant to an
old and pious custom, made a cross upon one of the loaves with
the point of his knife, and cut from it a piece as the share of the
poor; then, under the same prayer, he poured out a glass of
wine, and having placed both bread and wine on a plate, it was
reverently set in the centre of the table. At this moment the
yard-dogs began to bark violently. Old Lysanderanswered them
by a low growl, and drawing up his lip, displayed two or three
formidable fangs.
"Some one must be passing by the walls of the farm-yard,"
said Father Chatelain.
Scarcely had he uttered these words, ere the bell of the princi-
pal entrance was rung.
"Who can come so late?" said the old laborer; "all our
own people are in. Go and see who it is, Jean Rene."
Jean Rene*, a young farm lad, regretfully returned to his
plate a spoonful of soup, at which, when spoken to by Cha'elain,
he was in the act of blowing with a force that might have shamed
.(Eolus, and left the kitchen.
"This is the first evening for a long time that Mme. George
and Mdlle. Marie have been absent from the chimney-corner at
supper time. I am very hungry," said Father Chatelain, "but I
shall not enjoy my supper the less on that account."
"Mme. George has gone up to Mdlle. Marie's room ; for, on
her return from seeing M. le Cure to the parsonage, madem-
oiselle did not feel well, and went to bed directly," remarked
Claudine, the sturdy peasant woman who had escorted Marie


194
THE MODEL FARM.
home from the parsonage, and thus, though unconsciously, baf-
fled the Owl's wicked design.
"Our kind Mdlle. Marie is not seriously ill, I hope ?'' asked the
old laborer, anxiously.
"Oh no, she is not, Father Chatelain. Mme. George says it is
only a slight attack," replied Claudine; "if it had been any-
thing serious, she would have sent to Paris for the negro doctor
who was so attentive to Mdlle. Marie when she was ill. For
my part, I couldn't abear a black doctor; if he came to me, I
shouldn't put the least trust in him. A white doctor's all very
well, and Christian-like; but"
"Listen, my girl. What color is your heifer, Musette?"
"White, Father Chatelain—white as a swan, and a famous
milcher she is! One may say that without fear of telling a lie."
"And your other favorite; Rosette?"
"Black as a raven, Father Chatelain; and she is a famous
milcher, too; for we must speak truth of all."
"And what color is the milk of the black heifer?"
"White, Father Chatelain—white as snow, of course."
"As white and as good as that of Musette?" "Yes."
"Although Rosette is black?"
"Yes, although Rosette is black; but, what can the difference
be, as to the milk, whether the cow be black, red, or white?"
"Well then, my girl, why should not a black doctor be as good
as a white one?"
'' Well,'' answered the peasant-woman, after a moment of deep
cogitation, "it seemed to me that his skin—but, in fact, as the
black Rosette gives as good milk as the white Musette, the skin
can have nothing to do with the matter."
These physiognomical reflections of Claudine, upon the differ-
ence between the black and white races, were interrupted by the
return of Jean Rene\ who was now as lustily blowing his fingers
as he previously had his soup.
"Oh, how cold! how bitter cold it is to-night ?" said Jean Rene',
as he entered the kitchen; "it freezes sharp enough to split a
flint. The inside's the best side of the house this weather! Oh,
ain't it a freezer!"
"A frost that comes in with a north-easterly wind will be hard
and long; you should know that, my lad. But who rang the
bell?" asked the overlooker.
"A poor blind man, and a little boy who leads him, Father
Chatelain."
"And what does this blind man want?"
"The poor man and his son were going by the cross-roads
to Louvres, and have lost their way in trying to make a short
cut. As it is cold enough to freeze a wolf, and the night is very
dark, they have come to ask leave to pass the night at the farm in
a corner of the stables."
"Mme. George is so kind, that she never refuses hospitality to


THE MODEL FARM.
the unfortunate; there is no doubt that she will shelter this pool
man and his son; but her leave must be asked. Go and tell her
about it, Claudine."
Claudine disappeared on her errand.
"And where is the poor fellow waiting ?'' asked Father Chate-
lain.
"In the little barn."
"And why did you put him into the barn?"
"If I had left him in the farm-yard, the dogs would have eaten
him and his boy up alive! Yes, Father Chatelain, it was no use
my saying, 'There's a good Medor! here, Turk! down, Sultan!'
I never saw such wild beasts. And yet they are never taught
here, as they are at many farms, to fly at poor people."
"Faith, my children, the poor man's share has been warrant-
ably laid by this evening. Sit a little closer—there, that'll do;
now, lay two more plates and knives—set one for the poor blind
man, and one for his son ; for certainly Mme. George will let them
pass the night here."
"Well, after all, there is something very strange about the rag-
ing of the dogs," said Jean, "especially Turk, that Claudine took
to the parsonage this evening; he was just as though he were
mad. When I patted him, to try and quiet him, the hair of his
back was bristled up like a hedgehog. Now what do you, who
know everything, think of that, Father Chatelain?"
"Why, my lad, I, who know everything, think that beasts often
know more than I do. Well, Claudine!' said the aged oracle of
the farm to the milk-maid, who at this moment returned, bearing
-on her arm two pairs of snow-white sheets, which gave out a
sweet odor of sage and thyme—*' well, has Madame George or-
dered supper and shelter here for the poor blind man and his
son?"
"Here are the sheets to put upon their beds, in the little room
at the end of the passage," said Claudine.
"Now then, Jean Rene, go and tell the poor man and his son
to come in. And you, my girl, put two chairs near the fire ; no
doubt the poor creatures will be glad of a good warm before sit-
ting down to supper."
The furious growling of the dogs was again heard, mingled with
the shouts of Jean Rene, who was vainly endeavoring to pacify
them. The door of the kitchen was suddenly thrown open, and
Crooky and the Schoolmaster rushed in, as though they had been
pursued.
"Pray keep your dogs off! " cried the Schoolmaster, in great
alarm: "they have been trying to bite us."
"They have torn a piece out of my blouse," said Crooky, yet
pale with fright.
"Excuse it, my good man," said Jean Rene, shutting the door;
"I never saw our dogs so savage before. It must be the coldness
of the night that makes them so sharp: the poor brutes have no


196
THE MODEL FARM.
reason, and perhaps they think to warm themselves by biting
some one."
"And here goes the other at it now!" cried the husbandman,
stopping old Lysander, who starting from his snug berth before
the fire, growled fiercely, and was about to fly at the strangers.
"The old dog has heard the ethers barking so furiously, that I
suppose he thinks he must do the same. Go and lie down, you
old savage—lie down, sir."
As these words were accompanied by a very significant kick,
Lysander, still growling, resumed his favorite place in the chimney
corner. All this time, Tortillard and the Schoolmaster, afraid to
venture any farther, had remained trembling at the kitchen door.
The ruffian's face was so truly hideous, that for an instant some
of the laborers were struck with alarm, while others recoiled with
disgust. This impression did not escape Crooky, the fear of the
peasants served to reassure him—he felt proud of the terror in-
spired by his companion. This first impression past, Father
Chatelain, solely intent upon the duties of hospitality, said to the
Schoolmaster: "Come up to the fire, my good man, and warm
yourself first, and then you can sup with us; for, luckily, you
have just come as we were about to begin. There, sit down. But
what is my silly old head running upon?" added Father Chate-
lain; "it is not to you that I should speak, but to your son, as
you are unfortunately blind. Here, my boy, lead your father up
to the chimney-corner."
'.' Yes, my kind gentleman," Tortillard replied, in a nasal, whin-
ing, hypocritical snuffle; "may the good Lord reward your char-
ity to the poor blind! Follow me, poor father—follow me ; take
care how you step—gently !" and the boy guided the steps of the
miscreant with affected care and tenderness, till they both stood
by the ample chimney-place. At first, Lysander confined him-
self to a low growl, but, after scenting the Schoolmaster for an
instant, he broke out suddenly into that long, dismal baying, which
is popularly called " howling for death.''
"What, in the devil's name can this mean?" muttered the
Schoolmaster to himself ; " can these accursed animals smell the
blood? I had on these trowsers the night the grazier was mur-
dered!"
*' Did you see that? It's very strange," whispered Jean Rene;
"but the moment old Lysander caught scent of the old man, he
set up the death-howl!"
But another strange event followed. The howl of Lysander
was so loud and mournful, that the other dogs heard him (for the
farm-yard was only separated from the kitchen by a glazed win-
dow), and, according to the custom of the canine race, they
quickly answered these boding wails, which, according to populai
belief, unerringly foretoken the approach of death. Although but
little given to superstition, the peasants looked at each other with
a feeling akin to terror. The Schoolmaster himself, notwithstand


THE MODEL FARM.
197
ing his hell-born audacity, shuddered for an instant on hearing the
death-predicting howlings which burst forth on the arrival of him
—the self-convicted assassin. Tortillard alone, atheistical, cor-
rupted, so to speak, at his mother's teat, a downright Parisian
scamp, of all present, remained utterly insensible to the moral
effect of this scene. Delivered from the fear of being bitten by
the dogs, the mocking abortion laughed in his sleeve at what
caused so much alarm and perplexity to the inhabitants of the
farm, and even a momentary shudder of convulsive horror to the
Schoolmaster himself.
The first bewilderment passed, Jean Rene went out into the
farm-yard, and the loud cracking of his whip soon put an end to
the lugubrious presentiments of Turk, Medor, and Sultan. By
degrees, the saddened and perplexed countenances of the labor-
ers cleared up, and, in the course of a few minutes, the frightful
hideousness of the Schoolmaster inspired more commiseration
than horror. They pitied the poor little lame boy for his infirm-
ity, saw something very interesting in his sharp visage, and praised
him highly for the anxious attentions which he bestowed upon his
afflicted father. The appetite of the laborers, forgotten for the
moment, returned with new energy, and for some minutes nothing
was heard but the clatter of knives and forks. Still, while vigor-
ously attacking the substantial meats, both males and females
remarked, with a tender interest, the attention of the boy to the
poor blind man, by whom he was seated. Crooky cut up his meat
for him, sliced his bread, and poured out his drink, with the utmost
filial attention. This was the fair side of the picture; we will now
reverse it.
Instigated as much by a natural spirit of cruelty as the desire
of imitation so natural at his age, Crooky experienced a kindred
enjoyment to that of the Owl in torturing the Schoolmaster; like
her, he found a fiendish pleasure in having something to torment
—a beast of suffering in a muzzled tiger! He had, moreover, the
malignity to refine on his cruel pleasure by forcing the School-
master to endure his ill-treatment without even frowning; and he
accordingly balanced each outward expression of tenderness to-
ward his supposed father by a severe kick, under cover of the
table, especially aimed at an old open sore, which the wretched
man, like many old convicts, bore upon his right leg, at the place
where he had worn the heavy ring by which he was attached to
the chain during his imprisonment at the galleys. This persecu-
tion called for the more stoical endurance on the part of the ruf-
fian, inasmuch as the little monster always seized the moment
when the unhappy Schoolmaster was either speaking or drink-
ing.
In all this, the simple peasants perceived nothing more than an
interchange of parental and filial tenderness.
"What is the matter with you, my good man?" asked kind-
hearted old Chatelain; "the cry you gave just now actually


198
THE MODEL FARM.
made your poor boy turn pale. Poor little fellow, I declare he
can hardly breathe."
"It is nothing," said the Schoolmaster, who had now regained
his coolness. "1 am a working locksmith by trade, and some
time ago, while I was forging a bar of hot iron, I let it fall on my
leg ; the burn was so severe that it is even yet not healed up.
Just now, I chanced to hit my limb against the leg of the table,
and the sudden pain forced me to cry out."
"Poor, dear father!" said Crooky, recovering from his emotion,
and casting a fiendish look at the Schoolmaster; "poor father!
Oh, kind gentleman, it is but too true that he has never been able
to get his leg cured. Alas! never. Oh, I wish I could bear the
pain for him, poor, dear father."
The women looked at the speaker compassionately.
"It is unfortunate for you, my honest man," said old Chatelain,
"that you did not chance to come to this farm about three weeks
ago, instead of this evening."
**Why so?"
"Because, at that time, we had here, for some days, a doctor
from Paris, who has a sovereign remedy for ailments of the legs.
There was a good old lady in our village, who could not walk for
three years past; the doctor applied his unguent to her wounds,
and now she skips along as nimbly as a young girl, and says that
she will soon go on foot to Paris, to thank her savior, who lives in
the AlWe des Veuves. That is a pretty smart step 'from here, you
must own—and—but what's the matter with you now?—that con-
founded wound again?"
The words, "Allee des Veuves" had awakened such terrible
recollections in the mind of the Schoolmaster, that he had been
unable to repress a shudder, and a visible contraction of his hide-
ous features.
"Yes," replied he, trying to conceal his mental suffering, "I
had another cruel, shooting pain, just then."
"A great pity," resumed Father Chatelain, *' it is a real pity
that you did not chance to come while that excellent doctor was
here; but he is as charitable as he is skilful; and when you go
to Paris get your son to lead you to his house; I am sure he will
cure you. His address is easy to remember: No. 17, Allee des
Veuves. If you even forget the number, it will not much matter;
there are not many doctors in that quarter, and more especially,
there are not many black doctors; for, strange as you may think
it, this kind-hearted doctor, M. David, is a negro."
The Schoolmaster's countenance was so deeply and profusely
scarred, that the ghastly paleness which now overspread it could
with difficulty be perceived. He did, however, turn pale—fright-
fully pale—as he heard Chatelain repeat the number of Rudolf's
house, and speak of that David, the negro doctor, who, by order,
had inflicted upon him that dreadful punishment of which he was
•very instant experiencing the awful consequences.


THE MODEL FARM.
199
Father Chatelain, who had not observed the ruffian's paleness,
went on: "However, when you leave us, I will give the written
address ot the doctor to your son, and M. David will feel pleased
at the opportunity to render you a service. He is so kind—never
so happy as when enabled to relieve suffering. I wish he had not
always such a melancholy look. But come, friend, let us drink a
cup to the health of your future benefactor!"
"Thank you, I'm not thirsty now," said the Schoolmaster
sullenly.
"But it is not cider that I am pouring out now—it is old wine;
there are not many tradesmen who drink such, I can tell you.
Ours is not like most farms. What do you think of our usual
living?"
"It is very good," said the Schoolmaster, mechanically, for he
was becoming more and more absorbed in his own evil thoughts.
"Well, this is the way we live every day. Good work and good
living, a good conscience, and good sleep; in four words—this is
our life. There are seven of us laborers here ; and without boast-
ing, I may say that we do the work of fourteen; but then we are
also paid like fourteen. To common laborers, our good master
gives a hundred and fifty crowns a year: and to the dairy-women,
and other females about the farm, sixty crowns!—and then we
divide equally among us all a tenth of the profits of the farm.
I'faith, you may easily believe we do not let an inch of the land
lie idle ; for the more Dame Nature produces, the more we have
to share among us."
"But an infirm and helpless creature, like myself, for instance,"
said the Schoolmaster, suddenly—"would the charity of your
master grant me a corner at your fire, and a shelter for the short
time that I have to live? Oh, my kind people, if this could be,
I would pass my whole life in blessing and in thanking your
good master."
At this moment the words of the ruffian were sincere. Not that
his heart was touched by remorse for his crimes, but the peaceable
and happy existence of these laborers the more excited his envy,
when he reflected upon the frightful future planned for him by the
Owl—a future which he had been far from foreseeing, and which
made him the more regret that, by again sending for his accom-
plice, and putting himself in her power, he had for ever rendered
it impossible to live with the honest people with whom the Knifer
had placed him. Father Chatelain looked at the Schoolmaster
with astonishment.
"Why, my poor man," said he, " I did not suppose you were
so utterly without resources?"
"Alas! it is too true. I lost my sight by accident while work-
ing at my trade. I am now on my way to Louvres, to seek a dis-
tant relation, who may perhaps assist me ; but, you know—you
understand—people are sometimes so selfish, so hard-hearted,"
said the Schoolmaster.


200
THE TEASE.
"But surely the most selfish could not refuse help in such a case
as yours," replied Father Chatelain; "a good and honest work-
man like you, overtaken by a sudden calamity, with so gentle and
good a child would soften a heart of stone. But how is it that the
master who employed you before your accident has done nothing
for you?"
"He is dead," said the Schoolmaster, after a moment's hesi-
tation; "he was my only protector."
"But there is the Hospital for the Blind."
*' I am not old enough to be admitted."
"Poor man, you are, indeed, much to be pitied."
"Well, do you think that, if I fail of procuring at Louvres the
help that I seek, your good master, whom I already respect, though
I do not know him, would take pity upon me?"
"Why, unfortunately, you see, the farm is not a hospital. Usu-
ally all that is granted here to the infirm is food and shelter for a
day or a night ; that done, they have a trifle given them in the
hope, and with the prayer, that a kind Providence will aid them."
"Then you think there is no hope of interesting your master in
my sad fate?" said the robber, with a sigh of regret.
"I only tell you the general rule, my good man; but our
master is so kind and compassionate, that he is capable of any
goodness."
"Indeed, there can be no doubt of that!" cried the School-
master; "the more I hear of his wisdom and generosity, the
more am I led to hope he will be induced to pity my sad fate. A
man who does good, at once so generously and so wisely, will
scarcely think much of one good action the more. But pray let
me at least know his name, and also that of your mistress," added
the Schoolmaster, in a cheerful voice, "that I may beforehand
bless those noble creatures; for I am certain that your good master
and mistress will have pity on me."
"I'd lay anything, now, that you expect to hear some names
that have made a vast noise in the world! but no, those names
are sweet and simple as those of saints. 'Our Lady of Ready
Help' is Mme. George, and cur excellent master is called plain
M. Rudolf."
"My wife—my executioner!" muttered the wretch, thunder-
struck.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE TEASE.
The Schoolmaster could not even flatter himself for an instant
that he was misled by an accidental similarity of names; for
previous to condemning him to his fearful punishment, Rudolf had


THE TEASE.
told him how strong an interest he took in Mme. George. More-
over, the recent presence of the negro doctor at his farm was of
itself conclusive proof to the ruffian that he did not labor under
any mistake in the matter. He feared something fatal and retrib-
utive from this last coincidence, which suddenly and so com-
pletely overturned all the hopes he had based upon the generosity
of the master of the farm of Bouqueval. His first impulse was to
fly. The name of Rudolf inspired him with invincible terror—
perhaps at this very moment he might be at the farm! Scarcely
had the ruffian recovered from the first shock of surprise, ere he
arose, seized Crooky's hand, and distractedly cried: "Let us go
away !—lead me out!—let us begone from this place!"
The laborers stared at him with astonishment.
"Come, come, let us begone—let us begone!" repeated the
Schoolmaster, endeavoring to drag the boy along with him.
Crooky, doggedly determined not to quit so satisfactory a berth
for the frost and snow of the fields, said, in a doleful voice: "Oh
dear, oh dear, my poor father, your fit is coming on again. Do
not think of going out this dreadful cold night; it will do you harm,
perhaps be the death of you! Oh, 1 prefer even the pain of being
disobedient to you, to leading you out at such an hour, on such a
cold night!'' Then addressing himself to the laborers, he added:
"Will none of you, kind gentlemen, help to prevent my poor
father from going out to-night?"
"Oh, yes, make yourself easy about that, my boy," said Father
Chatelain; "we will not open the door for your father. He will
be kindly forced to stay here to-night, in spite of himself."
"You shall not force me to remain here !" cried the School-
master. "Besides, I should only be troublesome to your master,
M. Rudolf. You told me the farm was not a hospital; once more
then, I say, let me go my way."
"Trouble our master? Be in no fear about that. Unfortunately
for us, he does not live here; neither do we see him half as often
as we should like. But even if he were here, your presence would
make no difference to him."
"Oh no, no," persisted the blind man, with increased alarm;
"I have changed my mind about applying to him. My son was
quite right; my relation at Louvres will certainly have pity on me.
I will go and seek her at once."
"All that I have to say," replied Father Chatelain, good-
naturedly, for he was now quite convinced that he had to do with
a man whose brain was slightly affected, " is merely this—that to
attempt to proceed on your journey with your child to-night is out
of the question: we will arrange about the rest."
Although Rudolf was not at Bouqueval, the terrors of the School-
master were not altogether calmed. Frightfully as he was dis-
figured, he still feared lest he should be recognized by his wife,
who at any moment might descend into the kitchen; in that case


THE TEASE.
20 3
the night—they're convulsion fits. I'm not strong enough to hold
him by myself, and if I should want help, is there anybody near
who could hear me?"
"Poor little fellow," said the peasant, sympathizingly, " don't
be alarmed. You see the door there, by the side of the stair-
case?"
"Yes, kind sir, I see it."
*' Well, then, one of our farm-boys always sleeps in that room;
so if you want aid, you have only to go there and arouse him—the
key is outside his door—and he will be with your father in an
instant."
"Alas! sir, the boy and I together couldn't manage my poor
father, if his convulsions come on strong; perhaps you also would
be kind enough to come—you do seem so kind, so very kind!"
"Me, my poor boy? I sleep, as well as all the other men-serv-
ants of the farm, in a building at the lower end of the farm-yard.
But don't be alarmed ; Jean Rene* is strong enough to hold a bull
by the horns. But if you and he should need any one to help
you, he will call up our old cook; she sleeps on the first floor, in
the room next to that of our mistress and of mademoiselle—and
the old woman will, if there is need, serve as a nurse."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, my worthy gentleman. I will
pray for you to-night, for you are very charitable to have so much
pity for my poor father."
'' Good-night, my boy, and let us hope that you will not need
any help to hold your father. You had better now make haste
back; he may be wanting you."
"I will run to him ; good-night, kind gentleman."
"Heaven preserve you, poor boy!" And the pious old peasant
returned to the kitchen. Scarcely had he turned his back, when
the little deformed wretch made that eminently derisive and insult-
ing gesture familiar to Parisian scamps; a gesture performed by
repeatedly striking the nape of the neck with the open palm of the
left hand, and each time throwing forward the right hand with the
fingers and thumb extended. With a diabolical cunning, this
dangerous boy had obtained, under the guise of tenderness and
solicitude for his father, information most important to the success
of the abominable projects of the Owl and the Schoolmaster. He
already knew that the building in which he and the Schoolmaster
were lodged was inhabited only by Mme. George, Fleur-de-Marie,
an old female cook, and one of the farm-lads. When Crooky
returned to the room assigned to him and the Schoolmaster, he
took good care not to approach too near him. The latter heard
him, and growled out:
'' Where have you been, you little blackguard?"
"You are mighty curious, old ' No-eyes.'"
*' Oh ! you shall pay dear for all you have made me suffer this
evening, you imp of mischief! " cried the Schoolmaster, rising in
a fury, and groping about in starch of Tortillard, supporting hijp-


204
THE TEASE.
self by the walls. "Now I will strangle jou in right earnest—
you infernal viper!"
"Poor dear father! is he so full of fun, then, that he must
have a game of blind-man's bluff with his own darling boy?"
said Crooky, chuckling and escaping with the greatest ease from
the pursuit of the Schoolmaster. The latter, first impelled to the
attempt by irrepressible rage, was soon induced to give it up, and,
as had been the case before, to relinquish the hope of wreaking
'lis vengeance on Red Arm's son. Compelled to endure his inso-
ent persecution until the time when he could securely avenge
limself, the ruffian, swallowing his powerless passion, threw him-
self upon the bed, uttering awful blasphemies.
"Poor father! is your tooth-ache so very bad, that you rip out
so many jaw-breakers? What would the pet parson say if he
heard you? Wouldn't he order you a swingeing penance!"
"Well, well, go on!" said the robber, after a long pause, in a
hollow and constrained voice. "Sneer at me ; take advantage
of my misery—coward that you are! That is grand, noble, gen-
erous!'
"On! this bangs Banagher! Generous! How prime we patter
now!" screamed Crooky, bursting into a laugh. "Excuse me,
after that, I shall suppose you always put on gloves to pick pockets
right and left, as you did before you had both your lamps poked
out."
"But I never harmed you! Why then do you torment me
thus?"
"First because you insulted my dear Owley, and then because
you wanted to stay here and play the fool among these innocent clod-
hoppers. Perhaps my noble captain would like to try a course of
pigeon's milk?"
"Miserable young wretch! if it had been possible for me to
remain at this farm—which may thunder and lightning shatter—
you would have prevented me by your devilish tricks!
"You stop here? here's a drum to stallto! Who would then
be Owly's whipping-post? Me perhaps. Much obliged, but I
don't want the situation."
"Villainous abortion!"
"Abortion! yes, that is another reason why I agree with Aunt
Owl that there is nothing more amusing than to tease you to
death—you who could kill me with a blow of your fist; it's far
more diverting than if you were weak—like myself! Oh, you
were delightfully funny at supper to-night! Heavens above!
what a lark I had all to myself! it was better than a front gallery
seat at the play! At every kick I gave you on the sly, rage drove
the blood up into your head, and your white eyes became rimmed
with 5ery red ; they only wanted a little daub of blue in the mid-
dle, _nd then they would have been tri-colors—two slap-up cock-
adjs for a soldier's hat—ha! ha!"
"Come, come, you love to laugh ind be merry—bah 1—it suiti


THE TEASE.
your age. I'm not angry with you," said the Schoolmaster, in a
tone of assumed carelessness, hoping to charm the viper, "but,
instead of passing your jokes off upon me, it would be better if
you would remember what you were told to do by the Owl, of
whom you are so fond. You are to examine all the ways of the
place, you know, and take impressions of the locks. Did you not
hear what was said? they talked of a large sum of money to be
here next Monday? We will come back with some friends, and
make a fine haul. I was a fool indeed to think of remaining here;
I should have had enough in a week of living among these wooden-
headed churleys, shouldn't I, boy?" said the ruffian, thinking to
flatter.
"Your staying here would have distressed me excessively, upon
my word of honor!" said Red Arm's son, with a chuckle.
"Yes, yes, there is a good hit to be made here; and even if
there were no booty to be got in this house, I would return with
the Owl to avenge myself," said the ruffian, in a voice trembling
with rage and hatred; "for it is quite certain that it was my wife
who excited that infernal Rudolf against me, did he not say he
would put me at the mercy of every one, even of the weakest—of
an old woman like the Owl, and a young child like you? Well, if
I cannot revenge myself upon him, I will revenge myself on my
wife! Yes, she shall pay for all—even though I have to fire the
house, and bury myself among its burning ruins! Oh! I will
have—I will"
"Don't you wish you may get hold of your wife, eh, old fellow?
Only think! she's within ten skips of you; that's vexatious, isn't
it? If I liked, I could lead you to the door of her room—that I
could, for I know her chamber. I know it—I know it—I know
it," added Crooky, singing in his droning style.
"You know her room!" cried the Schoolmaster, with a fero-
cious joy. "You know it!"
'' Oh! you are coming round now !" said Crooky; "you'll be
'good dog' presently: come, beg pretty, on your hind legs, like
another dog, when you show him a bone! Come, stand up, old
Towser!"
"You know which is my wife's room?" repeated the ruffian,
and turning in the direction of the urchin's voice.
"Rayther! and the most famous part of the business is, that in
this whole building there is only one farm-lad. I know his door
—the key is in the lock outside ; one turn, and click ! he is a close
prisoner. Sit up, then, old Towser!"
"Who told you this?" cried the ruffian, springing up involun-
tarily.
"Capital! there's a good pup! In the room beside your wife's
sleeps an old cook; another turn of the key, and we are masters
of this house, of your wife, and of the young girl in the grey
cloak, that we came to carry off. Now, give us your paw, old


THE TEASE.
207
at least, since I have not the courage to finish. Oh! lead me,
lead me! you will find plenty of gold and jewels there ; I tell you
again, that you shall have all you like to take, for yourself alone,
do you hear ?—for yourself alone !—only lead me to where she
is."
"Oh, yes, I hear you very well. You want me to lead you to
her door, then to her bed, and then tell you where to strike, and
then guide your hand—isn't that it? You want me to be your
knife-handle, you old monster!" replied Crooky, with an expres-
sion of contempt, horror, and anger, which, for the first time that
day, gave something of seriousness to his weasel countenance,
usually so unabashed and derisive.
"You refuse?"
Red Aim's son made no reply. With bared feet he stealthily
and silei.tly crept toward the Schoolmaster, who, seated on the
edge of the bed, still held his long knife in his hand. With
marvelous quickness and dexterity, Crooky snatched the weapon
away, and, at a single bound, placed himself at the other end of
the room.
"My knife! my knife!" cried the ruffian, stretching out his
arms.
*' No! for you are just the sort to ask to see your wife in the
morning, and then stab her—since you say you are tired of life,
and are too great a coward to kill yourself."
"How he defends my wife against me!" exclaimed the bandit,
whose intellect was becoming less and less clear every instant.
"This little monster must be a devil! Where am I? Why
should he try to save her?"
"Just to handicap you! " said Tortillard, whose countenance
resumed its old mask of impudent raillery.
"Oh, is that it?" murmured the Schoolmaster, completely
bewildered. "Well, then, I'll fire the house! we will all burn
together—all! I prefer this furnace to the other. The candle ! the
candle!"
"Ha! ha! ha!" screamed Crooky, bursting into a fresh fit of
laughter. "If they hadn't blown out your candles, and for ever,
you would see that ours has been out this hour past!" And the
little imp sung nasally :—
"My light has gone out,
I haven't a spark."
The Schoolmaster heaved a deep groan, extended his arms,
and fell heavily on the floor, face downwards; as if struck by
apoplexy, he remained motionless.
"An old game, my veteran!" said Crooky ; "a nice trick to
get me into your clutches! When you're tired of playin' possum,
let's know, and I will give you leave to get up again!"
Fearful of being surprised by the Schoolmaster, Red Arm's soa


208
THE LETTER.
determined not to sleep, and sat still in his chair, with Hi ryei
fixed upon the prostrate ruffian, whose fall, he was convinced, was
only a trick, and by nc means supposing him in any danger.
Uneasy for a moment, he listened attentively, and hearing the
robber breathe freely and regularly, he thought that he was merely
prolonging his meditated scheme to catch him.
An accident had saved the life of the Schoolmaster from a con-
gestion of the brain, which doubtless would have proved fatal.
His fall had occasioned a copious bleeding from the nose. He
had now fallen into a sort of feverish trance—half slumber; half
delirium ; and while he lay in that state, he had wild, and fearful
dreams.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE LETTER.
Nine sounded from the clock, whenMme. George softly entered
the chamber of Fleur-de-Marie. The sleep of the young girl was
so light, that she almost instantaneously awoke. A' bright winter
sun darted its rays through the blinds and chintz window-curtains,
the pink linings of which cast on the pale, mild countenance of
Goualeuse the hue which alone was wanting to perfect beauty.
"Well, my child," said Mme. George, seating herself on the
bed, and kissing her forehead, "how do you feel yourself this
morning?"
"Better, much better; madame, I thank you."
"Were you not awakened very early?"
"No, madame."
"I am glad of that. The unfortunate blind man and his son,
co whom we gave a bed here last night, wished to leave the farm
at daybreak; and I feared the noise made in opening the doors
might have awakened you."
"Poor creatures! why did they go away so early?"
"I do not know: yesterday evening when I left you somewhai
composed, I went down into the kitchen to see them; but they
were both so much tired that they had asked permission to go to
bed. Father Chatelain told me that the old man seems not quite
right in his head, and all our people were touched and delighted
with the tender attentions paid by his son to the unfortunate man.
But hear me, Marie, you have had a slight attack of fever, and I
therefore wish that you would not expose yourself to the cold;
you shall not leave the parlor."
"Pardon me, madame, but I promised this evening, at five
o'clock, to wait on the cure at the parsonage."
"It will be imprudent: I am auite sure Slat you have passed a


THE LETTER.
bad night—your eyes are heavy, and you have the look of one
who has had broken rest."
"You are right, my dear madame, I have again had frightful
dreams. In my sleep, 1 saw the woman who persecuted me when
a child, and awoke with a start of terror. It is a ridiculous
weakness, of which I am ashamed."
"This weakness afflicts me, because it causes you suffering, my
poor little girl," said Mme. George, with affectionate solicitude,
observing the eyes of Goualeuse filled with tears. Marie threw
her arms round the neck of her adopted mother, and hid her
face in her bosom.
"In the name of Heaven, dearest Marie, what is it so affects
you?—you alarm me."
"Forgive me, I beseech you, madame, but for the last few
days my heart has felt crushed within me. In spite of every
effort, tears force themselves to my eyes. Boding thoughts
haunt me—dark presentiments of some unknown and impend-
ing evil—some dreadful calamity will surely befall me"
"Marie, Marie, I must really give you a scolding, if you give
way so to these brain-sick terrors"
At this moment Claudine entered, after having knocked at the
door.
"What do you want, Claudine?"
"Pierre, madame, has just arrived from Arnouville, in Mme.
Debreuil's cabriolet, and he has brought you this letter, which he
says is of the utmost importance."
Mme. George opened the letter, and read aloud, as follows:—
"' My Dear Mme. George,—You will greatly oblige me, and prob-
ably be able to release me from a serious embarrassment, if you will
favor me with your company at the farm, without delay. Pierre will
drive you over here, and return with you this afternoon. I really am so
confused, that I hardly know what I am about. M. Debreuil is at Pon-
toise, about the sale of his wool, and I have therefore recourse to you and
Marie in my perplexity. Clara sends her love to her 'dear sister,' and
impatiently expects her. Endeavor to come to breakfast at eleven o'clock.
«*Your very sincere friend,
"*C. Debreuil.*"
'' What can it be about?" said Mme. George to Marie. *' For-
tunately, Mme. Debreuil's letter does not seem to relate to any-
thing very serious."
"Shall I accompany you, madame?" said Marie.
"Perhaps that will scarcely be prudent, for it is extremely cold.
But, after all," continued Mme. George, "it will divert you ; and.
if you wrap yourself up well, the little trip may be favorable to
you."
"But, madame, M. le Cure' will expect me at the parsonage at
five o'clock this evening."


2IO
THE LETTER.
"Right; we will be back before five I promise you."
"Oh, thank you, madame ; I shall be delighted to see Mdlle.
Claire again."
"What, again!" said Mme. George in a tone of gentle
reproach. "Mdlle. Claire. Does our friend, when she speaks
to you, call you Mdlle. Marie?"
"No, madame," replied Goualeuse, casting down her eyes;
"but, then, I—I"
"You!—you are a cruel child to study nothing but self-tor-
ments. Have you so soon forgotten my reproaches, just now, for
(he same fault? Come, dress yourself quickly, and very warmly.
We have yet time to reach Arnouville before eleven o'clock."
Then, leaving the room with Claudine, Mme. George said to
her: "Let Pierre wait; we shall be ready in a few minutes."
Half an hour after this conversation, Mme. George and Fleur-
de-Marie stepped into a roomy cabriolet; and soon after, drawn
by a powerful horse, and driven by Pierre, rolled rapidly along the
grassy road leading from Bouqueval to Arnouville. The extensive
homestead and the numerous outbuildings of the farm cultivated
by M. Debreuil, showed the importance of this magnificent property,
which Mdlle. Cesarine de Noirmont, had brought as a dowry on
her marriage with the Duke de Lucenay.
The echoing cracks of Pierre's whip announced to Mme.
Debreuil the arrival of Mme. George and Fleur-de-Marie, who,
on alighting from the vehicle, were joyously received by Claire
and her mother. Mme. Debreuil was about fifty years of age, her
physiognomy affable and mild; the features of her daughter—a
pretty brunette, with blue eyes and fresh rosy cheeks—breathed
candor and kindness. To her great surprise, as Claire hastened
to embrace her, Goualeuse perceived that her friend was dressed
as a simple country maiden, instead of her former more fashion-
able attire.
"What, Claire! you also disguised as a peasant girl?" said
Mme. George, as she embraced her.
"Don't you know that she must be the same in everything as
her sister Marie?" said Mme. Debreuil; "she gave me no rest
until she also had her cloth bodice and stuff petticoat, and all the
rest, just like your Marie. But, my dear Mme. George, we must
not trouble ourselves about these caprices of our girls," con-
tinued Mme. Debreuil, with a deep sigh; "come with me, and
let me tell you all my perplexities."
On reaching the parlor with her mother and Mme. George,
Claire seated herself next Fleur-de-Marie, giving her the best
place by the fireside, paid her innumerable little marks of atten-
tion, pressed her hands within her own, to assure herself that they
were no longer cold, kissed her again and again, and playfully
called her a very naughty little sister indeed, for making such long
intervals between her visits.
If the reader will call to mind die conversation that passed be-


THE LETTER.
211
tween poor Goualeuse and the cure, he will easily imagine the
mingled humility, pleasure, and fear, with which the unfortunate
girl received these tender marks of affection.
"Well, now, my dear, what has happened to you ?" said Mme.
George; '' pray tell me how I can be of service."
"Oh, in many things; but I'll explain all to you. I do not
think that you are aware of it, but this farm is the private property
of her grace the Duchess of Lucenay; it is with her personally
that we have to settle everything, without any reference to the
duke's steward."
"Indeed ; I was not aware of that."
"You'll see, presently, why I communicate this. The rent ol
the farm is, consequently, paid to the duchess herself, or to
Madame Simon, her principal lady's-maid. Now, the duchess is
so kind, so very kind, though she is rather hasty in temper, that it is
quite a pleasure to have to do business with her. Debreuil and I
would go through fire and water to oblige her; and no wonder either,
for I knew her when she was quite a little girl, when she came
here with her father, the late Prince de Noirmont. Lately, she
asked us for six months' rent in advance. Forty thousand francs
is a sum not to be picked up in the street, as the saying is; but
happily we had that amount in reserve as the wedding portion of
our Claire; and the very day after the request was made, the
duchess had the money in bright shining louis. These great ladies
want so many luxuries! However, it is only within the last year
that the duchess has been strict in expecting her rents on the days
they fall due: formerly she seemed never in want of money, but
the times are much changed."
*' As yet, my dear, I do not perceive how I can be of any serv-
ice to you."
"I'm coming to that—I'm coming to that. I have told you all
this, in order to enable you to understand what confidence the
duchess places in us. To say nothing of her having been, at the
age of twelve or thirteen, Claire's godmother—her noble father
standing as the other sponsor; the duchess has since loaded her
with kindness. Well, yesterday evening, I received, by express,
this letter from the duchess :—
"' It is absolutely necessary, my dear, that the little lodge in the or-
chard be made fit for occupation by to-morrow evening.—Have all neces-
sary furniture put into it, such as carpets, curtains, etc., etc. In a word,
let nothing be wanting—but above all, make it as comfortable as pos-
sible.'
"D j you observe—comfortable, Mme. George, and the word is
underlined, too! " said Mme. Debreuil, looking at her friend with
an air at once embarrassed and meditative- Then she con-
tinued


212
THE LETTER.
"' Have fires burning day and night in the lodge, to dispel any possible
damp; for it is a longtime since the rooms were inhabited. I wish you to
treat that person who will occupy the lodge as you would treat me. You
will receive by the hands of the new-comer a letter which will explain
what I expect from your willing zeal. I reckon entirely on you, and feel
assured that I may safely depend on your fidelity and desire to serve me.
Adieu, my dear Mme. Debreuil; kiss my pretty goddaughter for me, and
believe me, with kindest feelings toward her and yourself,
"* NOIRMONT DE LUCENAY.
"' P. S.—The person in question will arrive the day after to-morrow,
about dusk. Above all things, I beg of you, do not forget to make the
lodge as comfortable as you possibly can."
'' Comfortable again, you see, and underlined as before!" said
Mme. Debreuil, as she returned the Duchess de Lucenay's letter
to her pocket.
*' Well, nothing can be more simple than that," replied Mme.
George.
"How, nothing more simple? Did you not hear, then? The
duchess wishes the lodge to be rendered as comfortable as possi-
ble. It is on that account that I have begged you to come. Claire
and I have well-nigh bothered ourselves out of our senses, en-
deavoring to make out what the word comfortable means, but we
could not manage it. Yet Claire has been at boarding-school at
Villiers-le-Bel, and brought away I don't know how many prizes
for history and geography; well for all that, she could make no
more of the outlandish word than I could! I suppose it is some
fine word among courtiers and fashionable people. So be it for
me: but you must see how bothersome it is to me; her grace
wishes above all things the lodge to be made comfortable—she un-
derlines the word, she repeats it twice and we don't even know
what it means!"
'' Heaven be praised !" said Mme. George, smiling, *' I can ex-
plain this great mystery. Comfortable, in the present instance,
means a convenient, well-arranged, well-closed, well-warmed
room ; in a word an apartment in which nothing needful is want-
ing, not even a little of the superfluous."
"Oh, now I understand what the word means; but the ex-
planation only increases my embarrassment."
"How is that?"
"The duchess speaks of carpets, furniture, and et cetera; but we
have no carpets here, our furniture is of the most homely kind;
and then, in fact, I don't know whether the person we have to
expect is a gentleman or a lady, and everything must be pre-
pared by to-morrow evening. What shall I do? How can I do
it? there's nothing to be got here. Upon my word, Mme. George,
it's enough to turn one's brain!"
"But, mother," said Claire, "suppose you were to take the


THE LETTER.
213
furniture out of my room; I could pass a few days at Bouque-
val with Marie, until you could refurnish it!"
"Your room—your room, my child?" said Mme. Debreuil,
shrugging up her shoulders; "do you fancy the simple furniture
of your room can come up to what madame the duchess means by
the word comfortable f Dear, oh dear! where can people find
such queer words ?'*
"The lodge is commonly uninhabited, then, I presume ?" askec1
Mme. Goorge.
"Oh, yes; it is that little white house which stands by itself a;
the bottom of the orchard. The late prince had it built for her
grace when she was a girl; and when she came to the farm with
her father she used to occupy it. It contains three pretty rooms,
and at the end of its garden there is a Swiss dairy, where the
duchess when a child used to divert herself by playing dairy-maid.
Since her marriage, we have seen her at the farm only twice, and
on each occasion she passed several hours in the little lodge.
The first time-—it is full six years ago-—she came on horseback
with "Then, as though the presence of Claire and Fleur-
de-Marie prevented her from saying more, she abruptly added:
"But, here am I, talking and gossiping, that will never help me
out of my difficulty. Pray assist me, my dear Mme. George;
help me, I beg of you!"
"Well, let us see. How is the lodge furnished at the present
moment?"
*' Scarcely at all. In the principal room there is straw matting
on the floor, a rush couch, chairs and armchairs of the same
material, and a table. That's all, and between that and being
comfortable, you will say that there is a wide difference."
"Well, I will tell you what I would do were I in your place.
It is now eleven o'clock; I would immediately send off some
shrewd person"
"Our head-man—there cannot be a more active man."
"Exactly the person. In about two hours he can be in Paris.
Let him go to any upholsterer in the Chausse'e d'Antin, it little
matters which, and give him a list which I will draw up for you,
as soon as I have seen the cottage. Then, the upholsterer must
be told that, no matter at what cost"
"Oh, of course ; so that the duchess is only satisfied, cost is
of no consequence."
"Well, the upholsterer must be told, then, that, at whatever
cost, everything set down upon the list must be sent here this
evening, or in the course of the night; and that with the goods he
must send down three or four of his men to arrange everything as
quickly as possible."
"They can come by the Gonesse coach, which leaves Paris at
eight o'clock in the evening."
"Then, as nothing is wanted but just the carrying of the goods,


216
THE LETTER.
"Well, then, if you are not, why do you say madamoiselle to
me? You know my mother and Mme. George have scolded you
for it already. I warn you, I will get you scolded again, naughty
sister that you are!"
"Forgive me, Claire, my thoughts were wandering."
"Your thoughts wandering?—and yet you have not seen me
for seven long days!" said Claire, mortified. "Thinking of
somebody else!—that would be bad enough; but no, no, that's
not it. See you, Marie—I shall, at last, think that you are
proud!"
Fleur-de-Marie made no reply, while her face in an instant
became pale as a corpse. At sight of her, a woman in the deep,
first mourning of a widow, uttered a loud cry of horror and rage.
This was the very woman from whom Goualeuse used every
morning to buy her milk, while she lived with the Ogress, at the
drinking-den.
The scene we are about to describe took place in one of the
farm-yards, in presence of the laborers, both male and female,
who had left work to get their mid-day meal. Under a shed stood
a little barrow, to which a donkey was harnessed, the barrow con-
taining the few household movables of the widow. A little boy of
twelve years, assisted by two still younger children, was begin-
ning to unload the vehicle. The milkwoman herself, completely
dressed in black, appeared to be about forty years of age; her
countenance was coarse, masculine, and resolute; and her eyes
were inflamed, as with recent weeping. On perceiving Fleur-de-
Marie, she at first uttered a cry of alarm; but quickly grief, indig.
nation, and rage convulsed her features. She sprang toward
Goualeuse, seized her brutally by the arm, and cried, as she
exhibited her to the farm hands, "See, here is a wretch who
knows the murderer of my poor husband! I have seen her talk-
ing to the villain twenty times, when I sold milk at the corner of
the Rue de la Vieille Draperie I She used to buy a ha'p'orth of
me every morning; she must know, well enough, the villain who
stabbed him, for such loose characters as she know all the thieves
and murderers. Oh, wretch! you shan't escape me, cunning as
you are, depend on it!" cried the milkwoman, exasperated by
her unfounded suspicions; and she seized the other arm of Marie,
who, trembling and bewildered, endeavored to escape. Claire,
dumbfounded at this sudden and unexpected attack, could not
utter a word; but, seeing the woman grow more and more vio-
lent, she at length cried out:—
"Are you mad? Your grief has distracted you—you are alto-
gether mistaken 1"
"I mistaken!" replied the countrywoman, with a bitter sneer:
"I mistaken! Oh, no, no! See, see how pale she's turned
already! the wretch! How her teeth chatter! Justice will force
you to speak, I'll warrant; you shall go with me before the magis-
trate! Do you hear! Oh, resisting's no use; I have a strong


220
THE LETTER.
the very dregs of the vilest wretches in the world! What effront.
ery, what abominable assurance, to dare to thrust yourself upon
honest people, when, no doubt, you ought to be in jail with your
companions!"
"Yes, yes," exclaimed the laborers, "she must go to prison!
She knows the murderer!''
"And very likely she is his accomplice."
"You see now," said the enraged widow, shaking her fist ir'
Goualeuse's face, "did I not tell you there was justice in heaven?"
"As for you, my good woman," said Mme. Debreuil to the
milk woman, " so far from sending you away, I will reward the
service that you have done me and my daughter by exposing this
wretch."
"Hurrah! Our mistress is right!" shouted the ploughmen.
"Come, Claire," said her mother, "Mme. George must explain
her share in this business, or I will never see her again while I
live: for if she has not also been deceived, her conduct toward us
is dreadful."
"But, mother, see the sad state of poor Marie!"
"Let her die with shame, if she likes; so much the better.
Despise her. I would not for the world have you remain another
instant near her; she is one of those creatures to whom a girl like
you cannot even speak without being dishonored."
"Good heaven! dear mother," said Claire, gently resisting the
endeavors of her mother to draw her away, " I know not what all
this may mean: Marie may be guilty, since you say she is, but
see, see! she is ready to faint! At least have pity upon her"
"Oh, Madamoiselle Claire, how kind! you will forgive me! Be-
lieve me, it was indeed in spite of myself that I deceived you, and
often have I reproached myself for it! " said Fleur-de-Marie, cast-
ing her young protectress a look of ineffable gratitude.
'' But mother, have you then no pity? " exclaimed Claire, in a
voice of agony.
"Pity for her I Come away! Did I not consider it to be the
duty of Mme. George instantly to rid us of this pest, I would have
her spurned from the place," replied Mme. Debreuil, sternly.
But, as she dragged her daughter from the spot, the latter turned
and said to Fleur-de-Marie, "Marie, my sister, I do not know of
what they accuse you, but I am quite sure that you are innocent,
and I shall always love you!"
"Silence, child, silence!" said Mme. Debreuil, placing her
hand upon her daughter's mouth. "Fortunately, every one here
can bear witness that after this frightful discovery you have not
remained an instant with this abandoned wretch. You can all
speak to that, can you not, my friends?"
"Yes, yes, madame," said a laborer, "we are all witnesses that
Mdlle. Claire has not remained a moment with that girl, who no
doubt is a thief, as she is so intimate with assassins."
Mme. Debreuil led Claire away. Goualeuse remained alone in


THE LETTER.
221
the centre of the hostile crowd, which closed mechanically around
her. Notwithstanding the reproaches with which Mine. Debreuil
had overwhelmed her, even her presence and that of Claire had
somewhat allayed the fears of Fleur-de-Marie as to the probable
consequences of this scene: but after the departure of both
mother and daughter, finding herself at the mercy of the enraged
peasants, her strength failed her, and she was obliged to lean for
support upon the parapet of the deep drinking place for the farm
;attle.
Nothing could be more touching than the attitude of this unfor-
tunate girl—nothing more menacing than the language and bear-
ing of the louts' who surrounded her. Seated, or rather support-
ing herself on the stone coping, her head bowed down, and hidden
in her small white hands, her throat and bosom veiled by the long
ends of the Indian kerchief which surrounded her little round cap,
the motionless Goualeuse presented a touching picture of grief
and resignation.
A few steps from Fleur-de-Marie, the widow of the murdered
man, triumphant, and the more exasperated against her by the
denunciations of Mme. Debreuil, pointed out the object of her
wrath to the laborers and her children, with hatred and contempt.
The farm-people, standing around in a circle, did not attempt to
disguise the hostile sentiments by which they were animated;
their coarse countenances expressed at once indignation, rage, and
a sort of brutal raillery ; the women were even more furious than
the men; the touching beauty of Goualeuse least of all tended to
assuage their fury. Neither men nor women could pardon Fleur-
de-Marie for having been treated as an equal by their superiors.
Moreover, some of the laborers of Arnouville having been unable,
from want of sufficient recommendations, to obtain the much-
envied employment at the farm of Bouqueval, bore a secret grudge
to Mme George, and determined to avail themselves of the oppor-
tunity now before them to wreak their ill-will upon one who was
known as her favorite.
The first impulses of uncultivated minds are always in extremes
—highly praiseworthy, or equally detestable- but they become
dreadfully dangerous when the multitude fancies its brutalities to
be authorized by the real or apparent wrong-doings of those w.ho
are objects of its anger or aversion.
Although the greater number of the laborers on this farm had
no right to display such virtuous ferocity against the accused girl,
they sef med to feel and act as though contaminated by her very
presence ^ their modesty revolted at the recollection of the class
to which he unfortunate had belonged, and they shuddered to be
near one who, moreover, had confessed that she had often con-
versed with assassins. What more, then, was wanted to urge on
this prejudiced crowd, encouraged as they had been by the
example of her mistress.
"We must take her before the mayor!" cried one.


222
THE LETTER.
"Yes, yes; and if she will not walk we will drag her."
"And such a draggle-tail dared to dress like one of us honest
country girls!" said one of the clumsiest and ugliest wenches of
the farm.
"Well, I'm sure," added another, "with her saintly phiz, one
would think she would get to heaven without confession.
"Why, she even had the impudence to go to mass!"
"The hardened creature! why not have taken the sacrament at
once?"
"Oh yes, and must needs associate with our betters!"
"As though we poor people were not good enough for such
creatures as she!"
"Well, every dog has his day!"
"Oh, you had better confess, and tell who it was that murdered
my poor husband !" vociferated the widow. "You are all of the
same gang; indeed, I am not even sure that I did not see you
among them on that very day. Come, come, sniveling here is of
no use now you are found out. Show us your face, it is well
enough to look at!" The widow brutally pulled down both the
hands with which the poor girl was concealing her pale features,
bathed in tears.
Goualeuse, at first sinking under a sense of shame, became
teriified at thus finding herself at the mercy of these enraged
people; she clasped her hands, and turning her meek and suppli-
cating eyes toward the milk-woman, said, in her gentle voice;
"Indeed, indeed, madame, for the last two months I have been
living at the farm of Bouqueval, therefore I cannot have witnessed
the misfortune you speak of, and''
The timid voice was drowned by these furious outcries:
"Take her before the mayor, she shall explain to him!"
"Come, march on, my fine lady!"
The threatening group closed upon the poor girl, who, crossing
her hands mechanically upon her bosom, looked around her, as if
in search of help.
"Oh!" cried the milkwoman, " it's no use to look about you;
Mdlle. Claire is not here to defend you now; you shall not escape
us."
, "Alas, madame," said Fleur-de-Marie, trembling, " I seek not
to escape from you; I will answer all questions put to me, if that
can serve you. But what harm have I ever done to all these
persons who threaten and surround me?"
"You have done this to us: you have had the impudence to
associate with our masters and mistresses, which we, who are a
thousand times better than you, are not allowed to do—that's what
you have done to us."
*' And why did you want to get this poor widow and her chil-
dren driven away?" asked another.
"*t ~=ras not I, but Mdlle. Claire, who wished"
-A lie! " interrupted the laborer who had last spoken; "you


THE LETTER.
223
did not so much as speak a word for her; you jumped for joy to
see her and her children deprived of bread!"
"No, no, she did not even speak a good word for the poor
things!''
"Oh, she's a regular bad one!"
"A poor widow, too, mother of three children!"
"If I did not ask pardon for her," said Fleur-de-Marie, "it was
because I had not strength to speak a word."
"You could find strength enough to speak to murderers!"
As it usually happens, in cases of popular commotion, these
country-people, more ignorant than wicked, actually intoxicated
themselves with their own furious words, and became fiercer and
fiercer at every fresh threat or insult hurled at their unhappy
victim.
The menacing circle drew closer and closer around Fleur-de-
Marie, all gesticulating as they spoke ; the farrier's widow espe-
cially seemed to have lost all control over herself. Separated only
from the deep water-pit by the parapet upon which she was lean-
ing, Goualeuse trembled at the idea of their pushing her back-
wards into the water; and extending toward them her clasped
hands, exclaimed, in a supplicating tone, "In heaven's name,
what is it you would of me? For mercy's sake, do not ill-treat
me!" As the milkwoman, with fierce and violent gesticulation,
kept approaching nearer and nearer, thrusting her clenched fists
almost into her face, Fleur-de-Marie, shrinking back in terror,
cried in the most piteous tones, "I implore you, madame, do not
press so closely on me, or I'll fall into the water."
These words of Fleur-de-Marie awakened a cruel idea in the
minds of these rude people. Thinking only of one of those practi-
cal jokes common among boors, but which often terminate but
little short of the death of their subject, one of the noisiest and
most violent of the laborers called out, "A ducking! let us give
the witch a ducking!"
"Yes, yes, into the water—in with her!" was repeated with
bursts of laughter and frantic applause.
"That's the best thing for her; a good ducking won't kill
her!"
"That'll teach her not to mix with honest folks again."
"Yes, yes, in with her—in with her!"
"Luckily, the ice was broken this morning."
*' Yes, yes, we'll give the girl of the streets something to remem-
ber the honest people of Arnouville farm!"
Hearing these inhuman cries and cruel jests, and seeing the
exasperation that was expressed upon the brutally excited counte-
nances of those who approached to carry out the threat, Fleur-de-
Marie gave herself up for lost. To her first thrill of alarm, how-
ever, succeeded a sort of gloomy satisfaction: the future appeared
to her so dark, that she mentally thanked heaven for abridg;"g
her sufferings; she uttered no word of complaint, but fell on, K>r


224
THE LETTER.
knees, piously crossed her arms upon her bosom, closed her eyes,
and awaited her doom in prayer. The laborers, surprised at the
attitude and the mute resignation of Marie, hesitated for a moment
to pursue their savage purpose; but, taunted for their weakness by
the female part of the assemblage, they recommenced their shouts,
as though to work themselves up into the courage to carry out
their evil design. Two of the most furious among them were on
the point of seizing Marie, when an agitated and thrilling voice
exclaimed, "Stop! desist!" and at the same moment Mme.
George, who had forced herself a passage through the crowd,
reached the still kneeling Marie, raised her in her arms, and cried,
"Stand up, my child, stand up, my beloved daughter; we should
kneel only before God?"
The expression and attitude of Mme. George were so full of
imperious courage, that the crowd drew back in silence. Indig-
nation flushed her usually pale features, and casting on the labor-
ers a stern look, she said to them in a loud and threatening voice,
"Wretches! are you not ashamed to proceed to such brutal vio-
lence with this unfortunate child?"
"She is a"
"She is my daughter!" cried Mme. George, with severity, inter-
rupting the man who was about to speak. "Abb6 Laporte, whom
all bless and revere, loves and protects her, and those whom he
esteems oughf to be respected by every one."
These simple words silenced the crowd. The Cure* of Bouque-
val was looked upon in that district almost as a saint; and many
present knew how much the good old man interested himself in
the Goualeuse. However, some confused murmurs were still
raised. Mme. George fully comprehended their meaning, and
said: "If even this unfortunate girl were the lowest of the low,
and abandoned by all the world, your conduct toward her would
be none the less odious! For what would you punish her?—by
what authority? Can you call yourselves men who would exert
your strength against one feeble, unresisting female! Come,
Marie, come, my poor child, let us return home—there, at least,
you are known and valued."
Mme. George took the arm of Fleur-de-Marie; and the labor-
ers, confused and conscious of the brutality of their conduct,
respectfully made way for them. The widow alone advanced
resolutely, and confronting Mme. George, she said: "I don't care
what you say, not I! This girl shall not go until she has deposed
before the mayor on the subject of the murder of my poor hus-
band."
"My good friend," said Mme. George, restraining her indig-
nation, "my daughter has no evidence to give here; if at any
future time justice require her testimony, let her be called for,
and I will accompany her. Until then, no one has a right to
question her."
"But, madame, I tell you——"


THE LETTER.
225
Mme. George cut short the milkwoman, by saying, sternly,
"Scarcely can your severe misfortune excuse your conduct: you
will some day bitterly regret the violence you have so imprudently
excited. Mademoiselle Marie lives with me at Bouqueval farm,
make that known to the magistrate who receives your deposition;
we will awi.it his orders."
The widow was unable to argue against such cool reasoning:
she seated herself on the parapet of the drinking-place, and wept
bitterly as she embraced her children. Almost immediately after
this scene, Pierre brought the cabriolet, into which Mme. George
and Fleur-de-Marie stepped to return to Bouqueval.
As they passed before the farmhouse of Arnouville, the latter
perceived Claire weeping bitterly as she stood half-concealed
behind a partly-closed outer blind: she waved her handkerchief
to Fleur-de-Marie in token of adieu.
*' Oh, madame ; what shame for me, and what grief to you!"
said Fleur-de-Marie to her adopted mother, when they were once
more alone in the little parlor of the farm of Bouqueval. "Doubt-
less you are for ever at variance with Mme. Debreuil, and all on
my account! Ch, my presentiments! God has punished me for
having deceived that lady and her daughter. I am the cause of
discord between you and your friend!"
"My friend is an excellent woman, my dear child, but she has
a poor weak head; still, she has a good heart, to-morrow I am
sure she will regret her foolish conduct of to-day."
"Alas, madame, do not for a moment think that I wish to justify
her by accusing you; God, forbid! but your kindness to me has
perhaps blinded you. Place yourself in the situation of Mme.
Debreuil. Learning that the companion of her beloved daughter
was—what / was—say, can you blame her maternal indig-
nation?"
Unfortunately, Mme. George could not find a word in reply to
this question, and Fleur-de-Marie continued with increased excite-
ment: "This disgraceful scene will soon be known and talked
about all through the country. It is not for myself I fear ; but who
knows whether the reputation of Mdlle. Claire, may not be tainted
because she kindly called me her friend—her sister? I ought to
have obeyed my first impulse—resist the inclination which drew
me so strangely toward Mme. Debreuil ; at the risk of inspiring
her with dislike, I ought to have avoided the friendship which she
offered me. But I forgot! what proves my position to be for ever
false and miserable, is, that out of your affection for me, you have
found it necessary to hide the past, while Claire's mother is enti-
tled to despise me for that past—to despise me as the whole world
henceforth will despise me; for the scene at the farm of Arnou-
ville will be quickly spread abroad—all will be known. Oh,. I shall
die of shame! I shall never more be able to meet the looks of
anyone!"
"Not even mine, my child," said Mme. George, bursting into
8


THE ROAD IN THE CUTTING.
22J
unless you assist me? My poor old grandmother will, perhaps,
die!"
The Goualeuse, touched by the little cripple's grief, exclaimed,
"I am not very strong myself, child, but perhaps I can help you
to lift your grandmother. Quick! lead me to her. I live at
yonder farm: and if the poor old woman cannot walk there with
our help, I will go back and send some person to help her."
"Oh, my kind lady, heaven will bless you for it, sure! She is
close by—a few steps from the ravine-road, as 1 told you before s
it was coming down the bank she fell."
"You don't belong to this part of the country, then?" asked
Goualeuse, as she followed Crooky, who, no doubt, has already
been recognized by the reader.
"No, my kind lady, we come from Ecouen."
"And whither are you going?"
"To a good priest, who lives on yonder hill," said Red Arm*a
son, to increase the confidence of Fleur-de-Marie.
"To Abbe' Laporte, perhaps?"
"Yes, my kind lady—to Abbe' Laporte's. My poor grand*
.another knows him very, very well."
"What a strange chance! I am myself going directly to his
house," replied Marie, entering further and further into the ravine*
road.
"Grandmother! I'm coming! I'm coming! Be patient; I
am bringing you help?" shouted Crooky, to prepare the School*
master and the Owl to seize upon their victim.
"It is not far from here, then, that your grandmother has
fallen?" said Goualeuse.
"No, my kind lady ; just behind that large tree where the road
bends, about twenty paces hence."
Tortillard stopped suddenly. The noise of a horse galloping
echoed amid the silence of the plain.
*' All is again lost!'' muttered he.
A few yards from the spot which Goualeuse and the boy had
now reached, the road made a very sudden turn. A horseman
appeared at this angle, and, as he neared Goualeuse, reined up.
At the same time the trot of another horse was heard, and in a
few moments a servant appeared, dressed in a brown coat with
silver buttons, white buckskin breeches, and top-boots. In the
dark and handsome-faced gentleman Crooky recognized the Vis-
count de Saint-Remy, the reputed paramour of the Duchess de
Lucenay.
"My pretty maid," said the viscountto Goualeuse, whose beauty
surprised him, "will you be so obliging as to inform me the road
to the village of Arnouville?"
Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes beneath the bold and
admiring look of the young man, replied: "On quitting the hol-
low way, sir, take the first turning to the right; that road will lead


228
THE ROAD IN THE CUTTING.
you to the avenue of cherry-trees, which runs straight fo Arnou.
ville.'
"A thousand thanks, my pretty maid; you give me rather
clearer directions than an old woman who is lying at the foot of a
tree, a. few paces round the corner of the road; I could get noth-
ing frc m her but groans.''
"Mj poor grandmother!" said Crooky, in a whining voice.
"SUy! one word more," said Saint-Remy, addressing Goua-
leuse; "can you tell me if I can easily find the farm of M.
Debreuii, at Arnouville?"
Goualeuse could not repress a slight shudder at these words,
which vividly recalled to her mind the painful scene of that morn-
ing: she replied, "The buildings of the farm skirt the avenue
which leads into Arnouville."
"Thanks again, my pretty maid," said Saint-Remy, and he
galloped on, followed by Lis groom.
The handsome features of the viscount, although slightly un-
wrinkled as he spoke to Fleur-de-Marie, became, when alone
again, darkened and contracted by painful anxiety. Fleur-de-
Marie, remembering what she had heard of the unknown per-
sonage for whom the lodge of the farm at Arnouville was being
prepared in such haste, by the orders of the Duchess de Lucenay,
felt no doubt that it was for this handsome young cavalier. The
sound of the horses' feet was heard for some time as they gal-
loped on the frozen ground; it gradually grew fainter and fainter,
and soon all was once more hushed in silence. Crooky breathed
again. Wishing to encourage and forewarn his accomplices, one
of whom, the Schoolmaster, was hidden from the sight of the
horsemen, the imp called out: "Grandmother, here I am,
with a good younjj lady, who is going to help you!"
"Quick, quick, my boy! The gentleman on horseback has
caused us to lose same minutes!" said Goualeuse, hastening for-
ward to reach the turning into the hollow way.
Scarcely had sh6 entered it, when the Owl, who lay ambushed
there, exclaimed: "Now! now, my blade!" Then- springing
on Goualeuse, the one-eyed hag grasped her throat with one hand,
and clapped the other over her mouth: while Crooky, throwing
himself at the youi.g girl's feet, clung round her legs so as to pre-
vent her stirring a step.
All this passed so rapidly that the Owl had no time to examine
the features of Goualeuse ; but, during the few moments taken by
the Schoolmaster to emerge from his hiding-place, and to grope
his way along with his cloak, the old woman recognized her former
victim.
"The Kid!" yelled the astounded hag: then with savage
delight, she added: "What! you again! Oh! the Baker has
sent you! 'Tis your luck always to fall into my clutches. I have
my vitriol in the coach! This time I'll spoil your pretty skin, for
you give me the sneezes w'th that Virgin-face of yours! Mind


THE ROAD IN THE CUTTING.
229
what you're about, my man—take care she does not bite you, and
hold her fast while we wrap her up."
With his powerful hands the Schoolmaster seized Goualeuse,
and, before she could utter a single cry, the Owl had thrown the
cloak over her head, and bound it tightly round her. Thus,
almost in an instant, Fleur-de-Marie, bound and gagged, was
placed beyond the possibility of making a movement or calling for
assistance. "Now, my blade, take up your bundle!" said the
Owl. "I say! it isn't so heavy as the bundle of the woman wc
drowned in the Canal Saint Martin, is it, my man?" As the brig-
and shuddered at the words, which reminded him of his dreadful
dream over-night, the hag went on: "Halloo! what ails you,
my blade ?—one would think you were shivering. Ever since
morning, your teeth every now and then chatter, as if you had
the shakes ; and then you look up into the air, as if you were
trying to see something!"
"Bless you, he's shamming blind !—he is looking after flies!"
said Crooky.
"Come, quick!—forward with you, my man! Up with the
girl! That's the ticket! " added the Owl, as she saw the ruffian
lift Fleur-de-Marie in his arms, as he would carry a sleeping
child. "Quick to the coach !—quick!"
"But who will lead me?" asked the Schoolmaster, in a hollow
voice, securing his light and flexible burden in his Herculean
arms.
"Old wisehead again! he thinks of everything!" observed
the Owl.
Then, taking off her shawl, she untied a red pocket-handker-
chief which covered her skinny neck, twisted it lengthwise and
said to the Schoolmaster: "Open your muzzle, and take the
end of this wipe in your grinders. Hold tight! Crooky will take
the other end in his hand, and all you've to do is to follow him.
A good blind man deserves a good dog! Here, Mischief!"
The little deformity turned a hand-spring, gave a low, odd sort
of yapping bark, took the other end of the handkerchief in his
hand, and thus led the Schoolmaster, whilst the Owl hurried for.
ward to notify their coming to Barbillon. We renounce attempt-
ing to paint the terror of Fleur-de-Marie when she found herself
in the power of the Owl and the Schoolmaster. Her senses left
her, and, helpless, she offered not the slightest resistance.
In a few minutes Goualeuse was placed in the coach, driven by
Barbillon; although it was night, the blinds were carefully closed
and the three accomplices directed their course, with their almost
expiring victim, toward the plain of Saint Denis, where Sir
Thomas Seyton awaited them.


230
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CLEMENCE D'HARVIILE.
It will be remembered that Rudolf had saved Lady d'Harville
from an imminent danger, contrived by the jealousy of Sarah,
who had apprised D'Harville of the meeting which his wife had so
imprudently granted to M. Charles Robert. Deeply moved by
that scene, the prince returned home on leaving the house in the
Rue du Temple, postponing his intended visit to Rigolette, and
the family of the unfortunate artizan of whom we have spoken:
for he supposed them placed beyond immediate want by means
of the money he had given to the marchioness, in order that her
pretended charitable visit to the house might seem more plausible
in the eyes of D'Harville. Unfortunately, Rudolf was ignorant
of Crooky's theft of the purse.
About four o'clock, the prince received the following letter,
brought by an old woman, who left instantly, without waiting an
answer:—
"Your Royal Highness,—I owe you more than life, and wish to
express my heartfelt gratitude to you this very day. To-morrow, per-
haps, shame would close my lips. If your royal highness will honor me
with a call this evening, you will end the day as you began it—by a gen-
erous action.
"D'Orbigny d'Harville.
"P.S.—Do not trouble yourself to reply to this note; I shall be at home
the whole evening."
Rudolf, happy as he was to have rendered Lady d'Harville so
eminent a service, regretted, nevertheless, the forced intimacy
thus suddenly established between him and the marchioness. In-
capable of betraying the friendship of D'Harville, yet deeply
struck by the grace, intellect, and beauty of Clemence, the prince,
after a month's assiduous attendance on his arrival in Paris, had
perceived that he was dangerously attracted toward her. He
therefore almost entirely denied himself the pleasure of seeing
her. It was with emotion, too, that he remembered the conversa-
tion he had overheard in the winter garden of the ambassadress—
between Sir Thomas Seyton and Lady Macgregor. The latter, to
account for her hatred and jealousy, had, with some appearance
of plausibility, affirmed that Lady d'Harville still entertained, al-
most unconsciously, a serious affection for Rudolf. Sarah was
too sagacious, too acute, too learned in the mysteries of the hu-
man heart, to ;e unaware that Cle'mence—believing herself


2&
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
of the apartment in which the marchioness awaited Rudolf.
Thanks to a charming innovation, this handsome room was
lighted by a lamp, the ground-glass globe of which was half hid-
den amidst a tuft of natural flowers contained in a large Japanese
bowl, beautifully painted in azure and gold, suspended from the
ceiling like a lustre by three massive chains of silver-gilt, around
which twined the green stems of several parasitic plants ; some of
the flexible and flower-laden curls hung down over the edges of
the bowl, forming a graceful fringe of cool, fresh verdure upon the
porcelain, enameled with purple, azure, and gold. We have
dwelt on these details, trifling as they may seem, in order tc
convey some idea of the natural good taste of Lady d'Harville
(almost always allied to an elevated mind), and because there
are certain mysterious griefs which seem still more poignant when
contrasted with those appearances which, in general estimation,
render life happy and enviable.
Buried in a large armchair, entirely covered with straw-colored
silk, sat Cle'mence d'Harville; her hair plain. She wore a high
black velvet dress, which displayed with admirable effect the
beautiful workmanship of a deep collar and cuffs of English
point, and prevented the blackness of the velvet from contrasting
too suddenly with the dazzling whiteness of her hands and
throat.
In proportion as the moment for the marchioness's interview
with Rudolf approached, her emotion increased. At length, how-
ever, her confusion gave place to more resolute thoughts, and,
after mature reflection, she determined on confiding to Rudolf a
great, painful secret, hoping that her frankness would perhaps re-
store her to the esteem she now valued so highly. Revived by
gratitude, her first partiality for Rudolf had returned with new
strength, for one of those secret whispers which rarely deceive
the loving heart, told her that it was not mere chance that
had brought the prince so opportunely to her aid: and that, in
avoiding her for some months previously, he had yielded to a sen-
timent the very opposite of indifference. A vague instinct also
awakened in the mind of Ck'nience some doubts of the sincerity
of Sarah's affection. A few minutes had elapsed when a servant,
after gently tapping at the door, entered, and said: "Will it
please your ladyship to see Mrs. Aston and the young lady?"
Lady d'Harville nodded assent, and her daughter slowly entered
the room.
The child was four years old, and would have been charmingly
beautiful, but for the sickly pallor of her countenance, and the
extreme wasting of her person. Mrs. Aston, the governess, led
her by the hand, but directly Claire (that was the name of the
child) saw her mother, she extended her arms, and, in spite-of
her weakness, ran toward her. Her light brown hair was plaited
and tied on each side of her forehead with bows of cherry-colored
riband. Her health was so delicate that she wore an over-dress


234
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
he stood opposite to her. Never had Clemence been more struck
with the noble and prepossessing appearance of the prince, never
had his voice sounded more gently or more sweetly. Feeling how
painful it would be to the marchioness to begin the conversation,
Rudolf said to her: "Madame, you have been the victim of
disgraceful treachery: a cowardly accusation of Countess Sarah
Macgregor had well-nigh ruined you."
"Can that be the truth?" cried Clemence. "My presenti-
ments, then, have not deceived me! How did your highness dis .
cover this?"
"Last night, by mere chance, at the ball of the Countess C ,
I became aware of this atrocious plot. I was seated in a retired
part of the winter-garden, when, unconscious that I was sepa-
rated from them only by a clump of trees, Lady Macgregor and
her brother talked plainly about their projects, and the snare that
they had set for you. Anxious to apprise you of the peril that
threatened you, I hurried to the ball of Madame de Nerval, hop-
ing to meet you there, but you had not appeared. To write to
you would only have been to incur the risk of my letter falling
into the hands of the marquis, whose suspicions were already
aroused. I preferred, therefore, to go and await your arrival at
the house in the Rue du Temple, in order to baffle the treachery
of the Countess Sarah. Allow me to hope you will pardon me for
saying so much on a subject that must be distressing to you. Be
assured, that but for the letter you have had the kindness to write
to me, never in my life would I have in any way reverted to the
subject."
After a momentary silence, Lady d'Harville said: "There is
but one way in which I can prove to your highness how grateful I
am for your generosity—it is, to confess to you that which I have
never revealed to human being. This confession will not, indeed,
justify me in your estimation, but it will probably cause you to
think my conduct somewhat less culpable than it appears."
"Frankly," said Rudolf, smiling, "my position toward your
ladyship is very embarrassing."
Clemence, astonished at the almost jesting tone in which he
spoke, looked at Rudolf with surprise, and said: '' How so, your
highness?"
*' Owing to a circumstance you doubtless can guess, I am com-
pelled somewhat to play the part of a near relative, touching an
adventure which, as you have escaped the odious treachery of the
Countess of Macgregor, does not deserve to be seriously looked
at. But," continued Rudolf, with gentle and affectionate gravity,
"your husband is almost the same to me as a brother; and before
us, my father was devoted to his father by the most affectionate
gratitude. It is therefore with all seriousness that I congratulate
you upon having maintained the peace and security of your hus-
band.
*'And it is precisely because you honor Lord d'Harville with


CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE. 235
your friendship that I am so desirous to make your highness ac-
quainted with the whole truth; above all, upon an interest which
must seem to you as unworthy as it really is, and my conduct,
which appears injurious toward him whom your highness calls
'almost a brother.'"
"Indeed, I shall always be proud and happy to receive even
the slightest proof of your ladyship's confidence; yet you must
permit me to say, as regards the interest of which you speak, that
I am quite aware that you yielded fully as much to the sentiment
of pity as to the ceaseless importunities of the Countess Sarah
Macgregor, who had her own reasons for seeking your ruin. I
also know that you hesitated long before you could summon reso-
lution to take the step you now so deeply regret."
Clemence looked at the prince with surprise.
"Does that surprise you? Well, in order that you may not
fancy that I deal in witchcraft, I will tell you all about it some
other day," continued Rudolf, smiling. "But is your husband
completely tranquilized?"
"Yes, your highness," said Cle"mence, casting down her eyes
in confusion, "and, indeed, it is painful to me to hear him asking
pardon for having suspected me, and praising my modest silence
respecting my charitable deeds."
"Nay, do not blame an illusion which renders him happy: on
the contrary, do everything that you can to confirm him in the
pleasant error. If it were not forbidden me to speak lightly of
this adventure, and if your ladyship were not concerned, I should
say, that never is a wife more charming to her husband than when
she has some failing to conceal. It is scarcely possible to form an
idea of the coaxings and winning smiles that are elicited by a
troubled conscience. When I was young," added Rudolf, with a
smile, " I always experienced, despite of myself, a vague distrust
at any extraordinary display of tenderness, and for my own part,
I can say that I never felt myself more amiable than when I
needed forgiveness, so as soon as I perceived any one as perfidi-
ously amiable toward me as I felt myself to be toward them, I
was quite convinced that this delightful unanimity concealed some
mutual deceit."
Lady d'Harville became more and more astonished to hear
Rudolf speak so lightly of an adventure which might have in-
volved such awful consequences to her; but quickly perceiving
that the prince, beneath this affection of levity, endeavored to dis-
guise the importance of the service he had rendered her, she felt
deeply touched by his delicacy. "I fully understand your high-
ness's generous wish, and you are at liberty to jest, and forget the
peril from which you have snatched me. But what I have now to
say is so grave, so melancholy, so closely connected with the
events of this morning, and your advice may be s« useful to me,
that I entreat you to remember that you have saved both my
honor and my life—yes, my >;fe! My husband was armed, and,


CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
in the excess of his repentance, he has confessed that he followed
with the intention of killing me!"
"Great God !" exclaimed Rudolf, with deep emotion.
*' He would have been justified in so doing," said Lady d'Har-
ville, bitterly.
"I conjure your ladyship," said Rudolf, this time most seri-
ously, " yes, I conjure you to believe me incapable of being indif-
ferent to aught that concerns you. If I just now spoke somewhat
lightly, I did so because I did not wish to add a greater weight to
the melancholy occurrence this morning. But now I shall listen to
your ladyship with a religious seriousness, as you are so good as to
say that my advice may be of service to you."
"Oh! invaluable! But before I ask your highness's counsel,
allow me to say a few words concerning a period when you did
not know me—the years preceding my marriage with Lord d'Har-
ville."
Rudolf bowed, and Clemence continued—
"At sixteen years of age, I lost my mother '' said she, while
an involuntary tear stole down her cheek. "I will not attempt to
tell you how much I loved her. Imagine the perfection of kind-
ness here on earth. Her fondness for me was extreme, and in it
she appeared to find a sweet consolation for bitter griefs. Having
but little inclination for society, of delicate health, and naturally
very sedentary, her greatest delight was to take the sole charge
of my education ; and her various and solid knowledge qualified
her for that self-imposed task far better than any hireling. Con-
ceive the astonishment of my dear mother and myself when, in
my sixteenth year, my education almost finished, my father, on
the plea of my mother's weak health, announced to us that a
young and accomplished widow, rendered most interesting by her
great misfortunes, would take upon herself the duty of complet-
ing what my mother had commenced. At first she would not hear
of my father's plan, and I entreated him not to allow a stranger
to interpose between myself and my mother. He was inexorable,
and, in spite of our tears, Madame Roland, widow of a colonel
who died in India—as she said—took up her abode with us, and
was entrusted with the duties and authority of governess to my-
self."
"What, the same Madame Roland whom your father married
so soon after you gave your hand to Lord d'Harville." "Yes,
your highness."
"Was she very handsome?" "Tolerably so, your high-
ness."
"Very intellectual, then?"
"A talent for trickery and deceit—nothing more. At that time
she was about five-and-twenty years of age, with very light hair,
almost white eyelashes, and large eyes, of a very light blue; the
expression of her countenance was mild, and even humble; hei


CLUMENCE D'HARVILLE.
237
disposition cruelly perfidious, while her deportment was apparently
submissive, even to baseness."
"And her education?"
"Worse than none, your highness; and I cannot comprehend
how my father, till then a slave to conventionalties, could fail to
perceive that the woman's glaring incapacity must shamefully be-
tray the real object of her presence in the house. My mother
pointed out to him the utter ignorance of Madame Roland; he
answered in a tone which forbade all reply, that, competent or
otherwise, this young and interesting widow should keep the situ-
ation to which he had appointed her. I learned this subsequently.
From that moment my poor mother's eyes were opened, and she
was deeply affected ; not so much deploring, I think, her husband's
infidelity, as foreseeing the domestic unhappiness to which such a
connection must lead, and the nature of which would probably
reach my ears."
*' But, looking only at his absurd passion, it seems to me that
your father acted very unwisely in introducing this woman to his
house."
*' Your highness's astonishment would be the greater on that
point, had you known the extreme formality and circumspection of
his character : nothing could have led him thus to forget all the de-
cencies of society but the irresistible influence of Madame Roland
—an influence the more potent, because she disguised her designs
under the pretence of a burning passion for him.''
"But how old was your father at that time?"
*' About sixty."
"And really believed in the love of that young woman for
him?"
"Notwithstanding the excellent sense my father was acknowl-
edged to possess, he blindly fell into this clumsy snare. Such
was, such still is, I doubt not, the secret of the influence of this
woman. Really, despite my present sadness, I cannot refrain
from smiling when 1 remember how often, before my marriage,'
have heard Madame Roland assert and maintain, that what she
called real maturity was the best period of life, and that this
maturity scarcely commenced before fifty-five or sixty!"
"Your father's age?"
"But what most excited my aversion was her odious conduct
to my mother, and the fatally active part she took in bringing
ibout my marriage," said Lady d'Harville, after a momentary
hesitation.
Rudolf looked at her with surprise.
"Lord d'Harville is your highness's friend," resumed Cle'mence,
in a firm voice. "I am perfectly aware of the grave importance
of the words I have spoken; presently you will tell me about the
justice of them. But I will return to Madame Roland, now estab-
lished in our family as my governess, in spite of her manifest in-
capacity. On this subject r"" mother at length had a most pam


CLEMENCh D'HARVILLE.
239
"Permit me to be silent on that point. But at the time oi
v/hich you speak, what did her grace of Lucenay say about this
man?"
"That from the time of his departure from Paris, he wrote her
some very clever letters upon the countries he had passed through;
for he was a great traveler. And now I remember, about a
month ago, upon my asking her grace if she still received news oi
M. Polidori, she replied, with some embarrassment, that for a
long time past nothing had been heard of him ; that it was not
known what had become of him, and that some persons even sup-
posed him to be dead."
"That is strange!" said Rudolf, recalling to his mind the visi]
of the duchess to the charlatan Bradamanti.
'' Does your highness know this man?"
"Yes, unhappily for me I do. But pray continue your narra-
tive; I may hereafter tell you something more of this Polidori.'*
"What! relating to this physician?"
"Rather say, to that wretch, polluted by the most >,tiociou»
crimes!"
"Crimes!" cried the terrified Lady d'Harvil't; "then this
man has committed crimes! he, the friend of Madame Roland,
the medical adviser of my mother, who ditd under his treat-
ment after a few days' illness! Oh, you; I.ighness, my presenti-
ments have not deceived me!"'
"Your presentiments?"
'' Yes. I just now mentioned you the involuntary dislike
with which this man inspired rat, on account of his having been
introduced to the house by Madame Roland ; but I did not tell
your highness all."
"How so?"
"I was fearful lest I .-kou'td accuse an innocent man, by yield-
ing too far to the rmmiptings of bitter grief; but now I feel justi-
fied in telling your highness everything. My mother lay dan-
gerously ill for five days; during which time I watched her night
and day. One evening I went to breathe the fresh air on the flat
of our h.-,u=e: at the end of about a quarter of an hour I returned
through a fong and dark gallery. By a faint light which streamed
from the door of Madame Roland's apartment, I saw Polidori
q;uit the room. The lady accompanied him. Being in the shadow,
they did not perceive me. Madame Roland spoke a few words
in a very low tone of voice, which I could not distinctly hear.
The doctor in a much louder tone, replied only, ' Theday afierio-
morrow.' And as Madame Roland again whispered something
to him he repeated, with singular emphasis, 'The day after to-
morrow, I tell you—the day after to-morrow.'"
"What could be the meaning of these words?"
"What could they mean? It was on Wednesday evening I
heard Polidori say, ' The day after to-morrow.' Friday came—my
mother was dead!"


240
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
"Oh, that is horrible!"
"After this mournful event I was sent to stay with a lady relation,
who, forgetful of the reserve which my tender age should have
imposed on her, told me what powerful reasons there were for my
hating Madame Roland, and enlightened me as to the ambitious
hopes entertained by this woman. Then did I first fully con-
ceive all my poor mother must have suffered. The first time I
again saw my father I thought my heart would burst; he came to
take me into Normandy, where we were to pass the first period
of our mourning. During the journey he informed me, without
the least preface, and as though it had been the most natural
thing in the world, that out of regard for himself and me, Madame
Roland had kindly consented to take the management of his es-
tablishment, and to act as my guide and friend.
"On arriving at Aubiers (so was my father's estate called), the
first person who met us was Madame Roland. She had estab-
lished herself here on the day of my mother's death. Spite of her
humble, gentle manner, her countenance betrayed ill-disguised
triumph. Never shall I forget the look, at once sarcastic and
spiteful, with which she received me; it seemed to say, * I am
mistress here—you are the guest.' A fresh grief was in store for
me. Whether from an inexcusable want of correct feeling, or
shameless impudence, this woman occupied the apartment which
had been my mother's; in my indignation I complained to my
father of this unfeeling impropriety. He answered me severely,
saying that it was needless for me either to feel or express surprise
on the subject, as it was his desire I should habituate myself to
look upon and respect Madame Roland as a second mother. I
replied, that it would be a profanation of that sacred name to
act as he commanded. To his extreme wrath, I never allowed
any opportunity to escape by which I could exhibit my deeply-
rooted aversion to Madame Roland; and many times in the excess
of his anger he bitterly reprimanded me in the presence of that
woman. He reproached my ingratitude and coldness toward an
angel of consolation, sent to us by Providence. 'Let me beg of
you to speak for yourself alone, my father,' retorted 1, one day.
He treated me hastily for that speech, but Madame Roland, with
the honeyed words of hypocrisy, artfully interceded forme. Par-
don me for dwelling so long upon these trivial details; thus alone
can 1 accurately convey to your highness an idea of the life I at
that time led."
"I can almost fancy myself present at these domestic scenes, so
sad and yet so true. In how many families have they been
repeated, and will be again and again! But in what capacity did
your father introduce Madame Roland to the neighborhood?"
"As my governess and my friend—and she was received ac-
cordingly."
"I need not ask you whether he lived in the sarne isolated


242
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
a woman who, when you were in want and misery, charitably per-
mitted you to eat her bread.'"
"Excellent!" said Rudolf. "Your icy contempt must have
been crushing to her."
"'Mademoiselle!' exclaimed my father, 'you forget that this
lady has watched, and still continues to watch, with maternal
solicitude over your education; you seem to have lost all recollec-
tion of the respect and esteem I entertain for her. And since yon
so far forget yourself as to assail her before strangers, I tell you—
yes, /, that the charge of ingratitude lies at the door of her who,
overlooking the tender care and attention she has received, pre-
sumes to reproach a person deserving of interest and respect with
misfortunes nobly sustained.' 'I will not permit myself to discuss
the question with you, my dear father,' said I, submissively.
'Perhaps then, mademoiselle, you will favor me with that prefer-
ence!' cried Madame Roland, carried away by rage beyond the
bounds of her usual prudence—' perhaps you will permit me to
assert that, so far from owing the slightest gratitude to your
mother, I have nothing to remember but the aversion she invaria-
bly manifested toward me; for it is not with her goodwill that I
resided under this roof.' 'Stay, madame!' said I, interrupting
her, 'out of respect to my father, if not in mercy to yourself, re-
frain from these shameful confessions or you will make even me
regret having exposed you to such humiliating disclosures.'"
"Better and better," cried Rudolf; "this was a death sentence!
And this woman?"
"By a very vulgar though convenient expedient, Madame
Roland contrived to put an end to this conversation. With a loud
scream she threw herself in a chair and very naturally feigned a
swoon. Thanks to this incident, the two witnesses of this scene
quitted the room on pretence of going for assistance, and I fol.
lowed their example, leaving my father hanging in the fondest
anxiety over Madame Roland."
"I can imagine your father's rage on your next interview!"
"He came to my apartment next morning, and said to me, ' In
order to prevent a recurrence of such disgraceful scenes as that
of yesterday, I have to inform you that, as soon as the prescribed
time of our mourning shall have expired, it is my intention to
marry Madame Roland. You will then be compelled to treat her
with the respect due to my wife. For certain private reasons, it
is expedient you should marry before me; your mother's fortune,
amounting to more than a million of francs will be your portion.
From this day, I shall take the necessary steps to form a suitable
match for you from among the various proposals I have received
for your hand.' After this conversation, I lived more alone than
ever, never meeting my father except at meals, which usually
passed in melancholy silence. So dull and lonely was my life,
that I only waited for rny father to propose any suitor he might
decide on, to accept him for my husband. Madame Roland, hav-


CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
243
ing abandoned all her ill-natured remarks about my deceased
parent, avenged herself by inflicting on me the continual pain of
seeing her appropriate to herself the various articles that had
belonged to my mother. Her easy chair, her embroidery-frame,
the books which composed her private library, even to a screen I
myself had embroidered for her, and in the centre of which were
her initials. This woman profaned them all."
"Oh! I can well conceive the horror such desecration caused
you."
"Still, great as were my sufferings, my lonely, isolated state
rendered them more acute."
*' And had you no one in whom you could confide?"
"Soon after this, Madame Roland, to my great astonishment
set out for Paris. I felt a vague presentiment that her journey
had reference to my marriage. I will leave your highness to fancy
the joy of my father on the return of my future stepmother. The
next day he sent to desire my company: I found him alone with
her. 'I have,' said he, ' for some time past been reflecting on the
necessity of settling you. Your mourning will terminate in another
month. To-morrow I expect a visit from the Marquis d'Harville,
a distinguished and very wealthy young man; one who is in
every way calculated to make you happy. He has seen you in
company, and is desirous of being united to you; all pecuniary
matters are brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and it therefore
entirely depends upon yourself whether you will be married within
the ensuing six weeks. If, on the contrary, by some caprice which
1 cannot foresee, you think fit to refuse this almost unhoped-for
and excellent match, I shall in no respect defer my intention of
marrying so soon as I am out of mourning. In this latter case, I
feel bound to tell you, your presence in my house will only be
agreeable to me on condition of your solemnly promising to
observe toward my wife that respect and tenderness which she so
highly merits!' 'I understand you, my father,' replied I ; * if I
do not accept Lord d'Harville, you will marry all the same, and
then it will not be inconvenient for you and madame, if I retire to
the Convent of the Sacred Heart?' 'Not at all,' replied my
father, coldly."
"Oh, that was more than weakness: it was cruelty !" exclaimed
Rudolf.
"Do you know, your highness, what always prevented me
from feeling resentment against my father? I had a sort of pre-
sentiment that one day or another he would pay—alas! but too
dearly—for his blind passion for Madame Roland. God be
praised, that day has yet to come!"
"And did you say nothing to him about the two marriages Lord
d'Harville had been on the point of contracting, which were so
abruptly broken off by the respective families?"
"Yes, your highness. That very day I entreated my father to
grant me a few moments' private conversation; upon which


CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
245
very fear of wounding his kindness and frankness, prevented me
from opening the subject. The nearer the day fixed for our mar-
riage approached, the more happy Lord d' Harville professed him-
self to be; and yet I two or three times saw him overwhelmed
with profound grief. How could I possibly, at the very moment
when Ills eyes swam in tears, be so cruel as to show any suspicion
with reference to the past? Lord d'Harville's witnesses to the
marriage contract, M. de Lucenay and M.de Saint-Remy, arrived
at Aubiers a few days previous to my marriage, to which only my
nearest relations were invited. Immediately after the ceremony
we set out for Paris. I had experienced no love for Lord d'Har-
ville, but I felt interested in him, and his character inspired me
with esteem; but for the events which followed this fatal marriage,
a still more tender sentiment would doubtless have attached me to
Mm. We were married ."
At these words, Lady d'Harville turned pale, and, for an
instant, her resolution seemed to have abandoned her. After a
short pause she continued:
"Directly after my marriage, my father tenderly embraced me,
as did also Madame Roland. In the presence of so large a com-
pany, I could not avoid this fresh display of hypocrisy: with her
dry white hand, she wrung rather than pressed mine as she whis-
pered in my ear, in her perfidiously honeyed tone, these words,
which, to my dying hour, I shall never forget: 'Think of me
sometimes in the height of your happiness, for I effected your mar-
riage.' Alas! I was far then from comprehending the full force
of those words. Our marriage was celebrated at eleven o'clock;
soon after we entered our carriage, followed by my maid and
Lord d' Harville's aged valet; and we traveled so rapidly, that we
reached Paris at ten at night. You will imagine, my lord, the
sinking of the heart, the indefinable fear with which I re-entered
Paris—that city in which I had lost my mother barely a year
before. We arrived at Harville House"
The emotion of the lady redoubled; her cheeks were covered
with burning blushes, and in a voice of agony she added: "Rut
you must—you shall know all—yes, all ; otherwise I shall appear
despicable in your eyes. Well, then," she resumed, with desper-
ate resolution, "I was conducted to the apartment destined for
me, and left there by myself. In about an hour D'Harville
joined me. Notwithstanding his protestations of tenderness, I
felt ready to die with fright; my sobs half choked me—but I was
his, and it was necessary that I should resign myself. But soon
my husband, uttering a terrible cry, seized my arm hard enough
ta break it! I endeavored to release myself from his iron grasp;
I implored him to have mercy upon me—he did not even hear
me! His countenance was distorted by the most frightful con-
vulsions; his eyes rolled in their orbits with a rapidity which fas-
cinated me; his mouth was contorted, and filled with bloodj
foam; his hand still maintained its grasp! I made a desperate


246
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
effort; his stiffened fingers at length Relaxed their hold, and I fell
fainting to the floor at the moment when Lord d'Harville was
struggling in the paroxysm of this horrible attack! Such was my
wedding-night—such was the vengeance of Madame Roland!"
"Unfortunate woman!" said Rudolf, in a tone of the deepest
sympathy. "I understand it *11—your husband is epileptic! Oh,
it is indeed frightful!"
"Nor is that all," added Cle"mence, in a voice trembling with
agony: "Oh, be that fatal night for ever cursed! My daughter,
my angelic child, has inherited that frightful malady!"
"Your daughter, too! What! her pallor—her weakness"
"Springs from the same cause. The physicians declare it to
be incurable, because it is hereditary!"
Lady d'Harville covered her face with her hands; over-
whelmed by this sz'd revelation, she had not courage to add
another word. Rudolf also remained mute. His mind recoiled
affrighted before the horrible mysteries. These painful and dis-
tressing confessions awakened in his mind very serious reflections.
He attached considerable blame to Lord d'Harville, but he
resolved to endeavor to excuse him in the eyes of Clemence,
although he could not conceal from himself, after her sad recital,
that the marquis had for ever lost her love.
Clemence, her forehead resting on her hand, her eyes moist, her
cheek burning with blushes, shunned the gaze of Rudolf, so much
had this disclosure cost her.
"Now," resumed Rudolf, after a long silence, " I understand
the cause of Lord d'Harville's sadness—a grief which hitherto I
have been unable to divine. I can imagine his regret"
"His regret!" exclaimed Clemence; "say, rather, his remorse,
your highness—if he can feel any—for never was a crime more
deliberately planned."
"A crime, madame?"
"And what else is it, to unite yourself, by indissoluble ties, to a
girl who relies on your honor, when you yourself know that a dis-
ease which inspires dread and horror has fatally seized you? what
else is it, to devote a wretched child to similar misery? Who
compelled M. d'Harville thus to make two victims?—a blind,
insensate passion? No; my birth, my fortune, my person suited
his taste. He wished to effect a suitable match, because he was,
doubtless, tired of a bachelor's life."
"Madame, have some pity, at least.'
"Pity! Tell me who deserves pity but my daughter? Miser-
able victim of this odious marriage, what nights and days have I
passed by her side! what bitter tears have her sufferings wrung
from my eyes!"
"But her father has to bear the same unmerited sufferings."
*' But her father condemned her to an infancy of misery, to a
withering youth; and, if she survive, to a life of loneliness and
sorrow; for she shall never marry. No! I love her too much to


CLEMENCE V HARVILLE.
247
cxpwse her hereafter to weep over her own offspring, for evei
stricken, as I weep over her. I have suffered too much from her
father's treachery, to become an accomplice to a like treason."
"You .ire right; the revenge of your mother-in-law is horrible.
But, patience: perhaps the time will come when you in turn may
be revenged." said Rudolf, after a moment's reflection.
"What say^ your highness?" inquired Cle'mence, astonished at
the tone in which he spoke.
"I have rarely missed the satisfaction of seeing the wicked pun-
ished—cruelly punished for their crimes," added he, with a vehe-
mence that made Cle'mence start. "But what said your husband
on the day which succeeded this unhappy night?"
"He confessed, with a strange ingenuousness, that those fami-
lies whose alliance he had iought, had discovered his malady, and
each projected union had been cancelled. Thus, having twice
been rejected, he had still the heartlessness Oh, that was vile;
—yet, such is one whom the world calls a gentleman—a man of
honor!''
"You, always so good, are now indeed cruel."
"I am cruel, because I have been cruelly deceived. D'Harville
knew me to be compassionate; why did he not candidly tell me
the whole truth, and throw himself on my kindness and gener-
osity ?''
"You would have refused him."
"Your words condemn him, your highness; his conduct was
vilely treacherous, if he had that fear."
"But if he loved you?"
"If he loved me, should he have sacrificed me his selfish-
ness? Good heaven !—so wretched was my position at the time,
and such my desire to quit my paternal roof, that if he had been
frank with me, I know not but that I should have been moved by
his terrible disclosure—by the loneliness to which a frightful and
fatal destiny had doomed him. Yes, seeing him at once so ingen-
uous and so unhappy, I could not have had the courage to ha/e
rejected him; and if I had thus bound myself by a sacred vow to
meet the consequences of my devotion, I would willingly have
kept my oath. But to wish to enforce my esteem and pity by first
making me dependent on him—to exact that pity from my duty as
a wife to him who, as a man of honor, has sacrificed his own duty,
is both folly and meanness. Now, your highness, be the judge of
my life, of the gross deception of which I am the victim. I had
faith in the honor of Lord d'Harville, and he has basely deceived
me. Thus it was, in the hope of escaping the atmosphere of
wretchedness which surrounds me, that I took refuge in the sinful
dream of an attachment which—Alas! I was deceived, basely
deceived; I confess my fault; and I fall back into the mournful
existence to which my husband has doomed me. But tell me,
your highness, was this the life I had a right to expect? Am I
alone guilty of the injuries which L3r4 d'Harville would this


248 CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
morning have made me pay, with my life? These faults are great,
I admit; and the greater as I have so much reason to blush for
my choice. Happily for me, the conversation your highness
overheard between the countess and her brother, on the subject of
M. Charles Robert, saves me from the shame I should otherwise
feel in making this new avowal; but I hope, at least, that I now
seem to deserve as much pity as blame."
"I cannot express to your ladyship how much your recital has
moved me. From the death of your mother till the birth of your
daughter, what devouring griefs, what hidden sorrows have you
not endured? You—so brilliant, so admired, so envied."
"Oh! believe me, your highness, when one is suffering under
misfortunes, it is frightful to hear the words openly expressed:
'How happy she is !'"
"Indeed, nothing is more painful; but you are not the only one
who suffers from the cruel contrast of what is, and what appears
to be."
"How so, your highness?"
"In the eyes of all your husband ought to appear still more
happy than you do, since be possesses you ; yet is he not also
much to be pitied? Can there be in the world an existence more
wretched than his? His wrongs toward you are great, but is he
not frightfully punished? He loves you as you deserve to be
loved, and he knows that for him you can only entertain an insur-
mountable aversion. In his suffering, sickly child, he sees an
incessant reproach; nor is this all, jealousy steps in to torture
him."
"How can I protect him against that? By not giving him
occasion to be jealous, will be your highness's answer; and I
admit its truth. But because my heart is unpossessed by another,
will it the more be his? He knows it cannot. Since the frightful
scene I have related to you, we have lived entirely apart; but in
the eyes of the world, I show him the respect which usage
demaids. To you alone, your highness, have I ever breathed a
syllable of this fatal secret; thus, therefore, I venture to ask
counsel of you which I could not solicit from any other human
being."
"I would tell you that, if you desire to amuse yourseljrby doing
good, there is nothing that could more highly please or interest
you."
Lady d'Harville looked at Rudolf with astonishment.
"And understand," continued he, '' that I do not speak of in- .
discriminately sending, almost with disdain, liberal alms to unfor-
tunate creatures of whom you know nothing, and who often do
not deserve your kindness; but if you would amuse yourself, as I
do, in occasionally playing the part of an inferior Providence you
would confess that good deeds have sometimes all the piquancy of
romance."
"I must confess it has never occurred to me to consider charity


CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
249
from the amusing point of view," said Clemence, smiling in her
turn.
"It is a discovery I owe to my horror of wearisome convention-
alities: a disgust with which my political conferences with my
Ministers has inspired me. But to return to our amusing benevo-
lence. I have not, alas, the virtue of those disinterested persons
who confide to others the care of distributing their alms. If it
required simply to send one of my chamberlains to carry some
hundreds of louis to each ward of Paris, I confess, to my shame,
the scheme would not interest me; whilst to do good, as I think
it ought to be done, is the most amusing thing in the world. I
adopt this word, because to me it expresses all that pleases, all
that charms, all that attracts. And really, if your ladyship would
become my accomplice in some dark intrigues of this nature, you
would see, I repeat, that, setting aside the praiseworthiness of the
deed, nothing is more exquisite, more engaging, more attractive,
and frequently more diverting, than these charitable adventures.
And, then, what mystery is requisite to hide one's benevolence!
what precautions we take not to be known! what varied and pow-
erful emotions are excited at the sight of poor and worthy people
crying with joy, as they invoke blessings upon you! Depend on
it, such a spectacle is more gratifying than the angry countenance
of a jealous or an unfaithful lover—as they are nearly all so in
turn. Indeed, the emotions of which I am speaking resemble
very nearly those you experienced this morning in going to the
Rue du Temple. Simply dressed, to avoid being remarked, you
would leave your home with a beating heart, you would also enter
with uneasiness some humble coach, the blinds of which you
would let down, that you might not be seen: then, casting your
eyes from side to side, fearful of surprise, you would stealthily
enter some house of wretched appearance—as you did this morn-
ing; the only difference is, that you would say: 'If I am discov-
ered, I am lost;' and in the other you will say: 'If I am discov-
ered, I shall be blessed.' But as modesty is one of your many
amiable qualities, you would make use of the most perfidious
expedients, the most diabolical contrivances, rather than be
blessed !''
"Oh!" cried Lady d'Harville, with tenderness, "your high-
ness has saved me! I cannot express the novel ideas, the con-
soling hopes, your words awaken within me! You say, truly, to
occupy the heart and mind in making those who suffer adore you,
is almost to love! I accept, with joy and gratitude, this atrocious
confederacy, your highness, and to begin our romance, I will re-
turn to-morrow to those poor creatures to whom this morning 1
could only offer a few words of consolation: for, taking advant-
age of my trouble and alarm, a little lame boy stole from me
the purse which you had entrusted to me. Oh!" added Cle-
mence, her face losing the sweet expression of gaiety which had
for a moment animated it; "if your highness could only know


2J0
CLEMENCE D'HARVILLE.
what misery, what a horrible picture of wretchedness No! not
I cannot believe that any others so unfortunate can exist1 And
yet I complain. I accuse my destiny!"
Rudolf, not wishing that Lady d'Harville should observe how
much he was touched by this return to herself, which proved the
noble quality of her mind, replied gaily: '' If you permit me, I
will except the Morels from your jurisdiction; you must allow me
to take charge of these poor people, and, above all, you must
promise me not to return to that miserable house, for, to tell you
the truth, I live there."
"Your highness lives there? You are jesting!"
*' Nothing more serious. A humble lodging, it is true; two
hundred francs a year; in addition to which, I allow the liberal
sum of six francs a month to the portress, Mme. Pipelet, that ugly
old woman you saw; but to compensate for this, I have for my
next neighbor Mdlle. Rigolette, the prettiest grisette in the Quar-
tier du Temple; and you will agree that for a merchant's clerk
with a salary of only eighteen hundred francs a year (I pass for a
clerk), such a lodging is quite suitable."
"Your presence, so unhoped for in that fatal house, proves to
me this, your highness speaks seriously. Some generous action
leads you there, no doubt; but for what good work have you
reserved me, then? What will be the part cast to me?"
"That of an angel of consolation, and—pardon me the vile
expression—a demon of cunning and stratagem—for there are
some delicate and painful wounds that the hand of woman alone
can soothe and heal, and there are also unfortunate beings so
proud, so distrustful, and so hidden from observation, that it
requires a rare penetration to discover them, and an irresistible
charm to win their confidence."
And when shall I be allowed to display this penetration, this
skill, you imagine I possess?" asked Lady d'Harville impatiently.
"Soon I hope you will be called on to achieve a worthy tri-
umph; but it will call for the exercise of your most ingenious
resources—the talent of a Machiavel."
"And when, my lord, will you confide to me this great secret?"
"Let me see: this place is our rendezvous; will you do me the
favor to grant me an audience in four days?"
"So long?" said Cl^mence, frankly.
"What would become of the mystery? Only suppose: if we
were suspected for conspirators, we should be mistrusted; and I
shall perhaps have occasion to write to you. What aged woman
was that who brought me your letter this evening?"
"An old waiting-maid of my mother's, the very personification
of confidence and discretion."
*' It is to her then that I will address my letters, and she will
remit them to you. If you are kind enough to answer me, ad-
dress: * To M. Rudolf, Rue Pluaiet;' and let you1' maid put you*
letters in the post."


"I will no _.at myself, your highness, -.vhen taking my usuai
walk."
"It is, after all, only a noble and generous imprudence that you
have committed; fortunately there remains too many ways of
reparation to cause you serious regret. But shall I not have the
pleasure of seeing Lord d'Harville this evening?"
"No, your highness; the scene this morning affected him so
strongly, that he is—suffering," said the marchioness in a low
voice.
"Oh, I understand," answered Rudolf, sadly. "Come, take
courage; there needs but an aim, a motive, a means of directing
your thoughts, as you were saying. Let me hope you will accom-
plish all this in the future I have marked out for you; then will
your mind be so full of sweet consolations, that resentment toward
your husband will no longer find room in your heart ; you will
feel for him some of the interest you bear toward your poor child.
And as to that little angel, now that I am acquainted with the
cause of her sickly state, I dare almost bid you hope to overcome
the dreadful malady with which she is afflicted."
"Is it possible! What means your highness?" cried C16-
mence, clasping her hands in gratitude.
"My household physician is a man little known, though very
learned. Great part of his life was passed in America; and he
has spoken to _ne of two or three cures performed by him on
slaves afflicted with this distressing complaint."
"Oh, can it be possible?" "Nay, do not hope too much;
for the disappointment would be the more cruel; but do not
entirely despair."
Cle'mence d'Harville cast on Rudolfs noble features a look of
unspeakable gratitude—on that prince who consoled with so much
intelligence, grace, and kindness; and she asked herself how she
could possibly have ever felt an interest in such a being as M.
Charles Robert. The very idea sickened her.
On his return home, the prince congratulated himself upon the
probable results of his conversation with Lady d'Harville. "To
give this lady's heart and mind employment, as she is inevitably
alienated from her husband, there must be aroused in her enough
romantic curiosity and mysterious attraction (apart from love) to
Suench the fire of her spirit and fancy, and save her from a new
ame."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
POVERTY.
Perhaps the reader has not forgotten an unfortunate family,
the father of which was a working jeweller, named Morel, who


POVERTY.
occupied the garret of the house in the Rue du Temple. We will
now introduce him to this sad abode.
It is five o'clock in the morning. Without doors, profound
silence reigns; snow falls, and a sharp wind freezes it as it falls.
A candle, supported by two splinters of wood upon a square block,
scarcely penetrates with its sickly yellow light, the darkness of the
garret—a narrow, low-built place, two-thirds of which is formed
by the sloping ceilmg, which joins by a sharp angle with the floor-
ing, and exposes the inside of the naked moss-grown tiles. Walls
of plaster, blackened by time, and split in numerous crevices, dis-
play the worm-eaten laths which compose the frail division; in
one corner of this wretched habitation, a door off the hinges opens
upon the staircase. The floor, of a nameless color, foul, fetid,
and slippery, is strewn here and there with bits of dirty straw, old
rags, and such large bones as are sold by the vendors of putrid
meat, and bought by starving wretches, that they may gnaw tks
few cartilages which still adhere to them.
A condition so frightful always implies either misconduct or
unavoidable misery—but so great, so crushing, so paralyzing, as
to enfeeble every energy, and render the object of it too despair-
ing, too strengthless, even to attempt to extricate himself from his
degraded state; hence, he crouches in his dirt and destitution
like a beast in its den.
During the day, Morel's garret was lighted by a kind of long,
narrow skylight, contrived in the sloping roof, framed and glazed,
and made to slide by means of a rope; but at the hour of which
we speak, a heavy fall of snow encumbered the window and
effectually excluded the light. The candle placed on Morel's
work-bench stood almost in the centre of the chamber, and dif-
fused a circle of pale, yellow light, which, gradually diminishing,
was at last lost in the shadow in which the extremities of the gar-
ret were concealed; but beyond this might be discerned the faint
outline of several whitish forms. On the work-table, merely a
roughly-hewn block of oak splashed with grease and soot, lay
scattered about, a handful of rubies and diamonds of most aston-
ishing size and brilliancy.
Morel was a worker of real stones, and not false ones, as he had
given out, and as was thought by all in the house in the Rue du
Temple. By means of this innocent deception, the costly jewels
entrusted to him were supposed to be too valueless to tempt the
cupidity of any one. Such riches, confided to the care of one so
destitute, render it unnecessary to say a word as to the honesty of
Morel.
Seated on a high stool without a back, overcome by fatigue,
cold, and hunger, after a long winter's night passed in unceasing
labor, the lapidary rests his heavy head upon his work-table on
his stiffened arms; his forehead leans against a small grindstone-
placed horizontally on the table, and generally put in motion by
a little hand-wheel: a fine steel saw, and various other tools, lie


POVERTY.
25?
near him. The artizan, of whom nothing but the bald skull,
fringed b>' grey hairs, is visible, is clad in an old coarse jacket,
next his skin, and a pair of thin trousers; while his ragged list
slippers scarcely conceal his blue, cold feet, which rest on the
floor. So bitter, so freezing, is the wind which freely whistles
round this scarcely human dwelling, that, spite of the slumber into
which exhaustion has sunk the overworked artizan, his frame fre-
quently shivers involuntarily. The great length of the wick of the
unsnuffed candle tells that Morel must have dozed for some time.
No sound, save his heavy and irregular breathing, breaks the
death-like stillness that prevails; but, alas! the seven other inhab-
itants of this garret do not sleep. Yes, in this narrow garret live
eight people—five children, of whom the youngest is four year*
old, and the eldest scarcely twelve; and then their sick, declining
mother, with an idiotic grandmother, the parent of Morel's wife,
now in her eightieth year. The cold must be indeed intense, for
the natural warmth of eight persons, huddled into so small a space,
does not affect the freezing atmosphere. Indeed, to speak scien-
tifically, but little caloric can be given out from their poor, weak,
exhausted, shivering bodies, from the little infant to the grand-
mother. Except the father of the family, sunk for a few moments
from actual exhaustion, no one sleeps—no, not one, for cold, sick-
ness, and hunger keep, despite of themselves, their weary eyes
wide open. Little does the world know how rare and precious to
the poor is sound and peaceful sleep, by which they repair their
strength and forget their sorrows; it invigorates both mind and
body, and the refreshed laborer returns to his rude toil. To sleep
thus soundly, cold, hunger, thirst, and raking misery must not be
present.
The lapidary possesses but one thin mattress and a small piece
of blanket, which has fallen to the share of the idiot grandmother,
who, in her wild and stupid selfishness, will not. share her pallet
with any one. At the commencement of the winter she had
become furious, and had nearly strangled the youngest child, who
had been placed to sleep beside her—a poor little girl of four years
old, far gone in consumption, and who severely felt the cold in the
straw bed, where she slept with her brothers and sisters. Here-
after we will refer to this method of sleeping, frequently adopted
by poor people, in comparison with whom animals are treated like
Sybarities—for their litter is changed! Such is the picture which
the garret of the artizan presents when the eye can penetrate the
gloom beyond the feeble light of the candle. Beside the wall,
less damp than the other partitions, is placed on the ground the
mattresses where the old idiot lies. As she cannot bear her head
covered, the shape of the skull and flat forehead is visible, her
white hair being cut quite close; while her thick grizzled eyebrows
shade the deep-set eyes, from which gleam a wild and savage
brightness; her cheeks, hollow, livid, and full of wrinkles, adhere
to her prominent cheek-bone*- and to the salient angles of her


POVERTY.
255
then darting a ray across the bench where sleeps the wearied lapi-
dary, calls into existence a thousand brilliant gleams, a thousand
prismatic sparkles, from the dazzling cluster of diamonds and
rubies which lie uncovered before him.
Although the deepest silence reigned in that squalid attic, seven
out of eight of its unfortunate inmates were awake, and the eyes
of each, from the grandmother to the youngest child, were instinct-
ively fixed upon the lapidary, their only hope, their only resource.
In their child-like selfishness, they were uneasy to see him inact-
ive, and borne down under the weight of labor. The mother
thought of her children, the children thought of themselves, and
the idiot thought of nothing. Suddenly she sat upright in her
bed, crossed her long arms, yellow and dry as boxwood, upon her
skeleton breast: rose slowly, and blinking as she stared at the
light, moved stealthily along, trailing after her the tattered cover,
like a winding sheet.
She was very tall, and her closely-shaven head appeared dis-
proportionately small for her body; a kind of spasmodic motion
agitated her thick and heavy under-lip; and, altogether, this
hideous face presented the type of ferocious idiocy. The idiot
advanced silently toward the bench, like a child about to commit
a fault. As she came near the candle, she held her two trembling
hands toward the flame—so thin, that the light they shaded im-
parted to them a livid transparency. Madeline Morel watched,
from her miserable pallet, the slightest movement of the old
woman, who, while continuing to warm herself in the flame of the
candle, dropped her head, and appeared to contemplate with
childish curiosity the medley of diamonds and rubies that spark-
led on the table. Absorbed in this contemplation, the idiot did
not keep her hands at a sufficient distance from the flame of the
candle; she burnt herself, and instantly uttered a hoarse scream.
At this noise, Morel started from his slumber, and quickly raised
his head. He was a man of forty, with an open, intelligent, and
mild countenance, but careworn and furrowed with misery ; a grey
beard, of many weeks' growth, covered the lower part of his
pock-pitted face; his forehead, already bald, showed premature
wrinkles, and his inflamed eyelids were red with prolonged watch-
ing. One of those constrained positions, but too common among
such weakly constitutions among the working classes as are com-
pelled by their occupation to remain nearly all day in the same
attitude, had distorted his meagre figure. Constantly stooping
over his board, and leaning to the left side, the better to use the
grindstone, his naturally feeble frame had become, as it were, pet-
rified, ossified in that position—in which he remained from twelve
to fifteen hours a day—till he was completely bent and twisted on
one side. His left arm also, from constant and laborious exercise in
turning the grindstone, had acquired considerable muscular devel-
opment; whilst the right arm and hand, always inactive and lean-
ing on the board, the better to present the facets of the diamonds


256
POVERTY.
to be acted upon by the grindstone, was wasted frightfully; his
feeble legs, almost withered for want of exercise, could scarcely
support his debilitated body—all the substance, vitality, and
strength of which seemed to be concentrated in that part so unre-
mittingly engaged in labor. Often would poor Morel say, with
touching resignation:
"I care less to satisfy my hunger than to strengthen the arm
which turns the grindstone."
Waking with a start, the lapidary found himself face to fao(
with the idiot.
"What ails you? What do you want, mother?" said Morel to
her, adding in a lower tone, fearing to disturb his family, whom
he hoped might be asleep, " Go to bed, mother, don't make a
noise; Madeline and the children are sleeping."
"I'm not asleep, father ; I am trying to warm poor Adele," said
the elder of the httle girls.
"I'm too hungry to sleep," said one of the boys; "it wasn't
my turn to have supper with Mdlle. Rigolette last night."
"Poor children!" said Morel, despondingly; "I hoped at
least that you slept."
"I feared to wake you, Morel," said his wife, " or I should have
asked for some water. I am very thirsty : my fever has come on
again."
"I will directly," said the artizan ; but first I must make your
mother return to her bed. Look at her! Leave the jewels alone,
will you?" said he to the old woman, who tried to grasp a large
ruby, the brilliancy of which fixed her attention. "Go to bed,
mother !'' repeated he.
"Th*;re, there!" answered the idiot, pointing to the precious
stone she coveted.
"I am going to be angry," said Morel, raising his voice to
frighten the old woman, whom he gently thrust away with his
hand.
''Merciful God, Morel, how I suffer from thirst!" murmured
Madeleine. *' Pray bring me some drink!"
"What would you have me do? I cannot allow your mother
to touch the jewels, she may lose another diamond, as she did last
year; and God alone knows what we have already suffered
through that loss, and what we may still have to endure!" As
he spoke thus, the lapidary pressed his hand to his forehe? S with
a gloomy air: then, turning to one of his children, hi said,
"Felix, give your mother some drink, as you are awake."
"No, no, I will wait, he will take cold," replied Madeline.
"I shall not be colder out of the straw than in it," said the boy,
getting up.
"Come, now, will you be quiet?" cried Morel, in an angry
voice, trying to drive away the idiot, who would not leave the
bench, and seemed determined to possess herself of one of the
Jewels.


POVERTY.
259
have I been bed-ridden. Oh God! I am burning with thirst.
Pray, pray let me drink!"
- " You shall directly—but I am trying to warm the cup between
my hands."
"How kind you are! ant5 I to speak so harshly to you."
"Poor wife, your sufferings have soured your temper; say to
me what you like, but do not again tell me you wish to leave me."
"But of what use am I to you ?—of what good are our children
to us, but to overload you with work?"
"True; yet thanks to my love for you all I find I have sufficient
strength to work sometimes twenty hours a day, though it has made
me crooked and lame. Do you think that for myself alone I
should slave as I do? Oh, no; life has not sufficient charms for
that—I would soon end it."
"And so would I," answered Madeleine; "but for the chil-
dren, I should long since have said: 'Morel, you have had
enough of life, and so have I; let us light a pan of charcoal, and
defy misery '—but the children, the poor children!"
"Then, you see, dear wife, the children are a real blessing to
us, after all," said Morel, with the utmost simplicity; "since they
save us from giving way to despair. Come, take your drink, but
only by little mouthfuls, for it is still very cold."
"Oh, thank you, Morel!" said Madeleine, drinking with
avidity.
"Enough, enough!"
"It was too cold—my shivering increases," said Madeleine,
giving him back the cup.
"Alas, alas! I told you it was: now you will be worse
again."
"I have no longer strength to tremble. I feel as though wrap.
ped in a sheet of ice!"
Morel took off his jacket, and laid it over his wife's feet, leaving
himself entirely uncovered to the waist.
'* You will be frozen, Morel!"
'- Presently, if I feel cold, I will put it on again for a short
time."
"Poor fellow!" sighed Madeleine. "Oh! you are right:
heaven is not just. What have we done that we should endure
such misery, while others"
"Every one has their troubles—the rich as well as the poor."
"Yes, the great have their troubles, it is true, but they do not
feel the pangs of hunger, they do not shiver with the bitter cold.
Oh, Morel, when I think that, with the price of one of those dia
monds you are polishing, we could procure for ourselves and
children the comforts of life, I shudder."
"And of what use are these diamonds to them?"
*' If we were always to say: 'Of what use is this or that to
others,' we might go great lengths. As well may we ask, of
what use is it to the gentleman whom Mme. Piplet calls the Cora-


POVERTY.
mander, to hire and furnish the first floor in this house, whtr;
never comes near it? Of what use is it to him to have good fuim.
ture, since he lodges elsewhere?"
"That is very true: there is more than sufficient to furnish
many such humble rooms as ours. And then, again, every day
Mme. Pipelet makes up a large fire, to prevent the furniture from
being spoiled by the damp. Only think, so much warmth thrown
away, whilst we and our children freeze! But to all this you will
reply: 'We are not furniture! Oh, the rich !—it seems hard."
"No harder for us than for many 'others, Madeleine. But the
rich do not see, and cannot know what misery is; they are born
happy, they live happy, they die happy ; why then should they
think of such wretches as ourselves? And then, I tell you, they
cannot imagine such misery ; how can they understand privations
they never felt? If they are very hungry, then they are glad;
for the more they will enjoy their food. If it is very cold, so much
the better; they say: 'How seasonable the weather is? what a
fine clear frost!' and it is all natural enough. For if they take a
walk, on their return, they sit by a good fire, which they enjoy the
more from having felt the severe cold; they, therefore, cannot
feel much for us, when cold and hunger are the sources of their
delightful enjoyments. So, you see, they cannot even understand
how they suffer. In their situation we should perhaps do the
same."
"Poor people are in that case better than the rich, since they
assist one another. That kind girl, Rigolette, who has so often
nursed myself and the children, during our illness, last evening
took Jerome and Pierre to sup with her—and she has but little for
supper—only a cup of milk and bread. At her age one has a
good appetite; she must, therefore, deprive herself to give it to the
children."
"Poor girl! she is, indeed, very good; and why ?—because she
has known what poverty is. As I always said, if the rich knew—
if the rich only knew"
"And the little lady who came yesterday, and appeared so
alarmed, she asked if we wanted anything. Well, now, she knows
we are in want, yet she has not come again?"
'' I dare say she will; for though she seemed so frightened, she
looked very gentle and kind."
"Oh, with you, those who are rich are always in the right; I
suppose they must be made of different clay to us!"
"I do not say that," replied Morel; "I say, on the contrary,
that they have their faults, as we have ours. Unfortunately, they
are not aware of half the misery that exists among the poor: and
the misfortune is, that there are many people employed to discover
those who commit crimes, but there are none to seek those hone*
workmen, burdened with families, who are in extreme misery, and
who, for the want of a little timely assistance, are tempted to do
wrong. It is right to punish c'me, but it would be better perhaps


POVERTY.
to prevent it. You remain honest, say for fifty years, but at last
extreme misery and hunger urge you to evil, and then—there is
one thief the more! whilst, if any one had known But of what
use is thinking? the world is as it is. I am poor and hopeless,
and therefore speak thus: if I were rich, I should talk of merry-
making, and all sorts of pleasure. But, my poor wife, how do you
feel now?"
"Much the same; I cannot feel my legs. But how you
tremble! put your jacket on again, and blow out the candle,
which is burning to waste, for it is daylight."
In truth, a wan light, struggling through the snow that blocked
up the strip of skylight, began to throw a mournful ray on the
interior of this abode, making it appear more frightful still ; for the
shades of night had at least concealed part of its horrors.
"I shall wait now till it is light enough for me to resume my
work," said the lapidary, seating himself on the corner of the
palliasse by the side of his wife, and resting his forehead between
his hands.
After a short silence, Madeleine said to him: *' When will Mme.
Mathieu come for the stones you are polishing?"
"This morning. I have but one facet of a false diamond to
polish."
"A false diamond! and you only work on real stones, notwith-
standing what the people in the house are led to believe!"
"Don't you remember No, truly, you were asleep the other
day when Mme. Mathieu came about them. Well, you must
know, she brought me ten false diamonds, Rhenish pebbles, to
cut to the same size, and in the same manner, as the like number
of real stones which she brought—those which are with the rubies.
I never saw diamonds of purer water; those ten stones alone are
certainly worth more than sixty thousand francs."
"And why does she want them imitated?"
"A lady of rank, to whom they belong—a duchess, I believe—
has commissioned M. Baudoin, the jeweler, to sell her jewels, and
replace them with false ones. Mme. Mathieu, who supplies M.
Baudoin, told me so, when she brought the real stones, that I
might be particular in giving to the false ones the same cut and
shape; she has employed four other lapidaries, for there were
forty or fifty stones to cut, and I could not do them all, as they
must be ready by this morning, to give M. Baudoin time to set the
false stones. Mme. Mathieu says that many ladies do the same
thing, and replace their diamonds with Rhine stones."
"You see that false stones have the sam.» effect as real ones;
yet those grand ladies who think only of adornment, never
dream of sacrificing a diamond for the benefit of those as un
happy as ourselves."
"Poor wife, pray be more reasonable; grief makes you unjust.
Who do you suppose knows that there are such people as the
Morels in existence, much less that they are in wantr"


POVERTY.
263
who are sometimes more liberal! But you always eat your wheat
in the grain—it is all your fault -"
"My fault!" exclaimed the unhappy man, exasperated by this
foolish reproach, '' is it not your mother who is the cause of all our
miseries? If we had not been obliged to pay for the diamond sht
lost, we should have been beforehand—I should receive the fuV
price of my labor—we should possess the eleven hundred franc;
that we drew from the savings-bank, to add to the thirteen hundred
we borrowed from M. Ferrand—curses on him!"
"And you still persist in not asking him for assistance ; to b<
sure he is avaricious, and it might not be of use—but still on»
should always try, there can be no harm in that."
"Ask him!—ask charity of him!" cried Morel. "I would
sooner be roasted to death by a slow fire. Cease speaking to me
about that man, or you will drive me mad!"
While saying this the countenance of the lapidary, usually
calm and resigned, assumed an expression of gloomy energy; the
blood rushed to his pale face, he rose suddenly from the bed on
which he sat, and paced the room with an agitated step. In spite
of his cold-pinched and deformed figure, the attitude and features
of the man expressed lofty indignation.
"I am not revengeful," cried he; "in my life I never injured
any one; but I heartily wish this lawyer as much misery as he has
caused me!" Then putting both hands to his head he murmured
in a mournful tone: "Oh, my God! why does my evil destiny—
which I do not deserve—deliver me and mine up, bound hand and
foot, to that hypocrite? Has he the right to use the wealth to
destroy, corrupt, and make desolate those he would devote to
ruin?"
"That's right, that's right," said Madeleine, "go on with your
abuse; it will do you much good when he puts you in prison, as he
can do at any time, for that bill for thirteen hundred francs, on
which he has obtained judgment against you three months since.
He holds you as a bird tied by the leg. I also detest that lawyer;
but as we are dependent on him, we must"
"Let him ruin our daughter! Say you?" said the lapidary, in r
voice of thunder.
"For heaven's sake, do not speak so loud ; the children are
awake—they will hear you!"
"Pshaw! pshaw! so much the better," answered Morel, with a
dreadful sneer; "it will be a good example to our two younger
girls; it will prepare them, should the notary at some future time
take a fancy to them. Are we not in his toils, as you constantly
remind me? Repeat that he can put me to prison; come, speak
frankly—we must give up our innocent child to him?" The
unhappy man finished his imprecation in a burst of sobs; for his
honest and good nature could not, for any length of time, sustain
this tone of bitter sarcasm.
"Oh, my children! " cried be, in a flood of tears, " my poor,


264
POVEkiY.
poor children, my good, my beautiful Louise! too, too beautiful,
as from that springs all our misery. Had she not possessed such
loveliness, this man would not have proposed to lend me the
money. I am industrious and honest; the jeweler would have
given me time ; I should not have been under obligation to this
grey-headed monster, and he couid not have taken advantage of
our poverty to endeavor to corrupt my daughter; for I would
never have left her another day in his house! But it must be—
must be! I dare not remove her; he has me in his power. Oh,
misery, misery! what outrages she is compelled to endure!"
"But what can we do? He told Louise: 'If you quit me I will
put your father in prison.'"
"Yes, he already speaks to her as to a debased creature!"
"If it were only that, we might remedy the evil; but should
she quit the lawyer's service, he will take you away, and then,
whilst you are in prison what will become of me, alone with
mother and the children? Even if Louise could earn in another
place twenty francs a month, how could seven persons live upon
that?"
"Yes! that we may exist, Louise is exposed to dishonor!"
"You always exaggerate: the lawyer is annoying, it is true—
she tells us so; but she is virtuous, you well know."
"Oh, yes, she is virtuous, industrious, and good! When she
saw us in difficulty on account of your illness, she desired to go
to service in order not to be a burden upon us; but when I con-
sented, what did it not cost me! She, a servant, ill-treated,
humbled !—she, so naturally proud, that you remember we laughed
and called her 'the princess,' because she said, jestingly, that by
neatness alone she would make our humble abode like a little
palace. Dear child! it would have been my greatest happiness
to keep her with us, though I had to work all night. And then,
when I saw her lovely face, and her pretty bright eyes gazing on
me as I sat at my bench, and heard her sing—my labor was noth-
ing! Poor Louise! so industrious, and so cheerful! Even your
mother obeyed her, and did all she wished her to do! But then,
when she spoke to you, when she looked at you, it was impossible
not to agree with her. And what care she took of you! What
pains she took to divert you! And how tenderly she looked after
her little brothers and sisters, finding time for everything! Oh,
with dear Louise, all our peace and happiness—all—all left us!"
"Oh, Morel! do not recall the past to me—you will break my
heart," said Madeleine, as her hot tears rained down.
"And when I think that perhaps this old monster—oh! the
thought turns my brain—I feel inclined to go and kill him, and
then—myself."
"Then what should we do:—what would become of us? Besides,
I tell you again, you exaggerate. The notary has perhaps only
jested with Louise. Consider, too, be goes to mass every Sunday


POVERTY.
265
dines often with the priests; and many persons say it is safer to
trust money in his care than in the savings-bank itself."
"What does that p„ove? That he is rich and a hypocrite. I
know Louise well: she is virtuous; but she loves us so dearly,
that her heart bleeds for our misery. She knows that, without me,
you would all die of hunger; and should the lawyer have threat-
ened to imprison me, the poor child's mind may have been so
wrought upon, that she may have been persuaded by that vil-
lain—on our account—to yield to Oh, God, my brain burns \
I feel as though I should go mad!"
"But, if it should be so, the notary must have given her money
and presents; and I am sure she would keep nothing for herself
—she would have given us all."
"Silence, Madeleine! How can you, a mother, allow such
thoughts of your child to find utterance? Louise bribed to
infamy!"
"Why then do you fear"
The lapidary interrupted his wife hastily: "Because I have
noticed, for the last three months, every time that Louise comes
here, and when she embraces me, she blushes."
'' Yes, with delight at seeing you."
"Or shame! She appears more and more sad."
"Yes, because she sees us more and more unhappy. Besides,
when I spoke to her of the lawyer, she told me that now he no
longer threatens to put you in prison."
"Yes, but at what price has he foregone his threats? She does
not say that, and she blushes when she embraces me. It would
be bad enough for a master to say to a poor, virtuous girl:
'Either yield to my wishes and become what I would have you, or
quit my house; and if any one should make inquiries of me as to
your character, I will give you such a one as will effectually pre-
clude you from getting a respectable situation;' but how much
more brutal and unfeeling is it to frighten a young and innocent
girl into the surrender of her virtue, by threatening to imprison
her father, when the unfeeling monster who employs the threat
knows that on the labor of that father depends a helpless family
for their daily bread! Oh, this is a thousand times more like a
;rime unsurpassed in atrocity!"
"And when you reflect, that with one of the diamonds which
lies there upon the bench, you could raise enough to repay the
lawyer, take our daughter away, and keep her with us "said
Madeleine, murmuring.
"What avails'it, that you a hundred times repeat to me the
same thing! Certainly, if I were rich, I should not be poor. Is
that what you mean?" replied Morel, with mournful impatience,
for honesty was so natural, so innate, so to speak, in this man that
it never entered his mind that his wife, broken down, and soured
by misfortune, could have any bad intention, and wished to tempt
his irreproachable rectitude. He therefore continued, bitterly:


266
THE EXECUTION.
"We must be resigned. Happy are those who can have their
children with them, and guard them from dangers; but who will
defend the working-girl ?—no one. As soon as she is old enough
to earn anything, she goes in the morning to her employment, and
comes back in the evening. During the day the mother and
father are forced to work too ; so they have not opportunity to
watch over the conduct of their children: and then folks exclaim
at the misconduct of these poor girls, as though their parents had
the means of keeping them at home, or looking after their morals
when they are out. Privations are nothing compared to the grief
of leaving a wife, a child, or a parent. It is, above all, to us poor
people, that the affections of a family are salutary and consoling;
and yet, as soon as our children can use their faculties, we are
compelled to part with them."
At this moment a violent knocking was heard at the garret
door.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE EXECUTION.
the surprised lapidary rose and opened the door. Two men
entered. the garret. One of them was tall and thin, with a face
inean a.id pimpled, surrounded by thick, greyish whiskers; he
held in his hand a stout loaded cane, and wore a shapeless hat
and a large green greatcoat, covered with mud, and buttoned close
up to the neck; the black velvet collar, much worn, exposed to
view his long, bare, red throat, which resembled a vulture's. This
man was one Malicorne. The other was short and thick-set, his
countenance equally mean, and his hair red. He was dressed
with an attempt at finery, quite ridiculous. Bright studs fastened
the front of his shirt, whose cleanliness was more than doubtful;
a long gold chain, passed across his second-hand plaid stuff waist-
coat, was left to view by a velveteen jacket, of a yellowish-grey
color. This man's name was Bourdin.
"Oh, what a stink of misery and death is here!" said Mali-
corne, stopping at the threshold.
"The fact is, it does not smell of musk. What habits!"
repeated Bourdin, turning up his nose in disgust and disdain. He
then advanced toward the artizan, who looked at him with mingled
surprise and indignation.
Through the half-open door was seen Crooky s evil, watchful,
and cunning face, who, having followed the strangers, unknown
to them, was narrowly watching and listening attentively.
"What do you want?" challenged the lapidary, roughly, dis-
gusted with the rudeness of the two men.
"lerome Morel," responded Bourdin. "Working jeweler?"


THE EXECUTION.
267
"I am that person; you annoy me—what do you want?
Explain, or leave the room!"
"Oh, you are coming the bounce, are you? I say, Malicorne,"
said this man, turning toward his companion, " there is no catch
here ; it is not like the haul at Viscount de Saint-Remy's."
"No, but when there is much, the door is shut against you, as
we found in the Rue de - . The bird had watched the net, and
would not be taken; while such vermin as these stick to their cribs
like a snail to his shell."
"It is my opinion that they only require to be jugged to cram
themselves."
"Still the costs will be more than ever the creditor wolf will
. get here; however, that's his look-out."
"Hold!" said Morel with indignation; "if you were not
drunk, as you surely are, I should be very angry. Instantly leave
my room!"
"How very sharp you are this morning, old lopsides!" cried
Malicorne, insultingly alluding to the deformity in the lapidary's
person.
"Do you hear, Malicorne?—he has the impudence to call this
place a room—-a hole where I would not put my dog."
"For heaven's sake!" cried Madeleine, so alarmed, that till
then she had not spoken a word, " call for assistance; perhaps
they are thieves. Take care of the diamonds!"
In truth, seeing these two strangers, of doubtful appearance,
approach nearer and nearer to the bench on which lay the jewels,
Morel, fearing some evil intention, ran forward, and with both
hands covered the precious stones.
Always on the watch, and listening, Crooky hearing Madeleine's,
words, and seeing the movement of the artizan, said to himself;
"They say he is a cutter of false stones; if so, he would not fear
their being stolen. Just as well to know that. I take! Then
again, Mother Mathieu, who comes here so often, is a dealer in
real; and those she has in her casket are real diamonds. I will
put the Owl up to this!" added Red Arm's son.
"If you do not leave this room instantly, I will call the police,"
said Morel.
The children, frightened at this scene, began to cry, while the
old idiot started upright in her bed.
*' If any one has a right to call the police, we're the men. Do
you hear, Mister Sideways?" said Bourdin.
"You'll see the police lend a hand to take you, if you don't go
quietly," added Malicorne; "we have not the magistrate with us,
it is true; but if you wish to enjoy his society, you shall have a
taste of one, just out of his bed, quite hot and heavy. Bourdin
will go and fetch him."
"To prison! Me?" cried the astounded Morel.
"Is he hard of hearing?" asked Malicorne.


268
THE EXECUTION.
"Well, then, to the debtor's prison, if you like that better,"
explained Bourdin.
"You—you—are—can it be? the lawyer! Oh, my God!"
The artizan, pale as death, fell back on his stool, unable touttei
another word.
"We are the officers who are to take you, if we can; do you
understand now, old fellow ? '*
"Morel, it is for the bill in the ha/ids of Louise's master! We
are all lost!" said Madeleine, with a sorrowful voice.
"This is the warrant," said Malicorne, taking from his dirty
pocket-book a stamped writ.
After having mumbled over in the usual way a part of this docu-
ment, in a voice hardly intelligible, he pronounced distinctly the
last words, unfortunately too well understood by the artizan :—
"As final judgment, the court condemns Jerome Morel to pay
to Pierre Petit-Jean, merchant, by all his goods, and they failing
with his body, the sum of thirteen hundred francs, with lawful
interest, dated from the day of the protest; and he is besides con-
demned to pay all other and extra costs. Given and judged at
Paris, the 30th of September," etc., etc.
"And Louise, then? Louise!" cried Morel, almost distracted,
without appearing to have heard what had just been read. "Where
is she? She must have left the lawyer, since he sends me to
prison. Louise! my child! what has become of her?"
"Who is this Louise?" said Bourdin.
"Let him alone," said Malicorne. '' Don't you see he's com-
ing the artful?" Then, approaching Morel, he added: "Come,
to the right-about-face, march; I want to breathe the air, I am
poisoned here!"
"Morel, do not go!" said Madeleine, wildly. "Kill them,
the thieves! Oh, you are a coward! You will let them take you,
and abandon us to our fate."
"Act as though you were at home, madame," said Bourdin,
sarcastically; "but if your husband lifts his hand against me, I
will give him something to remember it by," continued he, twist-
ing his loaded stick round and round.
Occupied solely with thoughts of Louise, Morel heard nothing
of what was said. Suddenly, an expression of bitter joy lighting
up his face, he cried out, "Louise has quitted the lawyer's house.
I shall go to prison with a light heart!" But then, glancing
round him, he exclaimed, " But my wife, and her mother, and my
poor children—who will support them? They will not trust me
with stones to cut in prison; for it will be supposed that my own
misconduct has sent me there. Does this lawyer desire the death
of all of us?"
"Once for all, let us be off'! " said Bourdin ; '■ I am sick of all
this. Come, dress yourself and march."
"My good gentlemen, forgive what I have said to you," cried
Madeleine, still in bed; "j Ju will nc have the cruelty to take


THE EXECUTION.
269
away Morel; what do you think will become of me, with my
five children, and my idiot mother? There she is, huddled «p
on her mattress. She is foolish, my good gentlemen; she is
quite out of her mind."
'' The old woman is shorn?"
"Sure enough she is shaved," said Malicorne; "I thought
she had on a white skull-cap."
"My dear children, throw yourselves at the feet of these two
gentlemen," said Madeleine, hoping, by a last effort, to soften
the bailiffs: "entreat them not to take away your poor father
—our only hope." But in spite of the order of their mother,
the children, frightened and crying, dared not leave their
beds.
At the unusual noise, and the sight of the two bailiffs, whom she
did not know, the idiot began to utter deafening howls, crouch-
ing herself against the wall. Morel appeared careless to all that
was passing around him; the blow was so frightful, so unex-
pected, the consequences of this arrest appeared so terrible, that
he could scarcely believe in its reality. Already weakened by
privations of every description, his strength failed him ; he re-
mained pale and haggard, seated on his stool, as though incapa-
ble of speech or motion, his head drooping on his breast, and his
arms hanging listlessly down.
"Confound it! when will all this end?" cried Malicorne;
"think you that we come here for fun? Off with you, or I shall
make you!" So saying, the bailiff put his hand on the arti-
zan's shoulder, and shook him roughly. The threat and action
alarmed the children; the three little boys left their mattress
half naked, and came in a flood of tears, to throw themselves at
the feet of the bailiffs, and, with clasped hands, cried, in tones of
touching earnestness, " Pray, pray do not kill father."
At sight of these unhappy children, shivering with cold and
fear, Bourdin, in spite of his natural callousness, and the constant
sight of scenes like the present, felt something akin to compas-
sion; his companion, unpitying, brutally disengaged his leg from
the grasp of the kneeling supplicants.
"Hands off, you young ragamuffins! A pretty business ours
would be truly, if we had always to do with such beggars!"
A fearful addition was made to the horrors of this scene. The
elder of the little girls, who had remained in the straw with her sick
sister, cried out, "Oh, mother, mother! I do not know what is
the matter with A dele! She is quite cold, and she stares so at
me and she don't breathe!"
The poor consumptive child had just quietly expired, without
a murmur, her looks resting on her sister, whom she tenderly
loved.
No language can describe the heart-rending cry of anguish
uttered by the diamond-cuf'er'0 wife at this frightful announce.


THE EXECUTION.
ment, for she understood it all. It was one of those stifling, con-
vulsive screams, torn from the depth of a mother's heart.
"My sister seems as though she were dead!" continued the
child. '' Oh, how she frightens me! She still looks at me, but
how cold her face is!" Saying this, the poor child suddenly rose
from the side of her dead sister, and, running terrified, threw her-
self into the arms of her mother; while the distracted parent, for-
getful that her paralyzed limbs were incapable of sustaining her,
made a violent effort to rise and run toward the corpse ; but her
strength failed her, and she fell on the floor, uttering a last cry of
despair. That cry found an echo in Morel's heart, and roused
him from his stupor; with one step he reached the bed's side,
snatching from it his child, four years old. She was dead! Cold
and want had hastened her end, although her complaint, brought on
by the want of common necessaries, was beyond cure. Her poor
little limbs were already cold and stiff. Morel, his grey hair almost
standing on end with despair and fright, remained motionless,
holding his dear child in his arms, whom he contemplated with
fixed tearless eyes, bloodshot with agony.
"Morel! Morel! give my Adele to me !" shrieked the unhappy
mother, holding out her arms toward her husband; "it is not
true that she is dead: you shall see—I will warm her in my
arms!"
The idiot's curiosity was excited by the haste with which the
two bailiffs approached the lapidary, who would not part with the
body of his infant. The old woman ceased to howl, rose from
her bed, slowly approached Morel, and passing her hideous and
stupid face over his shoulder, gazed vacantly on the corpse of
her grandchild. The features of the idiot retained their usual ex-
pression of ferocity. After a little rime, she uttered a sort of
hoarse, hollow groan, like a hungry beast, and, returning to her
bed, she threw herself upon it, crying out, " I am hungry! 1 am
hungry!"
"You see, gentlemen, this poor little girl, just four years old—
Adele; yes, she was named Adele. Only last night, she fondly
returned my caresses—and now—look at her! You will perhaps
saythat I have one less to feed, and that I ought not to murmur,"
said the artizan, with a haggard look.
The poor man's reason began to totter under so many repeated
shocks
"Morel, I want my child; I will have her! " said Madeleine.
"True, true," replied the lapidary, " each in turn, that is but
fair!" He went and laid the child in the arms of his wife.
Then, hiding his face between his hands, he groaned bitterly.
Madeleine, almost as frenzied as her husband, laid the child in the
straw of her couch, and watched it with a sort of savage jeal-
ousy: while the other children were kneeling round in tears.
The bailiffs, for a moment softened by the death of the child
soon returned to their accustomed brutality of conduct.


THE EXECUTION.
"Oh, look here, my friend," said Malicorne to the lapidary,
"your child is dead ; it is unfortunate, but we are all mortal;
we cannot help it, nor can you, so there's an end of it. We
have an extra job to do to-day—a swell to grab."
Morel did not hear the man. Completely lost in mournful
contemplation, the artizan said to himself, in a hollow and bro-
ken voice: "It will be necessary to bury my poor little girl—to
watch her here till they come to carry her away. But how?—
we have nothing! And the coffin!.—who will give us credit?
Oh, a little coffin for a child of four years old ought not to cost
much! And then we shall want no bearers! One can take il
under his arm! Ha! ha! ha!" added he, with a frightful burst
of laughter, "how lucky I am! She might perhaps have lived
to be eighteen, Louise's age, and no one would have given me
credit for a large coffin!
"Egad! this chap seems as though he would lose his
senses!" said Bourdin to Malicorne. "Look at him ; he quite
frightens me! and how the old idiot howls with hunger! Whal
a queer lot!"
"We must, however, make a finish; although the arrest o)
this beggar is only for seventy-six francs, seventy-five centime!*
it is only right that we should swell the costs to two hundrec-
and forty or fifty francs. It is the wolf who pays."
"You mean who has to fork out—for this poor devil herii will
have to pay the fiddler, since it is he that must dance."
"By the time he has paid his creditor two thousand five
hundred francs, for principal, interest, costs, and a'l, he will be
warm."
"It will not be then as now, for it freezes," said the bailiff,
blowing his fingers. "Come, old fellow, pack up, and let us be
off; you can blubber as you go along. Who the devil can
help the young-un's kicking the bucket!"
"Besides, when people are so poor tbcy have no right to have
children."
"A good idea !" said Malicorne. Then, slapping Morel on
the shoulder, he continued: "Come, come, old boy, we can wait
no longer; since you cannot pay, off to prison with you!"
"Prison !" said a pure youthful voice; "Morel to prison!" A
young, bright rosy brunette suddenly entered the garret.
"Oh, Mademoiselle Rigoiette!" said one of the children, crying;
"you are so good! save papa! they want to take him to prison,
and little sister is dead."
"Adele dead !" exclaimed the girl, whose Wge, brilliant black
eyes were veiled in tears. "Your father to prison T This can-
not be." Stupefied by surprise, she looked alternftsly at the-
lapidary, his wife and the bailiffs.
"My pretty girl," said Bourdin, approaching RigoletJ?>, " you're
cool, you must try to make this poor man listen to rf'm, Ms


272
THE EXECUTION.
little girl is dead, but nevertheless he must come with us to the
debtors' prison. We are sheriffs' officers."
'' It is, then, all true ?" said the girl.
"Quite true. The mother has the little one in her bed—they
cannot take it from her; and while she is hugging it there the
father ought to take the opportunity of slipping out."
"My God! what misery," said the grisette. "What is to be
done?"
"Pay, or go to prison! there is no other way—unless you have
notes for two or three thousand francs to lend them," said Mali-
come, in a careless tone; "if you have them, shellout and we
will cut, devilish glad to get away."
"Oh, this is frightful!" said the girl, with indignation; "dar-
ing to jest with such dreadful misfortunes."
"Well then, joking aside," replied the other bailiff- "if you
would do some good, endeavor to prevent the woman from seeing
us take away her husband. You will thus save each of them a
very disagreeable quarter of an hour."
The advice was good, though coarsely given, and the seam-
stress, following it, approached Madeleine, who distracted with
grief, did not appear to notice the young girl, as she knelt down
beside the bed with the children.
Meanwhile, Morel had only recovered from his temporary de-
lirium to sink under the most painful reflections. Having become
calm, he could view far too clearly the horror of his situation.
The notary must be pitiless, since he had gone to such extremity;
the bailiffs did but do their duty. The artizan was therefore
resigned.
"Come, come, let's be marching some time to-day," said Bour-
din to him.
"I cannot leave these diamonds here, my wife is half mad,"
said Morel, pointing to the stones scattered upon the bench; "the
person for whom I work will come for them this morning, or in the
course of the day. Their amount is considerable."
"Good !" said Crooky, who still remained near the half-open
door; "good, good! Owl shall know that."
"Grant me only till to-morrow," urged Morel, "that I may re-
store the diamonds."
"Impossible! We must go immediately."
"But I cannot, by leaving the diamonds here, run the risk of
their being lost."
"Take them with you, a coach waits at the door, which you
will have to pay for, with the other expenses. We can call on the
owner of the stones; if he is not at home, you can place them in
the registry at Clichy ; they will be as safe there as in the bank.
Come, make haste; we will slip away before your wife or children
are aware of it."
"Grant me only till to-morrow- that I may bury my child!"


274
THE EXECUTION.
"Very well; but he needn't be so particular about leaving the
mucky crib!" Then, addressing Morel in a low voice, he said:
"Now then, look sharp, and we will wait for you below. Make
haste, and offer some pretence for our going."
"I thank you," said Morel.
"Very well, it shall be so," said Bourdin, in a loud voice, and
looking significantly at the artizan ; "in such case, as you promise
to pay in a short time, we will leave you for the present, and call
again in four or five days; but then you must be punctual.'*
"Yes, gentlemen, I trust I shall then be able to pay you."
The bailiffs left the room; while the cripple, for fear of being
seen, had disappeared down the staircase at the same time the
bailiffs quitted the garret.
*' Madame Morel, do you hear?" said Rigolette, trying to with-
draw the attention of the mother from her melancholy abstraction;
"they will not take away your husband—the two men are gone."
"Mother, don't you hear? they will not take father away,"
said the eldest of the boys.
"Morel, listen to me," murmured Madeleine, in a state of de-
lirium. "Take one of the large diamonds and sell it—no one will
know it, and we shall be saved. Our Adele will no longer feel
cold; she will not be dead."
Taking advantage of a moment when none belonging to him
were observing his actions, the lapidary cautiously left the room.
The bailiff was waiting for him upon a sort of little landing! cov-
ered also by the roof. Upon this landing, opened the door of a
loft, which had formerly been part of the garret occupied by the
Morels, and in which Pipelet kept his stock of leather; and the
worthy porter called this place his opera box, because, by means
of a hole made in the wall between two laths, he was sometimes a
witness to the sad scenes that passed in the Morels' room. The
bailiff noticed the door of the loft; in a moment, he thought that
most likely his prisoner had reckoned upon that outlet for escape,
or to hide himself.
"Come, march, old fellow!" said he, beginning to descend the
stairs, and making, a sign to the lapidary to follow.
"One minute more, I beseech!" said Morel; and he fell on
his knees upon the floor. Through a chink in the d-oor, he threw
a last look upon his family, and clasping his hands, he uttered, in
a low, heart-rending voice, while tears flowed down his haggard
cheeks : " Farewell, my dear children—my poor wife! may heaven
preserve you all! Farewell!"
"Make haste and cut that sermon," said Bourdin, brutally.
"Malicorne is quite right; you needn't make so much fuss about
leaving the stinking kennel. What a hole! what a hole!"
Morel rose to follow the bailiff, when the words "Father!
father !" sounded on the staircase.
"Louise!" exclaimed the lapidary, raising his hands toward
heaven; "I can then clasp you to my breast before I go!"


THE EXECUTION.
275
"I thank thee, God, I am in time! " said the voice, approach-
ing nearer and nearer, and light steps were heard rapidly ascend-
ing the stairs.
"Be calm, my dear," said a third voice, sharp, asthmatic, and
out of breath, coming from a lower part of the house ; " I will lay
in wait, if I must, in the alley, with my broom and my old dar-
ling, and they shan't leave here till you have spoken to them, the
contemptible beggars!"
The reader has doubtless recognized Mme. Pipelet, who, less
nimble than Louise, followed her slowly. An instant after, the
lapidary's daughter was in her father's arms.
"It is indeed you, Louise, my darling Louise! " said Morel,
sobbing; "but how pale you are! For mercy's sake what ails
you?"
"Nothing, nothing, father," stammered Louise. "I have run so
fast. Here is the money !''
"How is this?"
"You are free!"
"So you know?"
"Yes, yes! Here, sir, take the money," said the young girl,
giving a rouleau of gold to Malicorne.
"But this money, Louise—this money?"
"You shall know all presently; don't be uneasy. Come and
comfort dear mother."
"No, not now! " exclaimed Morel, placing himself before the
door, remembering that Louise was still in ignorance of the death
of the little girl; "wait, I must speak to you. Now, about this
money?"
"Stay !" said Malicorne, as he finished counting the gold, and
while putting it in his pocket; "sixty-four, sixty-five—that will
just make thirteen hundred francs. Have you no more than that,
my little dear?"
"Why, you only owe thirteen hundred francs?" said Louise,
addressing her father, with a stupefied air.
"Yes," said the lapidary.
"Stop!" rejoined the catchpoll; "the bill is for thirteen hun-
dred francs. Well, the bill is paid; but the expenses? Without
the execution, they are already eleven hundred and forty francs."
"Gracious heaven!" cried Louise; "I thought it was only thir-
teen hundred francs in all! But, sir, we will very soon pay you
the remainder; this is a pretty good sum on account—is it not,
father?"
"Soon !—very well; bring the money to the office, and we will
then let your father go. Come, let's be off."
"You will take him away?"
"At once. This is on account. When the rest is paid, he will
be free. Go on, Bourdin; let us get out of this."
"Mercy! mercy !" shrieked Louise.
"Oh, what a row! here it is—the old game over again: it is


THE EXECUTION.
277
an earthen pot filled with boiling soup, which she was kindly tak-
ing to the Morels.
"What does the old polecat want? " said Bourdin.
"If you dare to pass any of your black-guard remarks uponme,
I'll make you feel my nails—and my teeth too, if necessary!"
screamed the portress, "and more than that, my lodger, my prince
of lodgers, will pitch you from the top to the bottom of the stair-
case, as he says! And I will sweep you away like a heap of
trash, as you are!"
"This old woman will rouse all the people in the house against
us. We are paid, and our expenses also; let us be off!" said
Bourdin to Malicorne.
"Here are your documents," said the last named individual,
throwing a bundle of papers at Morel's feet.
*' Pick them up, and deliver them properly! You are paid to
be civil," said Rudolf, seizing the bailiff with his vigorous hand,
while with the other he pointed to the papers.
Convinced by this new and formidable grasp that he could not
struggle against so powerful an adversary, the bailiff stooped
down grumbling, picked up the bundle of papers, and gave
them to Morel, who took them mechanically. The lapidary be-
lieved himself under the influence of a dream.
"Mind, young fellow, although you have an arm as strong as
a porter's, never come under our lash !" said Malicorne. Shak-
ing his fist at Rudolf, he nimbly jumped down the stairs, followed-
by his companion, who looked behind him with fear.
Mme. Pipelet, burning for revenge on the bailiffs, for the in-
sults offered to Rudolf, looked at her saucepan with an air of
inspiration, and cried out, heroically: "Morel's debts are paid;
they will now have plenty to eat, and no longer stand in need of
my soup—!" Leaning over the banisters, the old woman emptied
the contents of the saucepan on the backs of the bailiffs, who
had just arrived at the first-floor landing.
"Oh, you are caught, I see!" added the portress. "They are
soaked through like two sops! He! he! this is capital!"
"A thousand million thunders !" cried Malicorne, wet through
with Mme. Pipelet's culinary preparation. "Will you take care
what you are about up there, you old baggage!"
*' Alfred !" retorted Mme. Pipelet, bawling in a voice sharp
enough to split the tympanum of a deaf man. "Alfred! have at
'em, old darling! They wanted to behave improperly to thy
'Stasie! (Anastasie). Those rascals would take liberties with me!
Pitch into them with your broom! call the oyster-woman and the
potboy next door to help you. Quick!—quick!—after them!
Murder! police! thieves! Hish !—hish !—hish! bravo! Halloo'
go it, old darling! Broom !—broom!" By way of a formidable
finish to these hootings, which she hart accompanied with a violent
stamping of her feet, Mme. Pipelet, carried away by the intoxica-
tion of her victory, hurled from the top to the bottom of the stair-


278
RIGOLETTE.
case her earthenware saucepan, which, breaking with a loud crash-
ing noise, the very moment the bailiffs, stunned by the frightful
cries, were taking the stairs four at a time, added greatly to their
fears.
"Ha! ha! I rayther think you have got enough for once!"
cried Anastasie laughing loudly, and folding her arms in an atti-
tude of triumph.
While Mme. Pipelet was thus venting her rage upon the bailiffs,
Morel, overcome with gratitude, had thrown himself at Rudolfs
feet.
"Ah, sir, you have saved our lives! To whom do we owe
this unlooked-for succor?"
"* To Him who watches over and protects honest men,' as our
immortal Beranger says."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
RIGOLETTE.
Louise, the lapidary's daughter, was possessed of remarkable
loveliness; tall and graceful, she resembled the classic Juno for
regularity of features, and the huntress Diana for the finish of her
tall figure. In spite of her sunburnt complexion, her rough and
freckled hands, beautifully formed, but hardened by domestic
labor; spite of her humble garments, this girl possessed a
nobility of exterior.
We will not attempt to describe the gratitude and surprise of
this family, so abruptly snatched from a fearful fate ; in the first
burst of happiness, even the death of the little girl was forgotten.
Rudolf alone remarked the extreme paleness of Louise, and the
utter abstraction with which she seemed oppressed, in spite of her
father's deliverance. Wishing to completely satisfy the Morels as
to apprehensions about the future, and to explain a liberality
which might otherwise betray suspicions as to the character he
thought proper to assume, Rudolf said to the lapidary, whom he
took to the landing (while Rigolette broke to Louise the news of
her sister's death), and said to him: "Yesterday morning a
young lady came to see you?"
"Yes, sir, and appeared much distressed at the situation in
which she found us."
"It is to her you must return thanks, and not to me."
*' Is it indeed true, sir? That young lady"
"Is yourbenefactress. I have often waited upon her with goods
from our warehouse. The day before yesterday, while I was here,
engaging an apartment on the fourth story, I learnt from the port-
ress your cruel position. Knowing this lady's charity, I went to
her. She came, so that she might herself judge of the extent of


280
RIGOLETTE.
"Oh, pray speak, sir!"
"It is, that you will repeat it to no one. You understand ?—1«
no one."
"Oh, I will solemnly promise that to you. But cannot I at
least offer my thanks to this saviour of the unhappy?"
"I will ask Lady d'Harville, and I doubt not she will give hei
consent."
"Then this lady is"
"The Marchioness d'Harville."
"Oh, I shall never forget that name! It shall be my saint, my
adoration! To think that, thanks to her, my wife and children
are saved! saved !—no, not all, not all; my poor little Adele, we
shall never see her again. Alas! but it is necessary to remember
that any day we might have lost her, for she was doomed." Here
the poor lapidary brushed the tears from his eyes.
"As regards the last sad duties to be performed for this little
one," said Rudolf, "trust to my advice; this is what must be
done: I do not yet occupy my room, which is large, wholesome,
and well aired. There is already a bed in it; we will convey
thither all that is necessary for yourself and family to be estab-
lished there till Lady d'Harville has arranged where to lodge you
suitably. Your child's body will remain in the garret, where it
shall to-night, as is customary, be attended and watched by a
priest. I will go and request M. Pipelet to undertake the manage-
ment of these sad duties."
"But, sir, it is not necessary to deprive you of your room.
Now that we are in peace, and I no longer fear being taken to
prison, our humble apartment appears to me a palace, particularly
if my dear Louise remains with us, to attend to the family as
formerly."
"Your Louise will not again leave you. You said not long ago
it would be a luxury to have her always with you ; as some recom-
pense for your past sufferings, she shall never leave you again."
"Oh, sir, can it be possible? It surely cannot be a reality!
My senses seem lulled in a sweet dream. I have never thought
much of religion, but this sudden change from so much misery to
so much happiness shows the hand of an over-ruling Provi-
dence."
"And if a father's grief could be assuaged by promises of re-
ward or recompense," said Rudolf, " I should remind you, that
although the Almighty hand has removed one of your daughters
from you, he has mercifully restored another."
"True, true, sir. Henceforth we shall have our dear Louise to
console us for the loss of poor little Adele!"
"You will accept my chamber, will you not? If you refuse,
hov can we manage the mournful duties toward the poor child
that is gone? Think also of your wife, whose mind is already so
distracted—to leave her for four-and-twenty hours with such an
afflicting spectacle before her eyes!


RIGOLETTE.
"You think of everything—of all! How kind you are, sir!"
"It is your benefactress you must thank, for her goodness
inspires me. I say to you as she would say, and I am sure she
would approve of all; so it is agreed that you will accept the offer
of my room. Now tell me, this Jacques Ferrand"
A dark frown passed across Morel's face.
"This Jacques Ferrand," continued Rudolf, "is the same law-
yer who resides in the Rue du Sentier?"
"Yes, sir; do you know him?" Then, his fears newly
awakened on the subject of Louise, Morel exclaimed: "Since
you have heard all that passed, sir, say, say—have I not a right
to hate this man? And who knows if my child, my Louise"
He could not proceed; he hid his face with his hands. Rudolf
understood his fears.
"The lawyer's proceedings," said he to him, "ought to reassure
you, as he doubtless ordered your arrest to be revenged for the
scorn of your daughter; I have good reason, too, to believe that
he is a dishonest man. If he is so," resumed Rudolf, after a
moment's silence, "let us believe that Providence will punish him.
If the justice of Heaven often appears to slumber it awakens some
time or other."
"He is very rich, and very hypocritical, sir."
"In your deepest despair, a guardian angel came to your assist-
ance, and plucked you from inevitable ruin; so, at a moment
when least expected, the Almighty Avenger may call upon the
lawyer to atone for his past crimes if he be guilty."
At this moment, Rigolette came from the garret wiping her
eyes. Rudolf said to the girl: "Will it not, my good neighbor,
be better that M. Morel should occupy my room, with his family,
until his benefactress, whose agent I am, shall have provided a
suitable lodging?"
She regarded Rudolf with a look of unfeigned surprise. "Oh,
sir! are you really in earnest when you make so generous an
offer?"
"Yes, but on one condition, which will depend on yourself."
"Oh, depend upon all that is in my power!"
"I had some accounts required in haste, to arrange for my em-
ployers; they will come for them soon. Now, if you will be so
neighborly as to permit me to work in your room, on a corner of
your table, I should not disturb your work in the least, and the
Morel family can, with the assistance of M. and Mme. Pipelet,
immediately be settled in my room."
"Oh, if it be only that, sir, most willingly ; neighbors ought to
assist each other. You have set so good an example by what you
have done for that poor Morel, that 1 am at your service, sir."
"No, no, call me neighbor. If you use any ceremony toward
me, I shall not have courage to intrude on you," said Rudolf.
"Well, then, it shall be r.o : I will call you * neighbor,' because
you really are so."


282
RIGOLETTE.
"Father, father! " cried one of Morel's little boys, coming out
of the garret, " mother is calling you ; come directly, pray do."
The lapidaiy hastily entered the room.
"Now, neighbor," said Rudolf to Rigolette, *' you must render
me a still further service." "With all my heart, if it be in my
power."
"You are, I am sure, an excellent little housewife. It is neces-
sary to purchase immediately all that is wanted for Morel's family
to be properly clothed, bedded, and settled in my room, for there
is only sufficient for myself as a bachelor, that was brought yes-
terday. How can we manage to procure instantly all I wish for
the Morels?"
:-. Rigolette thought for a moment, and answered: "In a couple
of hours you can have all you want: good clothes ready-made,
warm and neat, with good clean linen for all the family: two little
beds for the children, and one for the grandmother—in short, all
that is necessary ; but it will cost a great deal of money."
"You don't say so! How much?"
"Oh, at least—at the very least—five or six hundred francs."
"For everything?"
"Yes.it is a great sum of money, you see," said Rigolette.
opening her large eyes, and shaking her head.
"And we can procure all these things"
"In two hours."
"You must be a fairy, neighbor!"
"Oh, no, it is quite easy. The Temple is only two steps from
here, where you will find all of which you are in want."
"The Temple?"
"Yes, the great second-hand clothes mart, where you can get
every mortal thing for a song. For example, this great-coat of
your'n cost, I suppose, eighty francs; very well, you could have
have had it at the Temple for thirty."
"Why, that is marvelous! Then you think that with five or
six hundred francs, these poor Morels"
"Will be stocked with everything, first-class, for a long time to
come."
"Neighbor, an idea has just struck me."
"Well, what is it about?"
"Do you understand household affairs—are you clever at
making purchases?"
*' Well—rather," said Rigolette, with a look of mock simplicity.
"Take my arm, and let us go to the Temple and buy where-
with to clothe the Morels: will that suit you?"
"Oh, what happiness! Poor creatures!—but where's the
money?"
"I have sufficient."
"Five hundred francs?"
"The benefactress of the Morels has given me carte blanche;
nothing is to be spared that these poor people require. Is there


R1G0LETTE.
283
even a. place whdic better things are to be had than at the
Temple?"
"You will find nowhere better; then there is everything, and
all ready-made—little frocks for the children, and dresses for
their mother."
"Then let us go at once to the Temple, neighbor."
"Oh ! but—-"
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing; but you see, my time is everything to me; and I
am already a little behind-hand, in occasionally nursing the poor
woman Morel; and you may imagine that an hour in one way
and an hour in another makes in time a day ; a day brings thirty
sous, and if we earn nothing one must still live all the same. But,
pshaw! never mind; I must spare from my nights; and then,
again, parties of pleasure are rare, ?nd I will make this a joyful
day; it will seem to me that I am rich, and that it is with my own
money I am buying such good things for these poor Morels. Very
well, as soon as I have put on my shawl and cap, I shall be at
your service, neiehbor.
"Suppose, during the time, I bring my papers to your room?"
"Willingly, and then you will see my apartment," said Rigo-
lette, with pride; "for it is already put in order, and that will
prove to you that I am an early riser, and that if you are sleepy
and idle so much the worse for y~u. for I shall be a troub'esome
neighbor."
So saying, light as a bird, she flew down the stairs, followed by
Rudolf, who went to his room to brush off the dust he had carried
away from Pipelet's loft. We will hereafter disclose to the reader
how Rudolf was not yet informed of the abduction of Fleur-de-
Marie from Bouqueval farm, and why he had not visited the
Morels the day after the conversation with Lady d'Harville.
Rudolf, for the sake of appearances, furnished himself with a
large roll of papers, which he carried into Rigolette's room.
Rigolette was nearly of the same age as Goualeuse, her former
prison-friend. A real child of Paris, the former preferred tumult
to quiet, bustle to repose, the sharp, ringing harmony of the
orchestra at the balls, to the soft murmur of wind, water, and
trees ; the deafening tumult of the streets of Paris, to the silence
of the country; the dazzling of the fireworks, the glittering of the
flowers, the crash of the rockets, to the serenity of a lovely night
—starlit, clear, and still. Alas! yes, this good girl preferred the
black mud of the streets of the capital, to the verdure of i;s
flowery meadows ; its pavements miry or tortuous, to the fresh
and velvet moss of the paths in the woods, perfumed by violets;
the suffocating dust at the City gates, or the Boulevards, to the
waving of the golden ears of corn, enameled by the scarlet of
the wild poppy and the azure of the bluebell.
Rigolette never left home but on Sundays, and every morning
laid in her provisions of chick-weed, bread, hempseed, and milk


284
RIGOLETTE.
for her birds and herself, as Mme. Pipelet observed. But she
lived in Paris for the sake of Paris; she would have been miser-
able elsewhere than in the capital.
Rudolf had never seen Rigolette but by the sombre light in
Morel's garret, or on the landing, equally obscure; he was there-
fore dazzled by the brilliant freshness of the girl, when he entered
silently her room, lit by two large windows. He remained for an
instant motionless, struck by the charming picture before him.
Supposing herself to be quite alone (for Rudolf still remained
at the door motionless and unperceived), Rigolette, after having
smoothed the bands of her hair with her small white hand, placed
her little foot upon a chair, and stooped down to tighten her boot-
lace. This attitude disclosed a snow-white cotton stocking, and
half of a beautifully formed leg.
Rudolf took advantage of his being unperceived, to throw a
curious look around this room, which he found deserved more
praise than Mme. Pipelet had given' to the extreme neatness ot
Rigolette's humble home. Nothing could be gayer or better
arranged than this little room. There was in the recess in one of the
windows, the cage of the two canaries, faithful companions. By
one of those notable inventions which arise only in the minds of
poor people, the cage was set in the middle of a large chest, a foot
in depth, upon the table: this chest, which Rigolette called the
garden of her birds, was filled with earth, covered with moss
during the winter, and in the spring with turf and flowers. Rudolf
gazed into this apartment with interest and curiosity; he perfectly
comprehended the joyous humor of this girl; he pictured the
silence disturbed by the singing of all three. In the summer,
doubtless, she worked near the open window, half hidden by a
verdant curtain of sweet pea, nasturtium, and blue and white
morning glories; in the winter, she sat by the side of the stove,
enlivened by the soft light of her lamp.
Rudolf was thus far in these reflections, when, looking mechanic-
ally at the door, he noticed a strong bolt—a bolt that would not
have been out of place on the door of a prison. This bolt caused
him to reflect. It had two meanings, two distinct uses: to shut
the door upon lovers within—to shut the door against lovers with-
out. One of these uses would utterly contradict the assertions of
Mme. Pipelet—the other would confirm them. Rudolf had just
arrived at these conclusions, when the girl, turning her head, per-
ceived him, and, without changing her position, said: "What,
neighbor! there you are then!" Instantly the pretty leg disap-
peared under the ample skirt of the currant-colored gown, and
Rigolette added: "Caught you, Cunning!"
"I am here, admiring in silence."
"And what do you admire, neighbor?"
"This pretty little room, for you are lodged like a queen.'
"Nay, you see, this is my enjoyment. I seldom go out; so at
least I may please myself at home."


RIGOLETTE.
285
"But I do not find fault, What tasteful curtains! and the
drawers—as good as mahogany. You must have spent heaps of
money here."
"Oh, pray don't remind me of it! I had four hundred and
twenty-six francs when I left prison, and almost all is gone."
"When you left prison?"
"Yes; it is quite a story. But you do not, I hope, think I was
in prison for any crime?"
"Certainly not; but how was it?"
"After the cholera, I found myself alone in the world; I was
then, I believe, about ten years of age."
"Until that time, who had taken care of you?"
"Oh, very good people; but they died of the cholera (here the
large black eyes became tearful) ; the little they left was sold to
discharge two or three small debts, and I found that no one would
shelter me. Not knownig what to do I went to the guard-house,
opposite where I had resided, and said to the sentinel: 'Soldier,
my parents are dead, and I do not know where to go. What
must I do?' The sub-officer came and took me to the magistrate,
who sent me to prison as a vagabond, which I was allowed to quit
at sixteen years of age."
"But your parents?"
"I do not know who was my father; I was six years old when
I lost my mother, who had taken me from the Foundling Hos-
pital, where she had been compelled at first to place me. The
kind people of whom I have spoken lived in our house; they had
no children, and seeing me an orphan, took care of me."
"And how did they live? What was their condition in life?"
"Papa Cre'tu, so I always called him, was a house-painter, and
the female who lived with him worked at her needle.'
"Then they were tolerably well off?"
"Oh, as well off as most people in their station. Though not
married, they called each other husband and wife. They had
their ups and downs; to-day in abundance, if there was plenty of
work; to-morrow straitened, if there was not any; but that did not
prevent them from being contented and gay (at this remembrance
the speaker's face brightened). There was nowhere near a house
like it—always cheerful, always singing; and with all that, good
and kind beyond belief! What was theirs, was for others also.
Mamma Cretu was a plump body of thirty, clean as a new penny,
lively as an eel, merry as a finch. Her husband was a regular
jolly old King Cole; he had a large nose, a large mouth, always a
paper cap on his head, and a face so droll—oh, »o droll, that you
could not look at him without laughing! When he returned home
after work he did nothing but sing, make faces, and gambol like a
child. He made me dance, and jump upon hii knees; he played
with me as if he were my own age, and his wife entirely spoilt
me. Both required of me but one thing—to be good humored;
and in that, thank Gcd! I never disappointed them: so they


RIGOLETTE.
287
oompelling us to do that which we now do willingly? Besides,
it is expensive, and we have no money to spare.' But see how
I am gossiping! as I always do on the subject of those good
people, who were so kind to me, for I never tire of speaking of
them. Here, neighbor, be civil enough to take my shawl, which
is on the bed, and fasten it under the collar of my dress with this
large pin, and we will then go, for we shall be some time selecting
all you wish to purchase for the Morels."
Rudolf hastened to obey the instructions; he took from the bed
a large plaid shawl, and carefully arranged it on his neighbor's
lovely shoulders.
"Now then, lift up the collar a little, press the dress and shawl
close together and stick in the pin. Above all, take care not to
prick me."
The prince executed the given instructions with zealous nicety;
then he observed, smilingly, to the grisette, "Oh, Mademoiselle
Rigolette, I must not be yourfenime de chambre—there is danger
in it!"
"Yes, yes," answered Rigolette gaily, "there is great danger
of my having a pin run into me! But now," added she, after
they had left the room and locked the door after them; "here,
neighbor, take the key; it is so very heavy, that I always fear
it will tear my pocket. It is quite a pistol for size!" And then
she laughed merrily.
Rudolf accordingly took possession of an enormous key—such a
one as is sometimes seen in those allegorical representations where
the vanquished offer the keys of their cities to the conquerors.
Although Rudolf believed himself sufficiently changed by years
not to be recognized by Polidori, he yet pulled up the collar of his
coat before passing the door of the quack Bradamanti.
"Neighbor, don't forget to tell M. Pipelet that some goods will
be brought here, which must be taken to your room," said Rig-
olette.
"You are right, neighbor; we will step into the lodge as we
pass by."
Pipelet, his everlasting immense hat, as usual, on his head,
dressed in his green coat, was sitting gravely before a table, on
which were spread pieces of leather and fragments of old shoes;
he was occupied in putting a new sole to a boot, which he did
with that serious and meditative air which characterized all his
doings. Anastasie was absent from the lodge.
"Well, M. Pipelet," said Mdlle. Rigolette, "I trust things will
be better now! Thanks to my neighbor, the poor Morels were
rescued from trouble just as those heartless bailiffs were about to
drag the unhappy man to prison."
"Oh! these bailiffs are really without hearts, or manners, either,
mademoiselle," added Pipelet, in an angry voice, flourishing the
boot he was repairing, in which he had thrust his left hand and
arm. "No! I do not fear to repeat, in the face of heaven and


788 RIGOLETTE.
man, that they are without manners; they took advantage of the
darkness of the staircase to make rude remarks on my wife's very
person. On hearing the cries of her offended modesty, in spite of
myself, I yielded to the impulse of my temper. I do not disguise
it, my first movement was to remain perfectly motionless."
"But afterwards you followed them, I hope, M. Pipelet?" said
Rigolette, who had some trouble to preserve a serious air.
"I thought of it," answered Pipelet, with a deep sigh; "but
when those shameless ruffians passed before my door, my blood
rose, and I could not hinder myself from putting my hand before
my eyes, to hide the monsters from my sight! But that does not
surprise me; I knew something unfortunate would happen to me
to-day, for I dreamed—last night—of Monster Cabrion!"
Mdlle. Rigolette smiled, as Pipelet's painful sighs were
mingled with the taps of the hammer, which he vigorously applied
to the sole of the old boot.
"You truly acted the part of a wise man, my dear M. Pipelet,
that of despising offences, and holding it beneath you to revenge
them. But let us forget these miserable bailiffs. Will you be kind
enough to do me a favor?" asked Rudolf.
"Man is born to assist his fellow-man," replied Pipelet, in a
sententious and melancholy tone; "and more particularly so
when his fellow-man is so good a lodger as yourself."
"It will be necessary to take up to my room different things
which will be brought here presently for the Morels."
*' Be assured I will take charge of them," replied Pipelet, "and
faithfully carry out your wishes."
"And afterwards," said Rudolf, sadly, "you must obtain a
priest to watch by the little girl the Morels have lost in the night.
Go and register her death, and order a decent funeral. Here is
money ; spare not, for Morel's benefactress, .whose mere agent I
am, wishes all to go well."
"Make your mind quite easy, sir," replied Pipelet; "directly
my wife comes back, I will go to the mayor, the church, and the
ham and beef shop—to the church for the soul of the dead, to the
cookshop for the body of the living," added Pipelet, philosophic-
ally and poetically. "You may consider it done—already done,
in both cases, my good sir."
At the entrance, Rudolf and Rigolette found themselves face to
face with Anastasie, who had returned from market, bearing a
heavy basket of provisions.
"Well done!" exclaimed the portress, looking at them both
with a knowing and significant air; "already arm-in-arm! That's
your sort! Young people will be young people—and where's the
harm? To a pretty lass, a handsome lad! If you don't enjoy
yourselves while young, you will find it difficult to do so when
you get old! My poor dear Alfred and I, for instance, when we
were young, didn't we go the pace But now, oh, dear! oh,
d*ar!—Well never mind ; go along, my dears, and make your-


290
THE ARREST.
"Saved up, neighbor? Then you earn"
'' At least thirty sous a day. A girl, quite alone and well, can
live respectably on thirty sous a day? I must tell you by-the-bye,
the four hundred and fifty francs which I brought from prison
assisted materially in establishing me. When once known that I
possessed furniture, it inspired confidence, and I had work en-
trusted to me to take home; but it was necessary to wait a long
time before I could meet with employment. Fortunately 1 kept
sufficient money to live upon for three months, without earning
anything."
"Spite of your gay, heedless manner, allow me to say that you
possess a great deal of good sense, neighbor."
"Nay, when one is alone in the world, and would not be under
obligation to any one, you must exercise some management to
build your nest well, and take care of it when it is built, as the
saying is."
"And your nest is delightful!"
"Is it not? for, as I have said, I refuse myself nothing; I con-
sider I have a lodging above my station. Then, again, I keep
birds; in summer always at least two pots of flowers on the man-
telpiece, besides the boxes in the windows; and then, I had three
francs or more in my money-box, toward ornaments I hoped one
day to be able to purchase for the chimney-piece."
"And what became of these savings?"
"Why, latterly I have seen those poor Morels so unhappy, so
very unhappy, that I said to myself: 'There is no sense in hav-
ing these ugly pieces of money idling in a box, whilst good people
are perishing of hunger beside you,' so I lent them to Morel.
When I say lent, I mean I told him I only lent them, in order to
spare his feelings, for I assure you I gave them freely."
"Yes, neighbor, but as they are no longer in want, you surely
will not refuse to allow them to repay you?"
"True, I shall not refuse it; it will be something toward the
purchase of chimney-ornaments—my dream."
"And then, again, you ought to think a little of the future,"
"The future?" "Should you fall ill, for instance."
And, at the bare idea, Rigolette burst into an immoderate fit or
laughter.
"Come, come, neighbor," said Rudolf; "are you losing yous
senses?"
"It is your fault if I am." "My fault?"
"Yes; because you say such silly things to me."
"What, because I tell you that you may fall ill?"
"I, ill?"
"Why not?"
"Am I a likely-looking person to be sick then?"
"Never have I beheld a face more rosy and fresh!"
"Very well, then, why do vou tiujik. I shall be Ul?"
"Nay, but"


THE ARREST.
291
"At eighteen years of age, leading the life I do, how can that
be possible? I rise at five o'clock, winter and summer; I go to
bed at ten or eleven; I eat to satisfy my hunger, which is not very
great, it is true; I sing like a lark all day, and at night I sleep
like a dormouse; I have a mind free, joyful, and contented, with
the certainty of plenty of work, because my employers are pleased
with what I have done. Why should I be sick? What an idea!
Well, I never!"
And Rigolette again relapsed into long and hearty laughter.
Rudolf, struck with this blind, yet happy confidence in the future-,
reproached himself with having attempted to shake it.
"Then," said Rudolf to the grisette, "you are not ambitious to
possess more than you have?" "Nothing."
"Absolutely nothing?"
''No—that is to say, I should like'to have my chimney-orna-
ments, and I shall have them, though I do not know when; but I
have it in my head to possess them, and I will, if I should have to
sit up to work all night to do it."
"And besides these ornaments"
"I want for nothing; I cannot recollect a single thing more that
I care about possessing now."
"How now?" "Because, if you had asked me the same
question yesterday, I should have told you I was longing for a
suitable neighbor, so that I could arrange with him comfortably,
as I have always done, to perform little services for him, that he
might return nice little attentions to me."
'' Well, it is already agreed, my pretty neighbor, that you shall
take charge of my linen, and that I shall clean your room—with-
out naming your waking me early in the morning, by tapping at
the wall."
"And do you think that will be all?"
"What else is there?"
"Oh, bless your heart, you have not arrived at the end of what
I expect of you. Is it not necessary that on Sundays you take me
for a walk on the Boulevards?—you know that is the only day I
have for recreation."
"To be sure. In summer we will go into the country."
'"No, I detest the country. I like no place so well as Paris.
Nevertheless, I went, once upon a time, out of good nature, with
a young friend of mine, who was my companion in prison, to visit
Meudon and Saint-Germain. My friend was a very pleasant,
good girl, whom they called the Squaller, because she was always
singing."
"And what has become of her?"
"I do not know. She spent all the money she brought from
prison, without appearing to be much amused ; she was always
sad, but sympathizing and charitable. When we used to go out
together, 1 had not then any work; but when I succeeded in
obtaining some, I did not stir from home. I gave her my address,


THE ARREST.
293
"Why, to be sure I do. When I learnt that the next room was
Set, I asked to whom!"
"Yes, when people meet us together, no doubt, as you say,
they will remark: 'What a lucky fellow that Rudolf is!' and will
envy me. They will think me perfectly happy!"
"Of course they will; and so much the better!"
'' And if I should not be so happy as I seem ?''
"What does that matter, provided they believe it; men require
nothing further than mere outward show."
"But your reputation?"
Rigolette burst into an immoderate fit of laughter.
"The reputation of a grisette! Would any one believe in such
a phenomenon?" answered she. "If I had father or mother,
brother or sister, for them I should be careful of what people
would say; but I am alone in the world, and it's my own look
out. As long as I am satisfied with myself, I don't care a snap
for others !''
"But still I should be very uncomfortable."
"What for?"
"In being thought happy in having you for a companion, while,
on the contrary, I love you. It would be something like taking
dinner with Papa Cr6tu—eating dry bread, whilst a cookery book
was being read to me."
"Nonsense, nonsense! You will be very happy to live after
my fashion. I shall prove so mild, grateful, and unwearying, that
you will say: 'After all, it is as well to pass my Sunday with her
as with any one else.' And then, you, who talk of illness, if ever
you should be laid up, I'll be a real Sister of Charity; only ask
the Morels what sort of a nurse I am! So, you see, you are not
aware of all your happiness; it is as good as a lucky hit in the
lottery to have me for a neighbor."
"That is true, I have always been lucky ; but, speaking of M.
Germain, where is he now?" "In Paris, I believe."
"Then you never see him now?" "Since he left this house,
he has not been to see me."
"But where does he live, and what is he doing?"
"Why do you ask those questions, neighbor ? *'- -" Because I
feel jealous of him," said Rudolf, smiling, "and I would"
"Jealous!" exclaimed Rigolette, laughing. "There is no
reason for that, poor fellow!''
"Seriously, then, I have the greatest interest in knowing the
address of M. Germain; you know where he lives, and I may,
without boasting, add, that I am incapable of abusing the secret I
ask of you; it will be for his interest also."
"Seriously, neighbor, I believe you wish every good to M. Ger-
main, but he made me promise not to give his address to any one;
therefore, be assured, that as I do not give it to you, it is because
I cannot. You ought not to be angry with me ; if you had
entrusted a secret to me, ya wouM be pleased to find I acted at


THE ARREST.
1 am now doing. Once for all, do not speak to me any more on
that subject; I have made a promise, I intend to keep it, and,
whatever you may say to me, I shall still answer you in the same
way."
In spite of her giddiness and frivolity, the girl pronounced these
last words so decisively, that Rudolf felt, to his great regret, that
he would never obtain from her the desired information about
Germain; and he felt a repugnance to employ artifice in surpris-
ing her confidence. He paused a moment, and then resumed:
*' Do not let us speak of it again, neighbor. Upon my soul, you
keep so well the secrets of others, that I am no longer surprised at
your keeping your own."
"Secrets! I have secrets! I wish I had some; it must be so
very amusing."
"Do you mean to say that you have not a little secret of the
heart? frankly, have you never had—a lover?"
"Lovers! Now, is that very likely? Have I time for that?"
'' But what has time to do with it?"
"Everything. First of all, I should be as jealous as a tigerv
and I should be constantly worrying myself with one idea or the
other. Then, again, do I earn money enough to enable me to lose
two or three hours a day in grief and tears ?—and if he deceived
me, what weeping, what sorrow! All that would throw me pretty
well behindhand, you may guess."
''* But all lovers are not unfaithful, and do not cause »heir mis-
tresses to weep."
"That would be still worse. If he were very good and lov-
ing, could I live a moment away from him? And then, as most
likely he would be obliged to stay all day, either at the desk,
manufactory, or shop, I should be like a poor restless spirit during
his absence. I should invent a thousand chimeras; imagine that
others loved him, and that he was with them. Heaven only knows
what I might be tempted to do in my despair! Certain it is, that
my work would be neglected, and what would become of me
then? I can manage, quiet as I am, to live by working twelve or
fourteen hours a day; but, were I to lose two or three days in the
week by tormenting myself, how could I make up the lost time?
Impossible! I must then take a situation. Oh, no, I love my
liberty too well." "Your liberty?"
"Yes; I could enter as forewoman to the person who now em-
ploys me; I should receive four hundred francs a year with board
and lodging."
"And you will not accept that?"
"No, indeed. I should be dependent on others; instead of
which, however humble my home may be, it is my own. I owe
no one anything; I have courage, health and gaiety ; with an
agreeable neighbor like yourself, what do I want more?"
"Then you have never thought of marrying?"
"I marry! I could only expect to meet with a husband aspow


THE ARREST.
20?
as myself; and look at the unhappy Morels—see where it ends!
When you have but yourself to look to, you can always manage
somehow."
"Then you never build castles in the air—never dream?''
"Yes, I dream of my chimney-ornaments; besides them, what
can I desire?"
"But suppose, now, some relation, of whom you have never
heard, should die and leave you a fortune—say twelve hundred
francs a year—to you, who live upon five hundred francs"
"It might prove a good thing—perhaps an evil." "An
evil?"
"I am very happy as I am; I can enjoy the life I now lead,
but I do not know how I should pass my time if I were rich. After
a hard day's work, I go to bed, my lamp extinguished, and, by a
few light embers that remain in my stove, I see my room neat—
curtains, drawers, chairs, birds, watch, and my table spread
with goods entrusted to me—and then I say to myself, 'All
this I owe to myself.' Truly, neighbor, these thoughts cradle
me softly, and sometimes I go to sleep with pride, always with
content. But here we are at the Temple! You must confess,
now, that it is a very superb show!"
Although Rudolph did not participate in the deep veneration
expressed by Rigolette at the sight of the Temple-, he was
nevertheless struck by the singular appearance of this enormous
bazar, with its numerous divisions and passages.
One could scarcely believe, before visiting the bazaar, how lit-
tle time and money were requisite to fill a cart with all that is
necessary to the complete fitting out of two or three families who
wanted everything.
Rudolf was struck by the manner, at once eager, obliging, and
merry, with which the various dealers, standing outside their shops,
solicited the custom of the passers-by ; these manners, stamped
with a sort of respectful familiarity, seemed to belong to another
age. Scarcely had her companion appeared in the long passage
occupied by those who sold bedding, than they were surrounded
by the most seductive offers.
'' Sir, come in and see my mattresses ; they are better than
new! I will unsew a corner, that you may examine the stuffing;
you will think it lambs'-wool, it is so white and soft!"
"My pretty little lady, I have sheets of fine holland, finer than
at first, for their stiffness has been taken out of them; they are as
soft as a glove, strong as steel!"
"Come, my elegant new-married couple, buy of me a counter-
pane. See how soft, warm, and light they are—you would imagine
them of eider-down; nearly new—have not been used twenty
times. Look, my little lady; decide for your husband ; give me
your custom—I will furnish very cheaply for you—you will be sat-
isfied—you will come again to Mother Bouvard. You will find all
you want in my shop; yesterday I made beautiful purchases—you


300 THE ARREST.
f
"You are always right, husband. Wait for me, I shall not be
long; I know two shopkeepers with whom 1 always deal, and I
shall find there all that I want." The girl went out, saying,
"Mother Bouvard, I trust my husband to you ; do not make love
to him." And, laughing, she hastily disappeared.
Indeed, sir," said Mother Bouvard to Rudolf, after the
departure of the other, "you must allow that you possess a famous
little manager. She understands well how to buy. So pretty!
Red and white, with beautiful large black eyes, and hair to
match!" "Is she not charming? Am I not a happy husband,
Mother Bouvard?"
"As happy a husband as she is a wife, I am quite sure."
'' You are not mistaken there; but tell me, how much do I owe
you?"
'' Your little lady would not go beyond three hundred and
thirty francs for all. As there is a heaven above, I only clear fif-
teen francs, for I did not buy them so cheaply as I might; I had
not the heart to bate them down, the people who sold them
appeared so very unhappy!"
"Indeed! were they not the same persons of whom you bought
the little secretary?"
"Yes, sir; and it breaks my heart only to think of it. There
came here the day before yesterday, a lady, still young and
beautiful, but so pale and thin, that it gave you pain to see her.
Although she was neat and clean, her old threadbare, black
worsted shawl, her black stuff gown, also much worn and frayed,
her straw bonnet in the month of January, for she was in mourn-
ing, proclaimed what is termed a shabby gen/eel appearance, but I
am sure she was of real quality. At length she inquired, with a
blush, if I would purchase two beds complete, and an old secre-
tary. I replied, that as I sold I must buy, and that, if they suited
me, I would have them. She then begged me to go with her, not
far from here, on the other side of the street, to a house on the
quay of the Canal Saint Martin. I left my shop in charge of my
niece, and followed the lady. We came to a shabby-looking
house, quite at the bottom of a court; we went up to the fourth
story, the lady knocked, and a young girl of fourteen opened the
door; she was also in mourning, and equally pale and thin, but
in spite of this, beautiful as the day—so beautiful, that I was
enraptured!"
"Well, and this young girl!"
'' Was the daughter of the lady in mourning. Although so cold,
she had on nothing more than a black cotton dress with white
spots, and a little black shawl quite worn out." "And their
lodging was wretched?"
"Imagine, sir, two little rooms, very clean, but almost empty,
and so cold that I was nearly frozen; a fireplace where you could
not perceive the least appearance of ashes; there had not been- a
Sre for a long time. The whole of the furniture consisted of two


302
THE ARREST.
to them. They always appeared calm ; but I am sure they were
in a state of despair.' 'And where are they going to lodge at this
late hour?' I asked him. * In truth, I know nothing,' answered
he: 'it is, however, quite certain they will not return here.'"
The hopes that Rudolf had entertained for a moment vanished.
How could he discover these two unhappy females, having only as
a clue the name of the young girl, Claire, and the fragment of a
letter, of which we have spoken, at the bottom of which were the
words: Write to Madame de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy."
The only chance, and that was a very faint one, of tracing these
unfortunates, rested in Madame de Lucenay, who fortunately
was on intimate terms with Lady d'Harville.
"Here, madame, pay yourself," said Rudolf to the shopkeeper,
giving her a note for five hundred francs. "Where can I engage
a cart to carry the things ?''
"If it be not very far, a large hand-cart will be sufficient;
Father Jerome has one, quite close by; I always employ him.
What is your address?"
*' No. 17, Rue du Temple."
*' Rue du Temple, No. 17. Yes, yes, I know the house."
*' You have been there?"
*'Many times. First, I bought some clothes of a pawnbroker
who lived there. It is true, she did not cany on a large business,
but that was no affair of mine; she sold, I bought, and we were
quits. Another time, not six months ago, I went again for the
furniture of a young man who lived on the fourth story, and was
going to remove."
'* M. Francois Germain, perhaps?" said Rudolf.
"The same. Do you know him?"
"Very well. Unhappily, he has not left in the Rue du Temple
his present address, and I do not know where to find him."
"If that be all, I can remove the_difficulty."
"You know where he lives?"
"Not exactly; but I know where you will be sure to meet with
him. At a notary's where he is employed, in the Rue du
Sentier."
"M. Jacques Ferrand !" aKclaimed Rudolf.
"The same; a worthy man; he has a crucifix and a bit of the
true cross in his office, which reminds one of a sacristy."
"But how do you know that M. Germain is with the notary?"
"Why, in this way. The young man came to me and proposed
that I should buy all his furniture; though not in my way of
business, I agreed, and afterwards retailed them here; for as it
suited the young man, I did not like to refuse. Well, then, I
bought him clean out, and gave him a good price; he was,
doubtless, satisfied with me, for at the end of a fortnight he came
to buy a bedstead and bedding. He brought with him a truck
and a porter; they packed up all; but, just as he was about to
pay, he found he had forgotten hisflurse. He appeared such an


304
THE ARREST.
head, even further on than usual, for the questionable castor,
pushed down, no doubt, by violence, if we may judge by a trans-
verse gap, covered Pipelet's eyes, who was on his back on the
floor, at the foot of his bed.
The fainting was over, and Alfred was beginning to make some
slight movements with his hands, as though he wished to repulse
some one or some thing; and then he tried to remove his trouble-
some visor.
"He kicks! that is a good sign; he recovers!" cried the
portress—and, stooping down, she bawled in his ears: "What is
the matter with my Alfred? It is his 'Stasie who is here. How
are you now? They are going to bring you some absinthe ; that
will put you to rights." Then, assuming a caressing tone of
voice, she added: "Have they abused you, killed you, my dear
old darling—eh?"
Alfred sighed deeply, and with a groan uttered a fatal word:
*' Cabrion!" His trembling hands seemed as though desirous of
repulsing a frightful vision.
"Cabrion! that devil of a painter again!" exclaimed Mme.
Pipelet.
"Cabrion!" repeated Pipelet, lifting with difficulty his hat from
his eyes, which he rolled about with a frightened air.
Rigolette entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe.
"Thank you, mademoiselle : you are very kind," said the old
woman. Then she added: *' Here, darling, pop it down ; it will
bring you to yourself."
And Anastasie, presenting the phial quickly to Pipelet's lips, in
sisted on his swallowing the contents. Alfred in vain struggled
courageously : his wife, profiting by the weakness of her victim,
held his head with a firm grasp in one hand, and with the other
introduced the neck of the phial between his teeth, and forced
him to drink the absinthe ; after which she cried triumphantly:
*' Well done! you are again on your pins, my cherished one!"
Alfred, (after having wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand) opened his eyes, stood up, and asked, ih a trembling voice:
"Have you seen Cabrion?"
"Has he dared "cried the portress.
Pipelet, as dumb as the statue of the Commander in Don Gio-
vanni, bowed his head twice in the affirmative.
"M. Cabrion, has he been here? " asked Rigolette, restraining
with difficulty an inclination to laugh.
"That monster! has he been let loose upon Alfred?" cried
Mme. Pipelet. "Oh, if I had been here with my broom, he
should have eaten it up, to the very handle! But speak, Alfred;
relate to us this horrible affair."
Pipelet made a sign with his hand that he was about to speak,
and they listened to the man of the immense hat in religious
silence. He expressed himself in these terms, with a voice deeply
agitated: "My wife had just left me to complete the orders givto


THE ARREST.
30S
by you, sir (bowing to Rudolf), to call at the mayor's, the church(
and the cook-shop. I was sitting quietly before the table, think-
ing of an alteration that I wished to make in this boot confided to
me, when I heard a noise, a rustling at the window of my lodge—
was it a presentiment—a warning from above? My heart beat; I
raised my head, and through the window I saw—saw"
"Cabrion !" cried Anastasie, clasping her hands.
"Cabrion !" replied Pipelet, in a hollow tone. '' His hideous
face was there, close to the window, looking at me with his cat's
eyes—what do I say ?—tiger's eyes !—just as in my dream. I
tried to speak, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth; I'
would have risen—1 was glued to my seat; the boot fell from my
hands, and, as in every critical and important event of my life, I
remained completely motionless. Then the key turned in the
lock ; the door opened, and Cabrion entered!"
'' I'm goose-flesh all over ?" groaned Anastasie.
"He came quite close to me; I could no longer endure his re*
volting aspect; it was too much, I could hold out no longer. I
shut my eyes, and I then felt that he dared to put his hands on
my hat, took it slowly off my head, and left it naked! I was
seized with giddiness—my breathing was suspended—a ringing
came in my ears—1 was more than ever glued to my seat—I shut
my eyes more firmly. Then Cabrion stooped, took my bald head
between his hands, cold as death, and upon my forehead, bathed
in sweat, imprinted a lascivious kiss!"
Anastasie lifted her arms toward heaven.
"My most inveterate enemy kissed my forehead! A mon-
strosity so unparalleled overcame and paralyzed me. Cabrion
profited by my stupor to replace my hat on my head: then, with
a blow on the crown, bonneted me as you saw. The last outrage
quite overpowered me—the measure was full; everything about
me turned round, and I fainted at the moment when I saw him,
from under the rim of my hat, leave the room as quietly and
slowly as he had entered."
Then, as though this recital had exhausted his strength, Pipelet
lrell back on his chair, raising his hands to heaven in the attitude
of mute imprecation. Rigolette left the room suddenly ; her de-
sire to laugh almost stifled her, and she could no longer restrain
herself. Rudolf himself had with difficulty preserved his grav-
ity-
Suddenly, a confused murmur, such as announces the assem-
bling of a multitude, was heard in the street; a tumult arose at
the end of the passage, and then musket-butts sounded on the
door-step.
"Good heaven !" cried Rigolette, running back, pale and trem-
bling; "here are a commissary of p olice and the guard!"
"Divine justice watches over me !" said Pipelet, in a burst of
religious gratitude; "they come to arrest Cabrion! Unhappily,
fc is too late 1"


THE ARREST.
A commissary of police, known by a scarf worn under hii
black coat, entered the lodge. His countenance was grave, dig-
nified and severe.
"M. le Commissaire, you are too late; the malefactor has
fled!" said Pipelet, sadly ; "but I can give you his description.
Villanous smile, impudent manners"
"Of whom do you speak?" asked the officer.
"Of Cabrion, M. le Commissaire, and if you make all hasti
Shere may be yet time to get hold of him," answered Pipelet.
"I do not know this Cabrion," said the officer, impatiently
"Does Jerome Morel, working-lapidary, live in this house?''
"Yes, sir," said Mme. Pipelet, standing at the salute.
"Conduct me to his apartment."
"Morel, the lapidary !" resumed the portress, quite surprised;
"he is as gentle as a lamb, and incapable of"
"Does Jerome Morel live here or not?"
"He does live here, sir, with his family, in the attic."
"Show me, then, to this garret."
Then, addressing a man who accompanied him, the magistrate
said: "Let the two municipal guards wait below, and not leave
the alley. Send Justin for a coach." The man left to execute
these orders.
"Now," said the magistrate, addressing Pipelet, "conduct me
to Morel."
"If it be all the same to you, sir, I will go instead of Alfred,
who is indisposed from the prosecution of Cabrion ; who, just as
cabbage does, troubles his gizzard."
*' You or your husband, it matters little which—go on." Pre-
ceded by Mme. Pipelet, he began to ascend the stairs ; but he
soon stopped, perceiving that he was followed.
"Who are you, and what do you want? " demanded he.
"They are the two fourth-floors," said Mme. Pipelet.
"Pardon me, sir, I did not know that you belonged to the
house," said he, to Rudolf; who, auguring well from the polite-
ness of the magistrate, said, ** You will find a family in great dis-
tress, sir. I do not know what new misfortune menaces the un-
happy artisan, but he has been cruelly tried last night; one of his
children, worn out by illness, is dead beneath his eyes—dead
from cold and misery."
"It is the truth," said Mme. Pipelet. *' If it had not been for
the gentleman who now speaks to you, and who is a king of lodg-
ers, for he has saved, by his goodness, poor Morel from prison,
the whole family of the lapidary must have died from hunger."
The commissary looked at Rudolf with as much interest as sur-
prise.
"Nothing is more simple, sir," said the latter. "A person who
is very charitable, knowing that Morel, to whose worth I pledge
my honor, was in a position as deplorable as it was unmerited,
instructed me to pay a bill of exchange, for which the bailiffs


THE ARREST. 307
were about to drag to prison this poor man, the sole support of a
large family."
Struck in his turn by the noble appearance of Rudolf, and the
dignity of his manner, the magistrate replied, " I do not doubt
the probity of Morel; I only regret being compelled to fulfil a
painful duty before you, sir, who have showed so lively an interest
in this family."
"What can you mean, sir?"
"After the services you have rendered the Morels, and from
your language, I know that you are a worthy man. Having,
besides, no reason to conceal the object of the mandate I am
about to execute, I will acknowledge that I am about to arrest
Louise Morel, the lapidary's daughter."
The rouleau of gold that she had offered to the bailiffs came to
the mind of Rudolf.
"Of what is she accused?" "She is accused of infanticide."
"She, she! Oh, her poor father!"
*' From what you have told me, sir, I conceive that, under the
circumstances in which the artisan is placed, this new blow will
be terrible for him. Unfortunately, I must obey my orders."
"But it is only a simple accusation!" cried Rudolf. "The
proofs are wanting, without doubt?"
"I cannot explain myself farther on this subject. The author-
ities have been informed of this crime, or rather, the presumption,
by the declarations of a man in every way respectable—the mas-
ter of Louise Morel."
"Jacques Ferrand, the notary !" said Rudolf indignantly.
"Yes, sir. But why this vivacity?"
"M. Jacques Ferrand is a scoundrel, sir!"
"I see with pain that you do not know of whom you speak.
M. Jacques Ferrand is the most honorable man in the world ; of
most exemplary piety, and known probity."
"I repeat to you, sir, that the notary is a scoundrel. He wished
to imprison Morel, because his daughter repulsed his infamous
propositions. If Louise is only accused on the testimony of such
a man—acknowledge, sir, that it merits but little belief."
"It does not belong to me, sir, and it does not become me, to
discuss the value of the testimony of M. Ferrand," said the
officer, coldly. "Justice has taken cognizance of the affair; the
tribunals will decide. As for me, I have orders to arrest Louise
Morel, and I shall do it."
*' You are right, i regret that indignation, perhaps excusable,
made me forget that this is neither the time nor place for such a
discussion. One word alone: the body of the child he has lost
is in the garret. I have offered my room to this family, to
spare them the sad sight of the corpse ; hence it is, probably,
in my chamber you will find the artisan and his daughter. I
conjure you, sir, in the name of humanity, do not arrest Louise
suddenly in the midst of these misfortunes. Morel has gone


THE ARREST.
/ittle Adile; but to be separated from you Louise, never,
never I"
Pudolf felt himself overcome; he had not strength to utter a
wd d.
The officer said sternly, to Louise, "Are you Louise Morel?"
"Yes, sir! " answered the young girl, amazed. Rudolf had
opened Rigolette's room door.
"You are Jerome Morel, her father ?'* added the magistrate ad.
dressing the artisan.
"Yes—sir! but"
"Enter there with your-daughter." And the magistrate
pointed to the chamber of Rigolette, where Rudolf already was.
Reassured by his presence, the artisan and Louise, astonished
and troubled, obeyed ; the officer shut the door, and said to Morel,
with emotion, " I know your honesty and misfortunes; it is, then,
with regret I inform you that, in the name of the law, I come to
arrest your daughter."
"All is discovered—I am lost!" cried Louise, throwing herself
in the arms of her father.
"What do you say? what do you say?" said Morel, stupefied.
"Are you mad ? why lost? arrest you! why arrest you ? who will
arrest you?"
"I—in the name the law !" and the officer showed his
scarf.
"Oh, unfortunate! unfortunate that I am!" cried Louise,
falling on her knees.
"How, in the name of the law?" said the artisan, whose mind
began to wander: "why arrest my daughter in the name of the
law? I answer for Louise, I—she is my daughter, my worthy
of daughter—is it not true, Louise? How arrest you, when our
guardian angel restores you to us, to console us for the death of my
little Adele? Come now ! it cannot be! And besides, sir, speaking
with respect, only criminals are arrested, do you understand—
and Louise, my daughter, is not a criminal. Very sure, do you
see, my child, this gentleman is mistaken. My name is Morel;
there are more Morels than one. You are Louise—but there are
more of the same name. That's it, you see, sir ; there is a mis-
take !''
"Unfortunately, there is no mistake! Louise Morel, say fare-
well to your father."
"You carry away my daughter, will you !" cried the work-
man, furious from grief, and advancing toward the magistrate with
a threatening air.
Rudolf seized him by the arm, and said, " Calm yourself, and
hope; your daughter shall be returned to you—her innocence
shall be proved; she is doubtless not culpable."
Of what? she can be culpable of nothing. 1 would place
my hand in the fire that"—then recollecting the gold that
Louise had brought to pay the note, Morel cried. "But that


THE ARREST.
money, that money, Louise?" and he cast on his daughter a tet-
rikle look.
Louise understood it. "I steal!" cried she, and the cheeks
colored with generous indignation. Her tone of voice, her ges-
ture, satisfied her father.
*'I knew it!" he cried. "Do you see, sir—she denies it—and
never in her life has she lied, I swear to you. Ask every one who
knows her, and they will say the same. She lie? she is too proud
for that. Besides, the bill was paid by our benefactor. She don't
want gold; she was going to return it to the person who lent it,
wasn't you, Louise?"
"Your daughter is not accused of theft," said the magistrate.
"But of what is she accused, then? I, her father, swear that,
whatever she is accused of, she is innocent; and all my life I have
never lied."
"What good will it do to know what she is accused of?" said
Rudolf to him; "her innocence shall be proven—the person who
interests herself so much in you will protect your daughter.
Come, come. This time, again, Providence will not fail you.
Embrace your daughter.—you will soon see her again."
"M. le Commissaire," cried Morel, without listening to Rudolf,
"a daughter is not taken away from a father without at least tell-
ing him of what she is accused! I wish to know all! Louise, will
you speak?"
"Your daughter is accused—of infanticide," said the magis-
trate.
"I—I—do not comprehend—I—you"
"Your daughter is accused of having killed her child," said
the officer, much overcome at this scene.
"But it is not yet proved that she has committed this crime."
"Oh, no, it is not so, sir, it is not so," cried Louise, with force,
and raising herself up: "I swear to you it was dead. It
breathed no more; it was frozen; I lost all consciousness: that
is my crime. But kill my child, oh, never!"
"Your child, wretch!" cried Morel, raising his hands to
Louise, as if he wished to annihilate her with this gesture and
terrible imprecation.
"Pardon, father, pardon !" cried she.
After a moment of frightful silence, Morel went on with a
calmness still more frightful.
"Sir, take away this creature: she is not my child."
He wished to get out; Louise threw herself at his knees, which
she embraced with both arms, and, with face upward, frantic
and supplicating, she cried, "Father, listen to me, only listen
to me."
'Officer, take her away; I abandon her to you," said the
artisan, making every effort to disengage himself from the em-
braces of Louise.


THE ARREST.
"Listen to her," said Rudolf, stopping him; "do not be with-
out pity."
"She, she!" repeated Morel, burying his face in his hands,
"she dishonored! Oh! infamous, infamous!"
"Was she dishonored to save you ?" whispered Rudolf.
These works made a startling impression on Morel; he
looked at his weeping child, still kneeling at his feet, then, in-
terrogating her with a look impossible to describe, he cried in r.
hollow voice, his teeth grinding with rage, "The notary!''
An answer came to the lips of Louise. She was about to speak.-
but, on reflection, she stopped, bent her head, and remained
silent.
"But no—he wished to imprison me this morning," continued
Morel; "it is not he? oh so much the better! so much the better.
She has no excuse for her fault; I can curse her without re-
morse."
"No, no ! do not curse me, my father; to you I will tell all; to
you alone; and you will see—you will see if I do not deserve
your pardon.''
"Listen to her for the sake of pity," said Rudolf.
"What can she tell me ? her infamy? it will soon be public;
I will wait."
'' Sir!" cried Louise to the magistrate, '' in mercy let me
say a few words to my father before leaving him, perhaps for
ever. And before you also, our saviour, I will speak—but only
before you and my father."
"I consent," said the magistrate.
"Will you, then, be insensible? will you refuse this last con-
solation to your child?" asked Rudolf. *' If you think you
owe me some return for the favors I have directed toward you,
grant the prayer of your daughter."
After a moment of mournful silence, Morel answered, *' Let
us go."
"But where shall we go?" asked Rudolf; *' your family is in
the next room."
"Where shall we go?'' cried the artisan, with bitter irony,
"where shall we go? up there—up there, in the garret, along-
side of the body of my child. The place is well chosen for
this confession—is it not? Come—we will see if Louise will dare
to lie in the sight of her sister. Come!" Morel went out
precipitately, with a wild stare, without looking at Louise.
"Sir," whispered the officer to Rudolf, "do not prolong this
interview. You said truly, his reason will not sustain it ; just now
his look was that of a madman."
"Alas! sir, I fear, like you, a terrible and new misfortune: I
will shorten as much as possible the touching adieu," said Rudolf,
rejoining the artisan and ,uu du'Jghier.


312 THE INFAN71CWES CONFESSION.
CHAPTER XLI.
THE INFANTICIDE'S CONFESSION.
In the garret reposed, on the couch of the idiot, the corpse of
the little child. An old piece of sheet covered it. Rudolf, stand-
ing with his back to the wall, was painfully affected. Morel,
seated on his work-bench, his head down, hands hanging; his
looks, fixed, wild, were constantly bent on the bed where reposed
the remains of the little Adele.
At this sight, the anger, the indignation of the artisan became
weaker, and changed into a sadness of inexpressible bitterness;
his energy abandoned him; he sunk under this new blow. Louise,
of a mortal paleness, felt her strength fail her. The revelation
that she was about to make frightened her. Yet she took trem-
blingly the hand of her father—that poor, thin hand, deformed by
excess of labor.
He did not withdraw it. Then his daughter, bursting into tears,
covered it with kisses, and soon felt it press lightly against her
lips. The anger of Morel had ceased ; his tears, for a long time
retained, flowed at last. "My father, if you knew—if you knew
how much I am to be pitied."
"Oh! stop; you see, this will be the grief of all my life, Louise
—of all my life," answered the artisan, weeping. "You in prison
—in the dock—you, so proud—when you had the right to be so.
No," continued he, in a new access of desperate grief, "no, I
should prefer to seeing you under the winding-sheet, alongside
your poor little sister."
"And I, also, wish it were so," answered Louise.
"Hush, unfortunate child, you give me pain. I was wrong to
say that; I went too far. Come, speak, but tell the truth. How-
ever frightful it may be, tell me all. If I hear it from you, it will
appear less cruel to me. Speak; alas! our moments are counted;
you are waited for. Oh! the sad, sad parting."
"My father; I will tell you all," said Louise, resolutely ; "but
promise me, and you, our benefactor, promise also, not to repeat
this to any one. If he knew that I had spoken, do you see—oh!
you would be lost—lost like me ; for you do not know the power
and ferocity of this man, my master."
"The notary?"
*' Yes," said Louise, in a low tone, and looking around her, as
if she were afraid of being overheard.
"Compose yourself," answered Rudolf. "This man is cruel
and powerful, but no matter; we will face him. Besides, if I


3l4 THE INFANTICIDE'S CONFESSION.
ber. In the night, I sometimes thought I heard extraordinary
noises in the room under mine, which no one occupied, and
where M. Germain alone often came to work during the day.
Two of the windows of this story weie walled up, and one of
the doors, very thick, was strengthened with bars of iron. The
housekeeper told me afterward that M. Ferrand kept his strong
box there.
"One night I had set up very late to finish some mending, which
was very urgent; I was about to go to bed, when I heard some
one walking very softly in the corridor at the end of which w as
my chamber: they stopped at my door; at first I thought it was
the housekeeper, but as she did not come in, it made me afraid;
I dared not stir; I listened, no one stirred; I was, however, sure
there was some one behind the door; I asked twice who was there
—no one answered. More and more alarmed, 1 pushed my chest
of drawers against the door, which had neither lock nor bolt. I
still listened—nothing stirred; at the end of half-an-hour, which
appeared very long, 1 threw myself on my bed ; the night passed
tranquilly. The next morning I asked the housekeeper for per-
mission to put a bolt on my door, as there was no lock, relating to
her my fears of the last night; she answered that I had dreamed,
that I must speak to M. Ferrand about it; at my demand he
shrugged his shoulders, and told me I was a fool. 1 did not dare
to say anything more.
"Some time after this happened the affair of the diamond. My
father, almost desperate, knew not what to do. I related his
trouble to Mme. Seraphin; she answered, M. Ferrand is so char-
itable that perhaps he will do something for your father.' The
same evening I waited on table; M. Ferrand said to me, bluntly,
* Your father has need of thirteen hundred francs ; go this night
and tell him to come to my office to-morrow ; he shall have the
money. He is an honest man, and deserves that one should inter-
est himself for him.' At this act of kindness I burst into tears; I
did not know how to thank my master. He said to me, in his
ordinary rough manner, ' It is well, it is well; what I have done
is very simple.' In the evening I came to tell the good news to
my father, and the next day"
"I had the money, against a bill at three months' date, accepted
in blank by me," said Morel. '' I did like Louise; I wept with
gratitude: I called him my benefactor. Oh! he must needs
have been wicked indeed to destroy the gratitude and veneration
I vowed to him."
"This precaution to make you sign a bill in blank, at such a
date that you could not pay it, did not awaken your suspicions?"
asked Rudolf.
"No, sir, I thought that the notary only took it for security;
besides, he told me I need not think of paying it under two years;
every three months it should be renewed for the sake of being
regular; yet, at the end of the first term, it was presented, and


THE INFANTICIDE'S CONFESSION'. 31?
"Continue, my child," said he; "conceal nothing; this is
more important than you think."
"I began, then, to feel some security," said Louise, "when one
night Ferrand and his housekeeper both went out, each their own
way. They did not dine at home; I remained alone. As usual,
they left me some bread and water, and wine. My work finished,
I dined; and then, fearing to remain alone in the apartments, I
went up to my own room, after having lighted M. Ferrand's lamp.
When he went out at night no one waited for him. I began tc
sew, and, what was very unusual, by degrees sleep overpowered
me. Oh, father," cried Louse, "you will not believe me—you
will accuse me of falsehood; and yet, on the corpse of my little
sister, I swear I tell you the truth."
"Explain yourself," said Rudolf.
"Alas! sir, for seven months I sought in vain to explain to my-
self this frightful night. I have almost lost my reason in trying to
explore this mystery."
"Oh !" cried the artisan, "what is she going to say?"
"Contrary to my custom, I fell asleep on my chair," continued
Louise. "That is the last thing I recollect. Before—before—oh,
father, pardon! I swear to you I am not culpable."
"I believe you, I believe you ; but speak!"
"I do not know how long I slept; when I awoke I was still in
my chamber, but" * * * * *
"Oh! the wretch, the wretch," cried Rudolf. "Do you know,
Morel, what he gave her to drink?" The artisan looked at
Rudolf, but made no reply. "The housekeeper, his accomplice,
had put in the drink of Louise a soporific—opium, without doubt;
the strength, the senses of your child have been paralyzed for
some hours; when she awoke from this lethargic sleep, the crime
was committed."
"Ah! now," cried Louise, "my misfortune is explained; you
see, father, I am less guilty than I appear to be. Father, father!
answer me!"
The look of the artisan was of frightful vagueness.
Such horrible perversity could not be understood by so honest
and simple-hearted a man. He could hardly comprehend the
dreadful revelation. And, besides, it must be said, that for some'
moments his reason had deserted him ; at each moment his ideas
became more obscure ; then he fell into the vacuity of thought
which is to the mind what night is to the sight; formidable symp-
toms of mental alienation. Yet Morel answered, in a quick, dull,
and a mournful tone, " Oh! yes, it is very wicked, very wicked,
wicked."
And he fell back into his apathy. Rudolf looked at him with
anxiety; he thought that the intensity of indignation began to be
exhausted with him ; the same as after violent griefs tears are often
wanting. Wishing to terminate as soon as possible this sad con-
versation, Rudolf said to Louise -


3i8
THE CRIME,
"Courage, my child; finish unveiling this tissue of horrors."
"Alas! what you have heard is nothing as yet."
"Ah! all precautions were taken to conceal his enormity!"
said Rudolf.
"Yes, sir, and 1 was ruined. To all that he said to me I could
find no answer. Ignorant what drink I had taken, I could not
explain my long sleep. Appearances were against me. If I com-
plained, every one would condemn me ; it must be so, for to me
all was an impenetrable mystery."
CHAPTER XLII.
THE CRIME.
Rudolf remained confounded at the detestable villainy of Fer-
rand. "Then," said he to Louise, "you did not dare to com-
plain to your father of the odious conduct of the notary?"
'' No, sir; I feared he would have thought me the accomplice
instead of the victim ; and besides, I feared that, in his anger, my
father would forget that his liberty, the existence of his family,
depended entirely upon my master."
"And was his conduct less brutal toward you afterwards?"
"No, sir. To drive away suspicion, when by chance he had
the cure and his vicar to dinner, my master addressed me before
them with severe reproaches ; he prayed the cure to admonish me;
he said that sooner or later I should be lost; that my manners
were too free with his clerks; that I was idle ; that he kept me
out of charity for my father, an honest man with a family, whom
he had served. All this was false. I never saw the clerks; they
were in a separate building from us."
"And when you found yourself alone with M. Ferrand, how
did he explain his conduct toward you before the cure?"
*' He assured me that he joked. But the cure ' took these accu-
sations for serious; he told me severely that one must be doubly
vicious to act thus in a holy house, where I had religious examples
continually under my eyes. To that I did not know what to
answer; I held down my head, blushing. My silence, my confu-
sion, turned still more against me ; my life was such a burden that
several times I was on the point of destroying myself; but I
thought of my father, my mother, my brothers and sisters, whom
I helped to support. I resigned myself; in the midst of my deg-
radation I found a consolation—at least my father was saved from
prison. A new misfortune overwhelmed me—I was enceinie; I
saw myself altogether lost. I do not know why, I had a presenti-
ment that M. Ferrand, in learning an event which should have
rendered him less cruel toward me, would increase his bad treat-
ment; I was, however, far from supposing what would happen."


THE CRIME.
321
your trunk ready?' said he. 'Have mercy!' I cried, falling at
his feet. 'Do not send me away in the state in which I am ; whai
will become of me? I can find no other place.' * So much the
better; God will thus punish your conduct and your lies.' 'You
dare to say I lie!' cried I indignantly; 'you dare to say you
are not the cause of my ruin?' 'Leave my house at once, you
infamous creature, since you persist in yoor infamous calumnies I'
cried he, in a terrible voice. 'And to punish you, to-morrow I
will imprison your father.' 'Well—no, no!' said I, aghast; 'I
will accuse you no longer sir—I promise it; but do not drive me
away—have pity on my father; the little that I earn here supports
my family. Keep me here—I will say nothing—I will conceal
everything as long as I can, and then—\ou can send me away.'
"After renewed supplications, M. Ferrand consented to my
prayers; I regarded it as a great favor, so frightful was my con-
dition. Yet, for the five months which followed this cruel scene,
I was very unhappy, very cruelly treated. Sometimes only M.
Germain, whom I saw but seldom, interrogated me with kindness
on the subject of my sorrows; but shame forbade my confession."
"Is it not about this time that he came to live here?"
"Yes, sir. He wished for a room near the Temple or the
Arsenal; there was one to be let here; it suited him."
"And you never thought of confiding your sorrows to M. Ger-
main?" asked Rudolf.
"No, sir; he was also a dupe of M. Ferrand's; he said he was
hard and exacting, but he thought him the most honest man in the
world. I passed these five months in tears, in continual agony.
With care, I had concealed my situation from all eyes, but I could
hope to do so no longer. The future was for me most dreadful;
M. Ferrand had declared he would not keep me any longer with
him. I was thus about to be deprived of the small resource that
aided our family to live. Cursed, driven away by my father—for,
after the falsehoods that I had told him to dissipate his suspicions,
he would not believe me to be the victim of M. Ferrand—what
was to become of me? where was I to fly? where to find a refuge?
I had then a very wicked idea. I confess this, sir, because I wish
to conceal nothing, even that which may cast suspicion on me,
and also to show you to what an extremity I was reduced by the
cruelty of M. Ferrand. If I had yielded to a fatal thought, would
he not have been an accomplice of my crime?"
After a moment's silence, Louise resumed, with an effort, and
in a trembling voice, " I had heard from the portress that a quack
lived in the house—and "She could not finish.
Rudolf remembered that at his first call on Mme. Pipelet he
had received from the postman, in her absence, a letter written on
coarse paper, in a disguised hand, and on which he had remarked
the traces of tears. "And you did write him, unhappy child,
three days since? On this letter you have wept; your writing was
disguised."
II


THE CRIME.
32S
plice, in representing you as a girl from the country. What must
have been your affright at this proposition!"
"It was a great blow. I was completely bewildered; I knew
not what to answer; I looked at M. Ferrand with affright; my
mind wandered. I was about, perhaps, to risk my life in telling
him that I had overheard his projects in the morning, when, hap-
pily, I recollected the new dangers to which this would expose me.
'You do not comprehend me, then?' asked he, with impatience.
'Yes, sir; but,' said I trembling, 'I prefer not to go to the coun-
try.' 'Why not? You will be perfectly well taken care of where
I shall send you.' 'No, no, I will not go; I prefer to remain in
Paris, near my family; I had rather confess all, die with shame,
if it is necessary.' 'You refuse me!' said M. Ferrand, restrain-
ing his anger, and looking at me with attention. 'Why have you
changed your mind so quickly? Just now you accepted.' I saw
that if he suspected me I was lost; I answered that I did not think
that he meant me to leave Paris and my family. 'But you will
dishonor your family, wretch,' cried he; and not being able any
longer to contain himself, he seized me by the arm, and pushed
me so violently that I fell. 'I give you till after to-morrow,' cried
he; 'to-morrow you shall leave this to go to the Martials, or to
tell your father I have sent you away, and that he goes the same
day to prison.' I remained alone, stretched on the earth; I had
not the strength to get up. Madame Seraphin came, and with her
assistance I regained my chamber. I threw myself on my bed ; I
remained there until night. Amid the horrors, I had a moment
of bitter joy: it was when I pressed my child in my arms." The
voice of Louise was suffocated with her tears.
Morel had listened to the story of his daughter with an apathy
and indifference which alarmed Rudolf.
*' He suffers; let him compose himself. Continue."
"I pressed my child to my heart. I was astonished not to hear
it breathe, but I said to myself, the respiration of so young a child
can hardly be heard; and yet it seemed to me that it was very
cold. I had no light. I waited until dawn, trying to warm it as
well as I could. At daylight I found it was stiff—icy. I placed
my hand on its heart; it did not beat—it was dead."
And Louise burst into bitter sobs.
"Oh! at this moment," continued she, "thoughts passed im-
possible to describe. I remember it confusedly as a dream; it
was at once despair, terror, anger, and, above all, I was seized
with another alarm: I no longer dreaded that Ferrand would
strangle me, but I feared that if my child was found dead at my
side, I should be accused of having killed it. Then I had but one
thought, that of concealing it from all eyes; in that way my dis-
honor would not be known; I would no longer have to dread the
anger of my father; I should escape the vengeance of Ferrand;
then I could leave his house, procure another place, and continue
to earn something toward the support of my family. Ala*! sir,


MADNESS. 32;
was finished, I could not make up my mind to come away. Poor
little thing! in the frozen ground—under the snow. Although it
was dead, it seemed to me that it must feel the cold. At length I
returned to my chamber. I went to my bed with a violent fever.
In the morning M. Ferrand sent to know how I was. I answered
that I felt rather better, and that I should certainly be ready to
leave for the country the next day. I remained all this day still
in bed, in order to gain strength. In the evening I arose. I went
to the kitchen to warm myself. I remained late, all alone. I
went to the garden to say a last prayer. At the moment I as-
cended toward my chamber, I met M. Germain on the landing-
place of the cabinet, where he sometimes worked ; he was very
pale. He said to me, quickly, placing a packet of coin in my
hand: 'Your father will be arrested early to-morrow morning;
here is the money he owes; as soon as it is day run to his house.
It is only to-day I have found out Ferrand; he is a bad man; I
will unmask him. Do not, above all, say that you have this
money from me.' And M. Germain, not giving me time to thank
him. descended the stairs quickly."
CHAPTER XLIII.
MADNESS.
Louise continued: "This morning, before anyone was up, I
came here with the money, but it was not sufficient ; and, without
your generosity, he would not have escaped the bailiffs. Prob-
ably, after my departure, some one had gone to my room and dis-
covered some traces which had led to this discovery. A last
service I ask of you, sir," said Louise, drawing out the rouleau of
gold from her pocket; "will you hand this money to M. Ger-
main? I promised him not to tell anyone that he was employed
at Ferrand's; but since you know it, I have not been indiscreet.
Now, sir, I repeat, before God, who hears me, and before you, I
have not said a word that is not true. I have not sought to "—
but, interrupting herself suddenly, Louise, much alarmed, cried,
"Oh, sir! look at my father! look at him! What is the matter
with him?"
Morel had listened to the last part of this narrative with sombre
indifference, which Rudolf had explained to himself by attribut-
ing it to the overwhelming grief of this unhappy man. After so
many violent shocks, so oft repeated, his tears were dried up, his
sensibility blunted—he has not even strength enough left to vent
. his indignatio". thought Rudolf.
H» -zis mistaken. Like the flickering light of a lamp about to
expire, the reason of Morel, '\lready strongly shaken, vacillated for


JACQUES FERRAND.
331
at recent bereavement, in the death of his wife, by raising these
domestic animals.
Alongside the lodge was the crooked, narrow, and ooscure stair-
case, leading to the office, as the clients were informed by a hand
painted black, the forefinger pointing to these words on the wall:
"Office—Second Floor." On one side of a large paved court,
overgrown with grass, were to be seen the unoccupied carriage-
houses ; on the other, a rusty iron railing, which inclosed the gar-
den; at the end the pavilion, where the notary alone dwelt.
A flight of eight or ten steps of tottering, disjointed stones, cov«
ered with moss and worn by time, led to this house, composed of
a kitchen and other offices under ground, two floors and an attic,
where Louise had slept.
This pavilion appeared also in a great state of decay.
To this appearance, or rather to this reality of neglect, Ferrand
attached great importance. To vulgar eyes, a carelessness of
comfort and prosperity passes almost always for disinterestedness;
uncleanliness for austerity.
In living as he did, the notary consulted his taste. He
detested society, pomp, pleasures dearly bought; had it been
otherwise, he would have, without hesitation, sacrificed his most
lively wishes to the appearances which it was important to give
himself. Some words on the character of this man. He was a
son of the grand family of misers. Avarice is, above all, a nega-
tive, passive passion. Yet Jacques Ferrand risked, and risked
much.
He counted on his cunning—it was extreme; on his hypocrisy
—it was profound ; on his understanding—it was fertile and pli-
able; on his audacity—it was infernal—to assure impunity to his
crimes, and they were already numerous.
One single passion, or rather appetite, but most disgraceful,
ignoble, shameful, but almost ferocious, raised him often to frenzy
—lust.
Save this weakness, Jacques Ferrand loved but gold. He loved
gold for the sake of gold.
Not for the enjoyments it procured ; he was stoical.
Notwithstanding his great cunning, this man had committed two
or three errors which the most crafty criminals hardly ever escape
from.
Forced by circumstances, it is true, he had two accomplices;
this great fault, as he said himself, had been repaired in part;
neither of his accomplices could betray him without betraying
themselves; nor could any advantage be derived from their
denouncing the notary and themselves to public vindictiveness.
He was therefore on this head quite at rest.
Some words now on the personal appearance of Ferrand, and
we will introduce the reader into the notary's study, where he will
find out the principal personages. Ferrand had passed his fiftieth
year. He did not appear more than forty; he was of medium


332
THE OFFICE.
size, round-shouldered, square-built, strong, thick-set, red-haired.
shaggy as a bear. His hair lay smooth on his temples, the top of
his head was bald, his eyebrows hardly to be perceived; his bil-
ious-looking skin was covered with large freckles; but when any
lively emotion agitated it, this yellow, clayey visage filled with
blood, and became a livid red.
His face was as flat as a death's head, his nose crushed down,
his lips so thin, so imperceptible, that his mouth seemed cut in his
face ; when he smiled in a wicked and sinister manner, the ends
of his teeth could be seen, black and decayed. Closely shaved to
his temples, this man's countenance had an expression austere,
sanctified, impassible, rigid, cold and reflecting: his little black
eyes—quick, piercing, restless—were hidden by large green spec-
tacles.
Jacques Ferrand had excellent sight, but under the shelter of
his spectacles he had great advantages, observing without being
observed.
He affected in his dress a negligence which reached to unclean-
liness, or, rather, it was naturally rusty and mean. His face,
shaved but once in two or three days, his dirty bald head, his
black nails, old snuff-colored coats, greasy hats, threadbare cra-
vats, black woolen hose, and coarse shoes, recommended him
singularly to his clients, by giving him an air of detachment
from the world, and a perfume of practical philosophy, which
charmed them. "To what pleasures—what passions—could the
notary," said they, "sacrifice the confidence which was shown
him? He gained, perhaps, sixty thousand francs a year, and his
household was composed of a servant and an old housekeeper;
his sole pleasure was to go every Sunday to mass and vespers ; he
knew no opera comparable to the solemn sounds of the organ, no
company which could equal an evening passed at his fireside with
the parish priest, after a frugal dinner. Finally, he placed his
delight in his probity, his pride in his honor, his happiness in his
religion."
Such was the opinion of many concerning Jacques Ferrand, this
good and excellent man.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE OFFICE.
His office resembled all offices, his clerks all other clerks. It
was reached by an antechamber, furnished with four old chairs.
Two o'clock had just struck by an old cuckoo clock, placed
between the two windows of the office; agitation seemed to reign
among the clerks, which some fragments of their conversation
will explain.


334
THE OFFICE.
"Stop, here is Chalomel; how he will be astonished!"
'' About what! what! Has anything new happened here?"
"Just imagine—about two hours since, master came in here
like a madman: 'Germain is not here?' cried he. 'No, sir.'
'Well! the scoundrel has robbed me, last night, of seventeen
thousand francs!' continued the governor."
"Germain steal! who looked so honest ; who would have died
without confession!"
"One would have said that he had a presentiment of his
misfortune."
"Why?" "For some time past he looked as if something
troubled him."
"It was, perhaps, concerning Louise." "Louise?"
"Oh! I only repeat what Mother Seraphin said this morning."
"What?" "That he was the lover of Louise, and the"
"Oh! the cunning fellow."
"Stop, stop, stop! It is not true!"
"How do you know that, Chalomel?"
"It is not two weeks since, that Germain told me, in confidence,
that he was dead in love with a little sewing girl, whom he had
known in the house where he lived ; he had tears in his eyes when
he spoke to me about her.
At this moment the chief clerk entered the office.
"Well," said he, "Chalomel, have you finished all your
errands?"
"Yes, M. Dubois, I have been to M. de Saint-Remy: he will be
here shortly to pay."
"And to Countess Macgregor?" "Likewise; here is the
answer."
"And to Countess d'Orbigny?"
"She is much obliged ; she arrived yesterday from Normandy,
she did not expect an answer so soon; here is her letter. I have
also been to the Marquis d'Harville's steward, as he required, for
the charges on the contract I signed the other day at the hotel."
"You told him that it was not pressing?"
"Yes, but he would pay it. There is the money. Ah! I for-
got that this card was here, below, at the porter's: the words in
pencil written underneath by the porter; this gentleman asked for
M. Ferrand; he left this."
*' ' Walter Murphy,' read the chief clerk; and then in pen-
cil,' Will return at three o'clock on important business.' I do not
know this name."
"Oh! I forgot," continued Chalomel; "M. Badinot said it
was all right, that M. Ferrand should do as he pleased, that
would be always right."
"He did not give a written answer?"
"No, he said he hadn't time." "Very well."
"M. Charles Robert will also come in the course of the day to


THE OFFICE.
335
speak to the governor; it appears he fought a duel yesterday with
the Duke of Lucenay."
*' Is he wounded?"
"I believe not, or they would have told me of it at his house."
"Look! here is a fine carriage stopping."
"Hold !" said Chalomel, "it is the carnage of the Viscount
de Saint-Remy. "Ain't it stylish? Whew!"
Soon afterwards Saint-Remy entered the office. We have de
scribed the charming face, the exquisite elegance, the ravishing
bearing of Saint-Remy, arrived the previous evening from Arnou-
ville Farm, belonging to the Duchess Lucenay, where he had
found a refuge from the bailiffs.
Saint-Remy entered the office hastily, his hat on, his manner
haughty and proud, his eyes half closed, asking, in a very imper-
tinent way, without looking at any one, "The notary? where
is he?"
"Please to pass into the next room, sir," said the clerk; "I will
go at once and inform M. Ferrand.'* -
Saint-Remy shrugged his shoulders, and followed the head
clerk. At the end of a quarter of an hour, which seemed to him
very long, and changed his contempt into rage, Saint-Remy was
introduced into the cabinet of the notary. Nothing could be
more curious than the contrast of these two men, both profound
physiognomists, and generally accustomed to judge at a first
glance with whom they had to deal.
Saint-Remy saw Jacques Ferrand for the first time. He was
struck with the characteristics of this wan, rigid, impassible face;
the expression concealed by the large green spectacles, the head
half-hidden in an old black silk cap.
The viscount had not advanced two steps, or said a single word,
before the notary, who knew him by reputation, hated him
already. In the first place, he saw in him, so to speak, a rival in
knavery ; and, although Ferrand was of a mean and ignoble
appearance himself, he did not the less detest in others elegance,
grace, and youth; above all when an ah- deeply insolent accom-
panied these advantages.
The notary ordinarily affected a sort of rudeness, almost gross,
toward his clients, who only felt more esteem for him for these
boorish manners. He promised himself to redouble this brutality
toward the viscount.
He, knowing M. Ferrand only by reputation, expected to find
in him a kind of scrivener, good-natured or ridiculous, the vis-
count figuring to himself always that men of proverbial probity
must be simpletons. Far from this, the other's looks imposed on
the viscount an undefinable feeling, half fear, half hatred,
although he had no serious reason to fear or hate him. Thus, in
consequence of his resolute character, Saint-Remy increased his
insolence and habitual foppwy of manner. The notary kept his


336
THE OFFICE.
cap upon his head ; the viscount retained his hat, and cried from
the door in a loud, sharp voice:
"It is, by Jove! very strange, that you give me the trouble to
come here, instead of sending to me for the money for/he bills I
have endorsed for this Iiadinot, for which the fellow has sued me.
You should not expose me to wait a quarter of an hour in your
antechamber ; that is not so polite as it might be."
Ferrand, without paying the least attention, finished a calcula-
which lay near his inkstand, and raised toward the viscount his
cold, earthly, flattened face, encumbered with the green specta-
cles.
It looked like a death's head, whose eyes had been replaced by
great, fixed, glassy sockets. After having looked at him for a
moment in silence, he said to the viscount, in a rough, short tone,
"Where is the money?"
Such coolness exasperated Saint-Remy.
He—he! the idol of the women, the envy of men, the paragon
of the best company in Paris, the renowed duelist, not to produce
more effect on a miserable notary! It was odious: although he
was tete-a-tete with Jacques Ferrand, his pride revolted.
"Where are the bills?"
With the tip of one finger, hard as iron, and covered with red
hair, the notary, without answering, tapped on a large portfolio of
leather placed near him.
Decided to be equally laconic, although bursting with rage, the
viscount took from the pocket of his coat a small book of Russian
leather, clasped with golden hasps, drew out forty-one thousand
franc notes, and showed them to the notary.
*' How much?" asked he. "Forty thousand francs!"
"Give them to me?" "Here, and let us finish quickly, sir;
do your business, pay yourself, hand me back the papers," said
the viscount, throwing the packet impatienly on the table.
The notary took them, arose and examined them near the
window, turning them over one by one with an attention so scrupu-
lous and so insulting to Saint-Remy, that he grew pale with rage.
The notary, as if he had suspected the thoughts which agitated
the viscount, shook his head, half turned toward him, and said in
an undefinable tone, " There are such things as"
For a moment astonished, Saint-Remy replied, dryly, "What?"
"Counterfeits," answered the notary, continuing to examine
those he held closely.
"For what purpose do you make this remark to me, sir?"
Jacques Ferrand stopped a moment, looked steadily at the vis-
count through his glasses; then, shrugging his shoulders, he
turned again to counting and examining the bills.
"By Jove, you must know, when I ask a question, I am always
answered!" cried Saint-Remy, irritated beyond measure at the
calmness of Jacques Ferrand.
tion he was making, wiped his
...u:_u i j

methodically on the sponge


THE OFFICE.
337
"These are good," said the notary, turning towa,J his bureau,
whence he took a bundle of stamped papers, to which were
annexed two bills of exchange; he afterwards placed one of the
notes for a thousand francs and three rouleaux of one hundred
francs on the back of the papers; then he said to Saint-Remy,
pointing with his finger to the money and bills, "There is what is
to come to you from the forty thousand francs; my client has
ordered me to collect the bill of costs."
The viscount had with great difficulty contained himself while
Jacques Ferrand arranged his accounts. Instead of answering
him and taking the money, he cried, in a voice trembling with
anger, "I ask you, sir, why you said to me, respecting the bank
bills that I have just given you, that there were such things as
forged notes."
"Because I have sent for you here concerning a forgery." The
notary turned his green glasses full on the viscount.
"How does this forgery affect me?"
After a moment's pause, Ferrand said, with a severe tone,
"Are you acquainted, sir, with the duties of a notary?"
"The duties are perfectly clear to me, sir. I had just now
forty thousand francs; I have now remaining but thirteen hun-
dred."
"You are very jocose, sir. I will tell you, that a notary is to
temporal affairs what a confessor is to spiritual ones; from his
profession he often knows ignoble secrets. He is often obliged
to be in relations with rogues."
"What after this, sir?"
"He ought, as much as in his power, to prevent an honorable
name from being dragged in the mire. Your father has left you a
respected name, which you dishonor. But for the interest that
this name inspires to all honest people, instead of being cited here
before me, you would have been at this moment before the police
court."
"I do not comprehend you."
"About two months since, you discounted, through the agency of
a broker, a bill for fifty-eight thousand francs, drawn by the house
Meulaart and Co., of Hamburgh, in favor of one William Smith,
and payable in three months, at Grimaldi's, banker, in Paris.
This bill is a forgery! the house of Meulaert has never con-
tracted any engagement with William Smith; they do not know
him."
"Can it be true!" cried Saint-Remy, with as much surprise as
indignation; "but then I have been horribly deceived, sir, for I
received this bill as ready money."
"From whom?" "From William Smith himself; the house
of Meulaert is so well known, I knew so well myself the probity
of Smith, that I accepted this bill in payment of a debt he owed
me."


'.38
THE OFFICE.
"William Smith has never existed ; it is an imaginary per.
son."
"Sir, you insult me! 1 tell you, sir, that William Smith does
exist; but I have, without doubt, been the dupe of a horrible
breach of confidence."
"Poor young man!" "Explain yourself!" cried Saint-
Remy, whose anxiety and humiliation were increased by this
ironical pity.
"In a word, the actual holder of the bill is convinced that you
have committed the forgery."
"Sir!" "He pretends to have the proof; two days ago he
came to me to beg me to send for you here, and to propose to re-
turn you this forged note, under an arrangement. So far, all was
right; this is not; and 1 only tell you for information. He asks
one hundred thousand francs. To-day even, or to-morrow at noon,
the forgery will be made known to the public prosecutor."
"This is indignity!"
"And what is more, absurdity. You are ruined. You were
prosecuted for a sum that you have just paid me, from some re-
source I do net know of: this is what I told to this third party.
He answered, 'That a certain great lady, who is very rich, would
not leave you in this embarrassment.'"
"Enough, sir, enough!"
"Another indignity! another absurdity! we agree."
"In short, sir, what do they want?"
"Unworthily to take advantage of an unworthy action. I have
consented to make this proposition known to you, in branding it
as an honest man ought to brand it. Now it is your affair. If
you are guilty, choose between the court of assize or the terms
proposed. My part is altogether professional. I will have noth-
ing more to do with so dirty a business. The third party's name
is M. Petit Jean, oil merchant; he lives on the banks of the Seine,
No. 10, Quai de Billy. Settle with him. You are a pair, if you
are a forger, as he affirms."
Saint-Remy had entered the notary's with an insolent voice and
lofty head. Although he had committed in his life some disgrace-
ful actions, there remained in him still a pride of lineege—natural
courage which had never failed him; at the commencement of
this conversation, regarding the notary as an adversary quite un-
worthy of him, he treated him with contempt.
When Jacques Ferrand spoke of forgery, the viscount felt him-
self crushed. He found the notary had the advantage in his turn.
Except for his great self-command, he could not have concealed
the great impression made upon him by this unexpected accusa-
tion; for the consequences might be most fatal to him, of which
even the notary had no idea.
After a moment's reflection and silence, he determined—though
so proud, so irritable, so vain of his bravery—to throw himself
en the mercy of this vulgar man, who had so roughly spoken the


THE OFFICE.
339
mstere language of probity. "Sir, you give me a proof of inter-
st for which I thank you; I regret the harshness of my opening
Jords," said Saint Remy, in a cordial manner.
"I do not interest myself in you at all," answered the notary,
brutally. "Your father was honor itself; I did not wish to see
his name in the court of assizes, that's all."
"I repeat to you, sir, that I am incapable of the infamy of.
which I am accused."
*' You can tell that to M. Petit Jean."
"But I avow that the absence of Mr. Smith, who has so un-
worthily taken advantage of my good faith"
"Infamous Smith!"
*' The absence of Mr. Smith places me in a cruel position; I
am innocent; let them accuse me, I will prove it; but such an
accusation always injures a gallant man."
"What next?"
"Be generous enough to use the sum I have just paid you to
quiet, in part, this third person."
"This money belongs to my client—it is sacred."
"I have resources." "None available, at least. Your furni-
ture, your horses, no longer belong to you, as you may say ; which
to me has the appearance of fraud."
"You are very hard, sir. But admitting this, will I not turn
everything into money, in a situation so desperate? Only as it is
impossible for me to procure between this and to-morrow one hun-
dred thousand francs, I conjure you, employ this money to with-
draw this unhappy draught. Or you, who are so rich, make me
an advance ; do not leave me in such a position."
"I make myself responsible for a hundred thousand francs for
you! Really, are you a fool?"
"Sir, I supplicate you, in the name of my father, of whom you
have spoken, be so kind as to"
"I am kind for those who deserve it," said the notary, rudely;
"an honest man; I hate sharpers; and I should not be sorry to
see one of you fine gentlemen, who are without law or gospel,
impious and debauched, some fine day, standing in the pillory as
an example for others. But, I hear, your horses are very restless,
viscount," said the notary, smiling, and showing his black teeth.
At this moment someone knocked at the door. "Who is it?'
asked Jacques Ferrand.
"Her ladyship the Countess d'Orbigny," said the clerk.——
"Beg her to wait a moment."
"It is the step-mother of the Marchioness d'Harville," cried
Saint-Remy.
"Yes, sir. She has an appointment with me ; so, good-morning."
"Not a word of this, sir," said Saint Remy, in a threatening
tone.
"I have told you, sir, that a notary was as close as a con-
fessor.K


34Q
THE OFFICE.
Jacques Ferrand rang the bell, and the clerk appeared.
"Show in her ladyship." Then, addressing the viscount, he
added, "Take these thirteen hundred francs, sir; it will be so
much on account with M. Petit Jean."
Lady d'Orbigny (formerly Madame Roland) entered as the vis-
count went out, his features contracted with rage for having use-
lessly humiliated himself before the notary.
"Oh, good-morning, Saint-Remy !" said the countess ; "it is a
long time since I have seen you."
"Yes, madame; since the marriage of D'Harville, of which I
was a witness, I have not had the honor to meet you," said Saint-
Remy, bowing, and suddenly assuming a most smiling and affable
expression. "Since then, you have always remained in Nor-
mandy?"
"Dear me! yes. M. d'Orbigny cannot live now but in the
country; and where he lives, I live. Thus you see in me a true
'county lady.' I have not been to Paris since the marriage of my
dear step-daughter with excellent D'Harville. Do you see him
often?"
"D'Harville has become very savage and very morose. I
meet him very seldom in society," said Saint-Remy, with a shade
of impatience; for this conversation was insupportable, both from
its inopportuneness, and because the notary seemed to be much
amused. But the step-mother of Madame d'Harville, enchanted
at this meeting with a beau of society, was not the woman to let
her prey escape so easily.
"And my dear step-daughter," continued she, " is not, I hope,
as savage as her husband?"
"Madame d'Harville is very fashionable, and always much
sought after, as a pretty woman should be ; but I fear, madame, I
trespass on your time, and"
"Not at all, I assure you. I am quite fortunate to meet the
'mould of form, the glass of fashion ;' in ten minutes I shall
know all about Paris, as if I had never left it. And your dear
friend, De Lucenay, who was with you a witness of D'Harville's
marriage?"
"More of an eccentric than ever; he set out for the East, and .
he returned just in time to receive yesterday morning a thrust
from a sword; of no great harm, however."
"The poor duke! and his wife, still beautiful and ravishing?"
"You know, madame, that I have the honor to be one of her
best friends ; my testimony on this subject would be suspected.
Will you, madame, on your return to Aubiers, do me the honor to
remember me to M. d'Orbigny?"
"He will be very sensible of your kind recollections, I assure
you, for he often asks after you and your success. He says you
remind him of the Duke de Lauzun."
"This comparison alone is quite a eulogium; but, unfortunately
for me, it is much more kind than tr**p. Adieu, madam?; for I


THE OFFICE.
341
dare not hope that you will do me the honor to receive me before
your departure."
'* I should be distressed if you should take the trouble to call
upon me. I am for a few days at furnished lodgings; but if, this
summer or fall, you pass our way to some of the fashionable
country-seats, grant us a few days only by way of contrast, and
to rest yourself with some poor country-folks from the giddy round
of the chateau life, so elegant and so extravagant; for it is always
holidays where you go." "Madame"
"I need not tell you how happy D'Orbigny and myself would
be to receive you; but adieu, sir: I fear that the benevolent hu-
morist," pointing to the notary, "will become tired of our talk."
"Just the contrary, madame, just the contrary," said Ferrand,
in an accent which redoubled the restrained rage of the viscount.
"Acknowledge that M. Ferrand is a severe man," continued
Madame d'Orbigny; "but take care, since he is, fortunately for
you, charged with your affairs, he will scold you furiously ; he is
without pity. But what do I say? A man like you to have M.
Ferrand for notary—it is a sign of amendment: for every one
knows he never lets his clients commit any follies without inform-
ing them of it. Oh! he does not wish to be the notary of every
one." Then, addressing Jacques Ferrand, she said, "Do you
know, M. Puritan, that this is a superb conversion you have
made here—to render wise and prudent the king of fashion!"
"It is a conversion, madame ; M. le Vicomte leaves my cabinet
altogether different from what he entered it."
"When I say you perform miracles, it is not astonishing; you
are a saint.''
"Oh, madame, you flatter me," said Jacques Ferrand.
Saint-Remy profoundly saluted Madame d'Orbigny ; and at the
moment of leaving the notary, wishing to try a last effort to soften
him, he said, in a careless manner, which nevertheless disclosed
profound anxiety:
"Decidedly, my dear M. Ferrand, you will not grant me what
I ask?"
"Some folly, without doubt! Be inexorable, my dear Puritan,"
cried Madame d'Orbigny, laughing.
"You hear, sir; I cannot act contrary to the advice of so hand-
some a lady."
"My dear M. Ferrand, let us speak seriously of serious things,
and you know that this is so. You refuse decidedly ?" asked the
viscount, with anguish he could not conceal.
The notary was cruel enough to appear to hesitate ; Saint-Remy
had a moment of hope.
"How, man of iron, you relent?" said the step-mother of
Madame d'Harville, laughing; "you submit also to the charms
of the irresistible?"
"Faith, madame, I was on the point of yielding, as you say,
but you make me blush for my wr^kness," said Ferrand ; therii


342
THE WILL.
turning to the viscount, with an expression of which he compre'
hended all the signification, he continued, " There, seriously, it is
impossible; I will not suffer that, through caprice, you should
commit such an absurdity. M. le Vicomte, I regard myself as the
mentor of my clients; I have no other family, and I should re-
gard myself as an accomplice of any errors I should allow them
to commit."
"Oh ! the Puritan !" cried Madame d'Orbigny.
"Yet, see M. Petit Jean ; he will think, I am sure, as I do;
and like me, he will refuse."
Saint-Remy left in a state of desperation. After a moment's
thought, he said, "It must be!" Then, addressing his footman,
who held open the door of the carriage, "To Lucenay House."
CHAPTER XLVI.
THE WILL.
Madame d'Orbigny was a slender blonde, with eyebrows nearly
white, and pale blue eyes, almost round ; her speech honeyed,
her look hypocritical, her manners insinuating and insidious.
"What a charming young man! " said she to Jacques Ferrand,
when the viscount had gone.
"Charming; but, madame, let us talk of business. You wrote
me from Normandy that you wished to consult me on some grave
affairs."
"Have you not always been my adviser since good Doctor Poli-
dori referred me to you? Apropos, have you heard from him?"
asked Madame d'Orbigny, in a careless manner.
"Since his departure from Paris he has not written me once,"
answered the notary, no less indifferently. We must inform the
reader that these two personages lied most boldly to each other.
The notary had seen Polidori recently (one of his two accom-
plices), and had proposed to him to go to Asnieres, to the Mar-
tinis', the fresh-water pirates (of whom we shall speak presently),
under the name of Dr. Vincent, to poison Louise Morel. The
stepmother of Madame d'Harville came to Paris expressly to
have conference with this scoundrel, who now went by the name
of Caesar Bradamanti.
"But it is not concerning the good doctor," said Madame
d'Orbigny, "you see me much troubled ; my husband is sick—he
grows worse daily. Without causing me serious fears, his con-
dition troubles me, or, rather, troubles him," continued she, wip-
ing her tearless eyes. "What is the matter?"
'' He continually speaks of his final arrangements—he carries
his kindness so far as to wish to convert a part of his fortune, and
give me a considerable sum."


344
THE WILL.
you have nothing; I can approve of this. It appears to me you
might accept."
"Really, you think so?" said Madame d'Orbigny, dupe, like
every one else, of the proverbial honesty of the notary, and not
undeceived in this respect by Polidori
"You may accept," said he.
"I shall accept, then," said Madame d'Orbigny, with a sigh.
The clerk knocked at the door.
"Her ladyship, the Countess Macgregor." "Let her wait a
moment."
"I leave you, then, my dear M. Ferrand," said Madame
d'Orbigny; '' you will write to my husband, since he desires it,
and he will send you full powers to-morrow." "I will write."
"Adieu, my worthy and good counsellor."
'' Ah! you people of the world do not know how disagreeable
it is to take charge of such deposits—the responsibility which
bears on us. I tell you, there is nothing more detestable than this
fine reputation for probity which brings one nothing but drudgery."
"And the admiration of good people."
"Praise the Lord! I place otherwise than here below the
recompense I seek for," said Ferrand, in a sanctified tone.
To Madame d'Orbigny succeeded Countess Sarah Macgregor.
Sarah entered the cabinet with her habitual coolness and assur-
ance. Ferrand did not know her; he was ignorant of the object
of her visit. He observed her very closely, in the hope to make
a new dupe; and, notwithstanding the impassibility of the marble
face, he remarked a slight tremor, which appeared to him to
betray concealed embarrassment.
The notary arose from his chair, and handed a seat to the
countess, saying, "You asked for a meeting, madame, yesterday.
I was so much occupied that I could not send you an answer
until this morning; I make you a thousand excuses."
"I desired to see you, sir, on business of the greatest import-
ance. Your reputation has made me hope my business with you
will be successful."
The notary bowed in his chair. "I know, sir, that your dis-
cretion is well tried."
"It is my duty, madame." "You are, sir, a rigid and incor-
ruptible man."
"Granted madame." "Yet, if one should say to you, sir, it
depends on you to restore life—more than life—reason to an
unhappy mother would you have the courage to refuse?"
"State facts, madame, I will answer."
"About fourteen years since, one December, a young man,
dressed in mourning, came to propose to you to take, for an
annuity, the sum of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, for a
child of three years, whose parents desired to remain unknown."
"Continue, madame," said the notary, avoiding a direct answer.
*' You consented to receive* this amount, and to assure the child


THE WILL.
345
an income of eight thousand francs. The one-half of this amount
was to be added to the capital until its majority ; the other half
was to be paid by you to the person who should take charge of this
little girl." '' Continue, madame."
"At the end of two years," said Sarah, without being able to
conquer a slight emotion, "on the 28th November, this child
died."
"Before continuing this conversation, madame, I must ask you
what interest you have in this affair?"
"The mother of this little girl is my sister, sir; I have here, for
proof of what I advance, the publication of the death of this
poor little thing, the letters from the person who had care of her,
the receipt of one of your clients, with whom you placed the fifty
thousand crowns." "Let me see these papers, madame."
Quite astonished not to be believed at her word, Sarah drew
from a portfolio several papers, which the notary closely examined.
"Ah, well! madame, what do you want? The notice of the
death is quite correct; the fifty thousand crowns became the prop-
erty of M. Petit Jean, my client, by the death of the child; as to
the interests, they were always punctually paid by me until its
decease."
"Nothing can be more correct than your conduct in this affair;
sir, I am pleased to acknowledge it. The woman to whom the
child was confided has also a right to our gratitude; she has taken
the greatest care of my poor little niece."
"That is true, madame; I was so much pleased with her con-
duct, that, after the death of the child, I took her in my service;
she is still there." "Madame Seraphin is in your service, sir?"
"For fourteen years, as housekeeper."
"Since it is so, sir, she can be of great assistance, if you will
grant a demand which will appear strange, perhaps even culpable
at first; but, when you shall know with what intention"
"A culpable demand, madame; I do not think you are any
more capable »f making than I am of hearing it."
"I know, sir, that you are the last person to whom one should
address such a request; but I place all my hopes—my sole hope—
in your pity. In every case I rely on your discretion.'' "Yes,
madame."
"I continue, then. The death of this poor little girl has cast
her mother into such a state, her grief is as poignant at the present
day as it was fourteen years since; and, after having feared for
her life, to-day we fear for her reason."
"Poor mother!" said Ferrand, with a sigh.
* ' Oh! yes, very unfortunate mother, sir; for she could only
blush at the birth of her daughter, at the time she lost her: while
now circumstances are such, that my sister, if her child still lived,
could own her, be proud of her, never leave her. Thus, this in-
cessant regret, joined to other griefs, makes us fear for her reason.
But suppose some one should come and say to the poor mother,


THE WILL.
"War! because I refuse to lend myself to-a criminal act?
what audacity."
*' Listen to me, sir ; your reputation as an honest man is great
—known far and near."
"Because it is merited. You must have lost your reason be-
fore you would have dared to make such a proposition!"
"Better than any one, I know, sir, how much one ought to
suspect these reputations of such strict virtue, which often con-
ceal the gallantries of women and the scoundrelism of men."
"You dare to say this, madame?"
"Since the commencement of our conversation, I do not know
wherefore, I doubted that you deserve the consideration and es-
teem which you enjoy."
"Truly, madame, this doubt does honor to your perspicac-
ity."
"Does it not so? for this doubt is founded on nothing—on
mere instinct—on inexplicable presentiments; but rarely has this
boding deceived me."
"Let us finish this conversation, madame."
"Before we do so, know my determination. I begin by tell-
ing you, that I am convinced of the death of my poor child;
but, no matter, I will pretend she is not dead; the most un-
likely events are often brought about. You are at this moment
in such a position that you must have many envious rivals;
they will regard it as a piece of good fortune to attack you. I
will furnish means to them."
"You!" -"I, in attacking you under an absurd pretext,
on an irregularity in the registry of death, let us say—no mat-
ter, I will maintain my child is not dead. As I have the
greatest interest in having it believed that she still lives, al-
though lost, this process will serve me in giving much notoriety
to this affair; a mother who reclaims her child is always in-
teresting; I shall have on my side those who are envious of
you, your enemies, and all those who are feeling and romantic."
"This is as foolish as wicked. Why should I? For what
interest should I say your child is dead, if she were not?"
"That is true, the motive is sufficiently embarrassing to find.
Happily, lawyers are plenty. But a thought! ah! an excellent
ene; wishing to divide with your client the sum paid for the an-
nuity, you have caused the child to be carried off."
The notary, without moving a muscle of his face, shrugged
his shoulders. '' If I had been criminal enough to do that, in-
stead of sending her off, I would have killed her!"
Sarah shuddered with surprise, remained silent for a moment,
then resumed with bitterness: "For a holy man, that is a
thought of crime profoundly deep! Have I to»ched to the
quick in shooting at random? This sets me thinking. One last
word: you see what kind of a woman I am—I crush without
pity all who cross my path. Reflect well; to-morrow you must


348
THE WILL.
decide! you can do with impunity what you are asked. In his
joy, the father of my child would not discuss the probability of
such a resurrection, if our falsehoods, which will render him so
happy, are adroitly combined. He has, besides, no other proofs
of the death of our child, than what I wrote to him fourteen
years since; it will be easy for me to persuade him that I de-
ceived him on the subject; for then I had just cause of com-
plaint against him. I will tell him that in my anger I wished
to break, in his eyes, the last link which still held us together.
You cannot therefore in any way be compromised ; affirm only,
irreproachable man, affirm that all has been concerted between
you and me and Madame Seraphin, and you will be believed.
As to the money placed with you, that concerns me alone; it
shall remain with your client, who must be ignorant of all this;
finally, you shall name your own recompense."
Jacques Ferrand preserved all his coolness, notwithstanding
his position, so strange and dangerous for him. The countess,
believing really in the death of her child, came to ask him to
represent as living this child, whom he had himself passed for
dead fourteen years before. He was too cunning, and knew too
well the perils of his situation, not to comprehend the bearing
of Sarah's threats. Although admirably constructed, the edi-
fice of the notary's reputation was built on sand. The public
as easily detach as they attach themselves, and are pleased
with the right to trample under foot those whom they once
had exalted to the skies. How foresee the consequences of the
first attack on the reputation of Jacques Ferrand? However
ridiculous this attack might be, its boldness alone might awaken
suspicion.
The pertinacity of Sarah, and her obduracy, alarmed the no-
tary. This mother had not shown for a moment any feeling in
speaking of her child: she had only seemed to consider her
death as the loss of a means of action. Such dispositions are in-
capable in their objects, and in their vengeance. Wishing to give
himself time to seek some means to avoid the dangerous blow,
Ferrand said coldly to Sarah, '' You have asked until noon to-
morrow. It is I, madame, who give you until the next day to re-
nounce a project, of which you know not the gravity. If, mean-
while, I do not receive a letter from you in which you announce
that you have abandoned this foolish and criminal undertaking,
you will learn to your cost that justice knows how to protect
honest people who refuse to lend themselves to culpable acts."
"That is to say, sir, that you demand one day more to re-
flect on my propositions? That is a good sign ; I grant it to
you. The day after to-morrow, at this hour, I will return here,
and it shall be between us peace or war; I repeat it to you, a
war to the knife, without mercy or pity ;" and Sarah disap-
peared.
"All goes well," said she to herself. "This miserable young


ANOTHER LADYKILLER.
349
girl, for whom Rudolf was so much interested—thanks to the old
One Eye, who has delivered me from her, is no longer to be
feared. The skill of Rudolf has saved Madame D'Harville
from the snare I placed for her, but it is impossible she can es-
cape from the new plot I have contrived; she will then be foi
ever lost to him. Then, sad, discouraged, isolated from all ties,
will he not be in such a disposition of mind, that he will not de.
sire anything better than to be the dupe of a falsehood, to which,
with the aid of the notary, I can give every appearance of truth!
And the notary will assist me, for I have alarmed him. I cai
easily find a young orphan girl, interesting and poor, who, in.
structed by me, will fill the part of our child, so bitterly regretted
by Rudolf. I know the grandeur and generosity of his heart.
Yes, to give a name and rank to her whom he believes to be hij
daughter, until then unhappy and abandoned, he will renew thos»
ties which I had thought indissoluble. The predictions of my
nurse will at length be realized, and I shall have this time surely
attained the constant aim of my life—a crown." Hardly had
Lady Sarah left the mansion of the notary, than Charles Robert
entered it, descending from an elegant cabriolet: he turneq
toward the private cabinet, as one having free admission.
CHAPTER XLVII.
ANOTHER LADYKILLER.
The new-comer entered without any ceremony rhft nota>-r' i
office, who was in a very thoughtful and splenetic mooa, and who
said to him very roughly, " I reserve the afternoon for my clients;
when you wish to speak to me, come in the marning."
"My dear scribbler" (this was one of tne pleasantries of M.
Robert), "it is concerning an important afrair, in the first place,
and then I wish to assure you myself concerning the fears that
you might have."
"What fears?"
"My duel with the Duke de Lucenay. Are you ignorant of it?"
"Yes. Why, this duel? "-—-" Something very serious, which
required blood. Just imagine tnat, in the face of the whole
embassy, M. de Lucenay allowed himself to say to me, to my
/ace, that I had a cough, a complaint that must be very ridicu-
lous."
"You fought for this?" "And what the devil would you
have one to fight for? Do you think that one could, in cold
blood, hear one's self accused of having a cough? and before a
charming woman, too; what is more, before a little marchioness,
who, in brief it could not be overlooked."
"Certainly." "We soldiers, you understand, we are always


ANOTHER LADYKILLER.
"Where are you going to, my dear banker?"
"To look for something to convince you of the truth of the
rumors concerning me," said the notary, ironically. Andopen-
ing a little private staircase which led to the pavilion, without
going through the office, he disappeared.
Hardly had he gone when the clerk knocked at the door.
"Come in," said Charles Robert.
'' Is not M. Ferrand here?" "No, my worthy blue-bagger."
"A veiled lady wishes to speak to master instantly, on very
pressing business."
"Worthy fellow, your master will return directly; I will tell
him. Is she pretty?"
"One must be a wizard to find this out; she wears a black veil,
so thick that her face cannot be seen."
"Good, good! I'll take a look at her when I go out."
The clerk left the room.
"Where the devil is he gone to?" said Charles to himself. "II
these reports are absurd, so much the better. Never mind, I
prefer to have my money. I will buy the chateau they have
spoken to me of, with Gothic towers, that will give me a noble
appearance. It will not be like my affair with this prude of a
Madame d'Harville—fine game! Oh.no; I have not made my
expenses, as the stupid old portress in the Rue du Temple said.
This pleasantry has cost me at least a thousand crowns. It is
true, the furniture remains; and I can compromise the marquise.
But here is the scrivener."
Ferrand returned, holding in his hand some papers, which he
gave to Robert.
"Here," said he to him, "are three hundred and fifty thousand
francs in Treasury notes. In a few days we will regulate the
interest. Write me a receipt."
"Eh!" cried Charles, stupefied. "Oh! now don't think, at
least, that I"
"I think nothing. But write; and tell the people who speak
to you of my embarrassments how I answer such suspicions."
"The fact is, as soon as this is known, your credit will only be
the more solid. But, really, take back the money; I cannot use
now; I said in three months."
"M. Charles Robert, no one shall suspect me twice."
"You are angry?"
"The receipt." "Oh, obstinacy!" said Charles Robert;
then he added, writing the receipt, 'There is alady closely veiled,
who wishes to speak to you on some very pressing business. I
shall take a good look at her when I pass. Here is your receipt;
is it right?"
"Very well; now go away by the private staircase.' "But
the lady?"
"It is just to prevent your seeing her."


THE DUCHESS DE LUCENAY. 353
Saint-Remy your relation? Instead of confessing it, you ought to
blush. Do you come here to weep, to soften me? It is useless;
without saying that you are performing a wretched part for an
honest woman, if you are one."
This brutal insolence was revolting to the pride and patrician
blood of the duchess. She drew herself up, threw her veil back,
and with a proud look, and a firm, imperious voice, she said, '' Sir,
I am the Duchess of Lucenay."
This woman assumed so haughty an air, her appearance be-
came so imposing, that the notary, overcome, charmed, fell back,
astonished; took off, mechanically, his black silk cap, and saluted
her profoundly.
Nothing could be, indeed, more graceful and more majestic
than the face and bearing of Madame de Lucenay ; yet she was
then over thirty years of age, with a pale face, appearing slightly
fatigued; but she had large sparkling brown eyes, splendid black
hair, a fine arched nose, a proud and ruby lip, dazzling complex-
ion, very white teeth, tall and slender figure, a form like a "god-
dess on the clouds," as the immortal St. Simon says. What was
his surprise! She spoke to him with as much assurance and pride
as if it was concerning the most natural thing in the world, and as
if before a man of his species, she had no thought of the reserve
and fitness which she had certainly shown to her equals. In fact,
the gross insolence of the notary, in wounding her to the quick,
had forced Madame de Lucenay to quit the humble and implor-
ing part that she had at first assumed with much trouble ; returned
to her own dignity, she believed it to be beneath her to descend
to the least concealment with this scribbler of deeds.
"Notary," said the duchess, resolutely, to Jacques Ferrand,
"M. de Saint-Remy is one of my friends; he has confided to me
the embarrassing situation in which he finds himself, from the
inconvenience of a double piece of villainy of which he is the vic-
tim. Everything can be managed with money. How much is
necessary to terminate these miserable, shuffling tricks?"
Jacques Ferrand was completely astounded with this cavalier
and deliberate manner of opening the business.
"They ask a hundred thousand francs," answered he, as soon
as he had recovered from his astonishment.
"You shall have your hundred thousand francs; and you will
send at once the bad papers to M. de Saint-Remy."
"Where are the hundred thousand francs, your grace?"
"Did I not tell you that you should have'them, sir?"
"They must be had to-morrow, before noon, madame; other-
wise a charge of forgery will be made."
"Well, give this amount; I will be accountable for it ; as for
you I will pay you well."
"But, madame, it is impossible."
"You will not tell me, I hope, that a notary like you cannot
procure a hundred thousand francs any day?"
12


354
THE DUCHESS DE LUCE NAY.
"On what security, madam?"
"Oh, what a waste of words! Is it my signature you wish? 1
give it you; let us finish."
"In admitting, madame, that you are the Duchess of Lucenay."
"Come in an hour's time to the Hotel de Lucenay, sir; I will
sign at home what is necessary to be signed."
"Will his grace sign also?"
"I do not understand you, sir."
"Your signature alone is of no value to me, madame."
Jacques Ferrand enjoyed with cruel delight the impatience of
the duchess, who, under the appearance of sangfroid and disdain,
concealed the most painful anguish. She was for a time at the
end of her resources.
"Since you possess the sum I ask for, sir, and my guarantee is
sufficient, why do you refuse me?"
"Because men have their caprices as well as women, madame."
"But what is this caprice, which makes you act thus against
your interest? for, I repeat to you, make your conditions; what-
ever they may be, I accept them!"
"Your grace will accept all the conditions?" said the notary,
with a singular expression.
"All! two, three, four thousand francs—more, if you will, for I
tell you," added the duchess, frankly, in a tone almost affection-
ate, "I have no resource but in you, sir—in you alone. It will
be impossible for me to find elsewhere that which I ask you for
to-morrow; and it must be—you understand—it must be abso-
lutely. Thus, I repeat to you, whatever condition you impose on
me for this service, I accept."
"You will not regard the cost?" cried he, in a broken voice,
approaching still nearer to the duchess. "Well, this sum I will
lend to you on one condition, one single condition—and I swear
that "He could not finish his declaration.
By one of those strange contradictions of human nature, at the
sight of the hideous face of M. Ferrand, at the mere thought of
what his conditions might be, Madame de Lucenay, notwithstand-
ing her inquietudes and troubles, burst out in a laugh so fiank, so
mirthful, that the notary recoiled confounded.
Without giving him time to utter a word, the duchess, abandon-
ing herself more and more to her hilarity, pulled down her veil,
and, between two renewed bursts of laughter, said to the notary,
who was almost blind with rage, hatred, and fury, " I prefer,
upon the whole, to ask this favor openly of the duke." She then
went out, continuing to laugh so loudly that, though the door of
the cabinet was closed, the notary could still hear her.
Jacques Ferrand returned to his senses only to curse his impru-
dence bitterly. Yet, by degrees he reassured himself in thinking
that the duchess could not speak of this interview without gravely
compromising herself.
Nevertheless, it was a bad day for him. He was buried in the


THE DUCHESS DE LUCE NAY.
355
blacklist thoughts, when the private door was opened, and Mme.
Seraphin entered wildly.
*'Oh, Ferrand!" cried she, clasping her hands, *'you were
Tight enough in saying that we should some day regret having
spared that cursed little girl's life!"
"How?" "A one-eyed woman, whom I did not know, tr-
whom Tournemine delivered the little girl to rid us of her, fourteen
years ago, when we said she was dead! Oh, who would hav
thought it! This woman has just been here. She told me she
knew it was I who gave up the child."
*'Malediction! who could have told her? Tournemine is at
the galleys."
"I denied everything, treating her as a liar. But she maintains
that she has found this child again, now grown up; that she knows
where she is, and that it only depends upon herself to discover
everything."
"Is hell unchained against me to-day?" cried the notary, in a
fit of rage that rendered him hideous.
"What shall be said to the woman? What must we promise,
to keep her silent!"
"Does she look as if she were poor?"
"As I treated her like a beggar, she shook her reticule—there
was money in it."
"And she knows where this young girl is now?"
"She declares she knows."
"And she is the daughter of Countess Macgregor!" said the
notary to himself, "who just now offered me so much to say that
her child was not dead! And the child lives. I can restore her
to her! Yes; but this false certificate of death—if any inquiry is
made, I am lost! This crime may put them on the scent ot .oth-
ers." After a moment's thought, he said to Mme. Seraphin,
"This one-eyed woman knows where the girl is?''
"Yes."
"And this woman will return to-morrow?"
"To-morrow."
"Write to Polidori to be here to-night at nine o'clock."
'- Do you mean to get rid of the girl and the old woman? It
will be too much for one time, Ferrand!"
"I tell you to write to Polidori to be here to-night by nine
o'clock."
At the close of the day,' Rudolf said to Murphy, who had not
been able to see the notary, " Let M. de Graun send a courier off
at once. Cecily must be in Paris in six days."
"Once more that infernal she-devil! the execrable wife of poor
David, as witching as she is infamous! For what good, your
highness?"
"For what good, Sir Walter? In a month's time you may ask
this question of the notary, Jacques Ferrand."


DENUNCIATION.
357
This note was put in the post at five o'clock by Sarah, on the
day of her interview with the notary. The same evening Rudolf
went to pay a visit to a foreign embassy; after which it was his
intention to go to Madame d'Harville's, to announce to her that
he had found a charitable intrigue worthy of her. We will con-
duct the reader to Madame d Harville's. It will be seen, from
the following conversation, that this young lady, in showing her-
self generous and compassionate toward her husband, whom she
had until then treated with extreme coldness, followed already the
noble counsels of Rudolf.
The marquis and his wife had just left the table ; the scene
passed in the little saloon of which we have spoken ; the expres-
sion of Cle'mence d'Harville was affectionate and kind ; D'Har-
ville seemed less sad than usual. He had not yet received the
above infamous letter.
"What are you going to do to-night?" said he, mechanically,
to his wife.
'' I shall not go out; pray what are your plans?"
"I do not know," answered he, with a sigh. "Society is in-
supportable to me. I will pass this evening, like so many other
evenings, alone."
"Why alone, since I am not going out?"
"Really," cried D'Harville, with emotion, "how kind you are
lo anticipate what I dared not express!"
'' Do you know, dear, that your astonishment has almost an air
of reproach?"
"A reproach? Oh, no, no! not after my unjust and cruel sus-
picions the other day. To find you so forgiving, it is, I confess, a
surprise for me; but a surprise the most delightful."
"Let us forget the past," said she to her husband, with an an-
gelic smile.
"What a change! Is it a dream? Oh, tell me I am not mis-
taken!"
"No, no, you are not mistaken."
"And, truly, your look is less cold; your voice almost falters.
Oh, say, is it true? Am I not under an illusion?"
"No ; for I also have need of pardon."— —*' You!"
"Have I not been cruel toward you! Ought I not to have
thought that you must have needed a rare courage, a virtue more
than human, to act differently from what you did? Isolated, un-
happy, how resist the desire of seeking some consolations in a
marriage which pleased you? Alas! when one suffers, one is so
disposed to believe on the generosity of others! Your error has
been, until now, to count on mine. Well, henceforth I will try to
give you reason."
"Oh, speak, speak once more!" said D'Harville, his hands
clasped in a kind of ecstasy.
"Our existence is for ever united. Let us be indulgent to one
Another; if we falter, le* "s regard the cradle of our child, let us


358
DENUNCIATION.
concentrate on her all our affections, and we shall yet have some
joys, melancholy and holy."
"An angel, she is an angel!" cried D'Harville. joining his
hands and looking at his wife with affectionate admiration. "Oh!
you do not know the pain and pleasure you cause me, Clemence!
you do not know that your harshest words formerly, your most
severe reproaches, alas! the most merited, have never so much
overwhelmed me as this adorable, generous resignation, and yet,
in spite of myself, you make hope spring up again. You do not
know the future that hdare imagine."
"And you can have blind and entire faith in what I tell you.
Albert? This resolution is taken firmly; it shall never fail, I
swear it to you. Before long I may give you new guarantees of
my word."
"Guarantees!" cried D'Harville, more and more excited by
happiness so unlooked for, "guarantees! have I need of them?
Your look, your voice, this beaming expression of goodness which
still graces you, the throbbings of my heart, all, all prove to me,
that what you say is true. But you know, Cle"mence, man is in-
satiable in his hopes," added the marquis. "Your noble and
touching words give me courage to hope, yes, to hope what yester-
day I regarded as an insensate dream."
"Albert, I swear to you I shall always be the most devoted of
friends, the most tender of sisters ; but nothing more. You will
owe to the most devoted friendship, attentions that love could not
give you. Hope for better days. Until now you have found me
almost indifferent to your sorrows ; you shall see how I shall com-
passionate you, and what consolations you will find in my affec-
tion."
A servant entered, and said to Cle'mence, " His Royal Highness
the Grand Duke of Gerolstein asks if your ladyship will receive
him?"
C16mence looked at her husband, who, recovering his coolness,
said to her, "Of course." The servant retired.
"Pardon me, my friend," said Cle'mence; "I did not say that
I would not receive. Besides, it is a long time since you have
seen the prince ; he will be happy to find you here. I shall, also,
be much pleased to see him; yet I avow, that just now I am so
agitated that I should have preferred to receive his visit some
other day."
"I can comprehend it; but what could we do? Here he is."
At the same moment, Rudolf was announced.
"I am a thousand times happy, madame, to have the honor to
meet you," said Rudolf, " and I doubly appreciate my good for-
tune, since it also procures me the pleasure of seeing you, my
dear Albert," added he, turning toward the marquis, whom he
cordially shook by the hand.
"It is a long time since I have had the honor to pay your high
ness my respects."


3<So
DENUNCIATION.
you a good work, having all the charm of a romance in action, t
come to fulfil my engagement."
*' Already; what happiness!"
"Ah! it was a kind of happy inspiration that induced me to take
that poor room in the house of the Rue du Temple, of which I
have spoken to you. You cannot imagine all that I find curious
and interesting! In the first place, your protegies of the garret
enjoy the comforts your presence had promised them ; they have;
however, yet to undergo some sad trials; but I do not wish tc
make you sad. Some day you shall know how many horrible
calamities may overwhelm one single family. You know I have a
room in that house: be guarded against any new cowardly acts of
your enemies, or of mine ; and since the Morels are now out of
the reach of want, think of others. Let us think of our intrigue.
It concerns a poor mother and her daughter, who, formerly in afflu-
ence, are at this time, in consequence of an infamous spoliation,
reduced to the most frightful misery. Yesterday I went to the
Temple. It is a bazaar very amusing to see. I went there to
make some purchases with my neighbor of the fourth floor."
"Your neighbor?"
"Have I not my room in the Rue du Temple?"
*' I forgot." "This neighbor is a charming little grisette ; she
calls herself Rigolette; she is always laughing, and never had a
lover."
"What a virtue for a grisette!"
"It is not exactly from virtue that she is virtuous, but because,
she says, she has no time to be in love ; for she must work from
twelve to fifteen hours a-day to earn twenty-five sous, on which
she lives."
"Live on twenty-five sous a-day! she is a prodigy."
'' A real prodigy of order, labor, economy, and practical phi-
losophy, I assure you; hence, I recommend her to you. She is,
she says, a very skilful seamstress. At all events, you would not
be ashamed to wear the clothes she may make."
"To-morrow I will send her some work. Poor girl! to live or
so small a sum, and, so to speak, be unknown to us, who are rich.-
whose smallest caprices cost a hundred times that amount."
"I am rejoiced that you have determined to interest yourself in
my little prottgie. I will now explain our new adventure. I had
gone to the Temple with Rigolette, to purchase some furniture
designed for the poor people in the garret, when, upon acci-
dentally examining an old secretary which was for sale, I found
the draft of a letter written by a female to some individual, in
which she complained that herself and daughter were reduced to
the greatest misery, on account of the dishonesty of a lawyer.
The secretary was part of a lot of furniture, which a woman of
middle age had been compelled by her penury to sell; and I was
told by the dealer that the womaa and her daughter seemed to


362
DEN UNCI A TION.
vengeance, murder, But this notary was already rich; and,
clothed by society with a character almost holy, which imposes,
ay, forces confidence, this man is induced to crime by a cold
and implacable cupidity. The assassin only kills you once, and
quickly, with his knife: he kills you slowly, by all the horrors
of despair and misery into which he plunges you. For a man
like this Ferrand, no patrimony of the orphan or savings of the
poor are sacred! You confide to him gold; this gold tempts
him; he makes you a beggar. By the force of privations and
toil, you have assured to yourself bread, and an asylum for your
old age; the greed of this man tears from your old age this
bread and shelter. This is not all. See the fearful effects of
these fearful spoliations: this widow of whom we speak may die
of sorrow and distress; her daughter, young and handsome,
without support, without resources, accustomed to a compe-
tency, unfit, from her education, to gain a living, soon finds her-
self between starvation and dishonor! she is lost! By this rob-
bery, Jacques Ferrand is the cause of the death of the mother,
the ruin of the child! he has killed the body of one, the soul
of the other; and this, once more I say it, not at once, like
other homicides, but with cruelty, and slowly."
Clemence had never heard Rudolf speak with so much bitter-
ness and indignation; she listened in silence, struck by these
words of eloquence, doubtless very sad, but which discovered a
vigorous hatred of evil.
"Pardon me, madame," said Rudolf, after a moment's pause;
"I cannot restrain my indignation in thinking of the cruel fate
which your future froiegies may have realized. Ah! believe
me, the consequences of ruin and poverty are very seldom exag-
gerated."
"Oh! on the contrary, I thank your highness for having, by
these terrible words, still more augmented, if that is possible,
the sincere commiseration I feel for these unfortunates. Alas!
it is above all for her daughter she must suffer; oh! it is fright-
ful. But we will save them—we will assure their future. I am
rich, but not as much so as I could wish, now that I see a new
use for money; but if it is necessary, I will speak to D'Har-
ville; I will make him so happy that he cannot refuse any of
my new caprices. Our firoligtes are proud, your highness says:
I like them better for it ; pride in misfortune always proves an
elevated mind. I will find the means to save them, without
their knowing that they owe the succor they receive to a bene-
factor. It will be difficult; so much the better! Oh! I have
already a project; you shall see, ycfur highness, you shall see
that I am not wanting in address and cunning."
*' I already foresee the most Machiavellian combinations," said
Rudolf smiling.
"But we must first discover them: how I wish it was to-
morrow. On leaving Madame de Lucenay I will go to their old


DEN UNCI A TION.
363
lodgings; I will question their neighbors; I will see for myself;
I will ask information from everybody. I will compromise my-
self, if it is necessary! I shall be so proud to obtain by myself,
and by myself alone, the result I desire: oh! I will succeed; this
adventure is so touching. Oh! how much goodness your mind
discloses! from what source have you, then, drawn these feelings
of tender commiseration?"
'' I have suffered much, I still suffer! this is the reason I know
the cause of many sorrows."
*' Your highness unhappy!"
'' Yes; for one would say that, to prepare me to solace all
kinds of sorrow, fate has willed I should undergo them all. A
lover, it has struck me through the first woman that I loved with
all the blind confidence of youth; a husband, through my wife;
a son, it has struck me through my father; a father, through my
child."
"I thought that the grand-duchess did not leave vou any
child?"
"She did not; but before my marriage with her I had a
daughter, who died very young. Well! strange as it may
appear to you, the loss of this child,whom I had hardly seen, is
the sorrow of my life. The older I become, the more profound
my regrets! Each year redoubles the bitterness. It seems to
increase as her years would have increased. Now she would have
been seventeen!"
"And does her mother still live?" asked CleVnence.
"Oh! do not speak of her!" cried Rudolf. "Her mother is
an unworthy creature, a being bronzed by egotism and ambition.
Sometimes I ask myself if it were not better my child should be
dead, than to have remained in the hands of her mother."
Cle'mence experienced a kind of satisfaction in hearing Rudolf
express himself thus. "Oh! I conceive," cried she, "how you
doubly regret your daughter!"
"But, alas! why understand the ineffable joys, when one can
never experience them?" said Rudolf, dejectedly. "But par-
don me, madame ; my regrets and my memories have, in spite of
myself, carried me away; you will excuse me?"
"Ah! believe I partake of your sorrows. Have I not the
right? Have you not partaken of mine? Unfortunately, the
consolations that I can offer you are in vain."
"No, no; the expression of your interest is sweet and salutary
to me. It is weakness, but I cannot hear a young girl spoken of
without thinking of her whom I have lost."
"These thoughts are so natural! Hold, my lord; since I have
seen you, I have accompanied, in visits to the prisons, a lady
of my acquaintance, who is a patroness of the salvation of the
young women confined at Saint Lazare; this house contains
many culprits. If I were not a mother, I should have judged
them, doubtless, with still more seventy, while I now feel for them


REFLECTIONS.
36>
"Let some one mount a horse immediately," said D'Harville,
to a servant who answered the bell, "and deliver these letters."
He wrote other letters to several persons about insignificant
objects: but in the letters he appointed or put off different meet-
ings several days. This correspondence finished, Joseph came in
as the noise of a carriage was heard in the courtyard.
"It is her ladyship going out; she ordered the horses this morn>-
ing at an early hour," said Joseph.
"Run and beg her to come here before she goes out."
"Yes, my lord."
Hardly had the domestic gone, than D'Harville approached a
glass, and examined himself minutely. "Well, well," said he,
in a gloomy tone ; *' that's right—the cheeks flushed, the eye
iparkling—joy or fear—no matter—as long as they are deceived.
Let us see now—a smile on the lips. There are so many kinds of
smiles. But who can distinguish the false from the real? who can
penetrate under this lying mask, to say, this smile conceals a black
despair? no one, happily, no one! Stay! yes, love could never
be mistaken ; no, its instinct would enlighten it. But I hear my
wife—my wife! Come to your post, inauspicious buffoon."
"Good-day, Albert," said Madame d'Harville, with a sweet
smile, giving him her hand. "But what is the matter, my friend?
You appear so happy and gay!"
*' It is, that at the moment you came in, dear little sister, I was
thinking of you. Since the resolution J took last night, the future,
which seemed to me dark and gloomy, has become singularly
cleared up—simplified."
"Nothing is more natural, my friend; now we move toward
one object, leaning fraternally on each other: at the end of our
career we will find ourselves as we are to-day. In fine, I desire
that you shall be happy, and this shall be so, for I have placed it
there," said Clemence, putting her finger on his forehead, ere she
resumed, with a charming expression, lowering her hand to his
heart: "No, I am mistaken; it is here that this good thought
will incessantly watch for you, and for me also ; and you shall see
what is the obstinacy of a devoted heart."
"Dear Cle'mence," answered D'Harville, with constrained
emotion; then, after a pause, he added gaily, " I begged you to
come here before your departure to inform you that I could not
take tea with you this morning. I have a number of persons to
breakfast with me; it is a kind of impromptu assemblage to con-
gratulate M. de Lucenay on the happy issue of his duel."
"What a coincidence: M. de Lucenay comes to breakfast with
you, while I go, perhaps very indiscreetly, to invite myself to do
the same with Madame de Lucenay ; for I have much to say to
her about my unknown proteges. From there 1 intend to go to
the prison of Saint Lazare, with Madame de Blinval, for you do
not know all my ambition; at this moment I am intriguing to be
admitted into the Discharged Prisoners' Aid Society.' When I


SAINT LAZARE.
3^9
CHAPTER LI.
SAINT LAZARE.
We think we ought to inform the most scrupulous of our readers
that the prison of Saint Lazare, especially devoted to Magdalens
and female thieves, is daily visited by ladies, whose charities!
name, and social position command general respect. \
It is an immense edifice, of imposing and gloomy aspect, situated
in the Rue du Faubourg Saint Denis.
Ignorant of the terrible drama passing at home, Madame
D'Harville had gone to the prison, after having obtained some in-
formation from Madame de Lucenay concerning the two unhappy
women whom the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand had plunged into
distress. She was received with much kindness by the director,
and by several inspectresses, known by their black dresses and a
blue riband with a silver medal.
Madame Armand, the inspectress who had remained alone with
Madame d' Harville, possessed to an extreme degree foreknowl-
edge and insight into the character of the prisoners. Her word
and judgment was of paramount authority in the house.
She said to Clemence: "Since your ladyship has been kind
enough to request me to point out those inmates who, from good
conduct or sincere repentance, should merit your interest, I be-
lieve I can recommend one unfortunate, whom I believe more un-
happy than culpable; for I do not think I deceive myself in af-
firming, that it is not too late to save this girl, a poor child of sixteen,
or seventeen at most."
"For what has she been confined?"
"She is guilty of being found on the Champs Elysees in the
evening. As it is forbidden her class, under very severe penalties,
to frequent, either day or night, certain places, and the Champs
Elysees is among the number of these prohibited places, she was
arrested."
*' And she appears interesting to you?"
"I have never seen more regular or more ingenuous features.
Imagine, my lady, a picture of the Virgin. What gave still more
to her appearance a most modest expression was, that when she
came here, she was dressed like a peasant girl of the environs of
Paris."
"She is, then, a country girl?" "No, my lady. The in-
spectors recognized her. She lived in a horrible house in the City
from which she was absent two or three months; but as she had
not her name erased from the police registers, she remained
under the control of the officers whc sen* her here."


MONT SAINT JEAN.
371
ing, it was easy to see that joy alone at escaping from labor did
not render them so noisy, After having pushed through the only
door that led to the yard, the crowd separated, and made a circle
around a deformed being, whom they overwhelmed with hoot-
ings.
Nothing could be more sadly grotesque than the features of this
butt of the prisoners. One fact alone, however, should have saved
her from their bad treatment; she was about to become a mother.
But her ugliness and imbecility, and the habit they had of looking
upon her as a victim devoted to the general amusement, rendered
her persecutors implacable, notwithstanding their ordinary respect
for maternity.
Among the most furious of the enemies of Mont Saint Jean (this
was the name of the drudge) could have been remarked La Louve
—a tall dark girl of about twenty, active, masculine, with rather
regular features; something violent, ferocious, and brutal in her
expression, a kind of habitual laugh, which, lifting her upper lip
when she was angry, showing her white and scattering teeth, ex-
plains her surname of La Louve (She-Wolf). Nevertheless, this
face expressed more audacity and insolence than cruelty—in a
word, rather vicious than thoroughly bad, this woman yet sus-
ceptible of some good feelings.
"Oh, dear, what have I done to you?" cried Mont Saint Jean.
"Why do you treat me so?"
"Because it amuses us. Because you are only fit to be tor-
mented. It is your trade. Look at yourself; you will see you
have no right to complain."
*' But you know I do not complain until I can't stand it any
longer."
"Well, we'll leave you alone if you will tell us why you are
called Mont Saint Jean."
"I have told you this a hundred times. An old soldier, whom
I once loved, was called so because he was wounded in the battle
of Mont Saint Jean. I took his name. Are you content now?
You make me repeat the-same things."
"If he looked like you he was a beauty! He must have been
one of the Invalids."
"I am ugly, I know. Say what you please ; all the same to
me; but don't strike me, that's all I ask."
"What have you got in that old handkerchief?" said La
Louve.
"Yes, yes, what is it? Come, show it." "Oh no, I entreat
you!" said the poor creature, holding the bundle tightly in her
hands.
"You must give it up." "Yes; take it from her, La
Louve."
"What is it?" "Well.it is baby's clothes I have com-
menced for my child. I make them with the old pieces of linen 1
pick up. It is of no consequence to you, is it?"


372 GOUALEUSE AND LOUISE.
"Oh, let us see the baby-linen of Mont Saint Jean!—Come,
come," cried La Louve, snatching the bundle from the hands of
Mont Saint Jean.
The wretched handkerchief was torn to pieces in the struggle,
and its contents, composed of rags and bits of stuff of all colors,
were strewn on the ground and trampled under foot, amid shouts oi
laughter.
"What rags! What trash! An old rag shop! Takes more
thread than stuff! Here, pick up your duds, Mont Saint Jean!"
"How wicked you are! How bad you must be !" cried the
poor creature, running here and there after the scraps and rags,
which she tried to pick up, notwithstanding the blows they gave
her. "I have never harmed any one," said she, weeping. "I
have offered, if they would let me alone, to do anything for them
they wanted; to give them half of my rations, although I am very
hungry. Ah, well! no, no, it is just the same. But what must
I do for peace? They have not even pity on a poor woman in my
condition! They must be more savage than wild beasts! I had
so much trouble to collect those little scraps of linen. How do
you think I shall do, since I have no money to buy anything?"
Suddenly she cried, in an accent of joy, "Oh, now you have
come. La Goualeuse, I am saved! Speak to them for me ! They
will listen to you, surely: for they love you as much as they hate
me."
The Goualeuse arriving, the last of the prisoners had entered the
yard.
CHAPTER LIII.
GOUALEUSE AND LOUISE.
At the ringing of the bell, the inspectress had hastened to one
of the doors which opened into the prison-yard, to be ready to
prevent by her presence, or calm by her authority, any tumult or
quarrels that might arise among the scholars, whose passions,
restrained for some time by discipline and employment, only
waited the hour of idleness and recreation to be aroused and
excited. They had witnessed, in mournful silence, the cruel
treatment of which Mont Saint Jean was a victim, and she had already
advanced to snatch her from her tormentors, when Fleur-de-
Marie appeared.
"She is saved !" said she to herself, and returned to the parlor
where Madame d'Harville awaited her.
"But this is quite a romance that you have just related," cried
the latter, without giving Madame Armand time to apologize for
her absence. "What are the relations of this girl, whose beauty,
language, and manners form such a strange contrast to her past


374 GOUALEUSE AND LOUISE.
have sometimes moments of reflection—a kind of return to thts
right path. On hearing these words, expressed with such resigna-
tion, La Louve, touched to the heart, as she afterward said, threw
her knife on the ground, trampled it under foot, and cried, 'I was
wrong to threaten you, Songstress, for I am stronger than you;
you were not afraid of my knife ; you are courageous—I love
courage; so now, if anyone attempts to hurt you, I'll defend
you.'"
"What a singular character!"
"The example of La Louve increased the influence of La
Goualeuse; and at present, a thing almost without a precedent,
hardly any of the prisoners address her familiarly; the greater
part respect her and even offer to render her any little service that
can be rendered among prisoners."
"But, madame, you must need great courage, much strength of
mind, not to recoil before the unpleasantness of a task which
brings such rare returns!"
"The consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and encourages
me; besides, sometimes, one is recompensed by some happy dis-
covery."
"No matter; women like you, madame, are seldom to be
found."
"No, no; I assure you what I do others do, and with more
success and intelligence than me. One of the inspectresses of the
other ward of Saint Lazare, destined for those accused of other
crimes, will interst you much more. She related to me the arrival,
this morning, of a young girl, accused of infanticide. Neverhave
I heard anything more touching. The father of the poor unfor-
tunate has become insane from grief, on learning the shame of his
child. It appears that nothing could be more frightful than the
poverty of this family, who lived in a wretched garret in the Ru&
du Temple!"
"The Rue du Temple!" cried Madame d'Harville, astonished.
"What is the name of the family?"
"Morel. Her name is Louise Morel."
"This poor family has been recommended to me," said
Clemence, blushing, "but I was far from expecting to hear such
terrible news—and Louise Morel"
"Says she is innocent; she swears her child was dead; and her
words have the accent of truth. Since you have interested your-
self in her family, if you would have the kindness to see her, this
token of your goodness would calm her despair, which they say is
fearful."
"Certainly, I will see her, and the Goualeuse also; for all you
tell me about this poor girl affects me sincerely. But what must
J do to obtain her liberty? Then I will find her a place; I will
take charge of her."
"With the relations your ladysb;p has, it will be very easy for
you to get her discharge to-day or to-morrow; it depends entirely


376
WOLF AND LAMB.
Yet since she was carried off from the farm of Bouqueval, net
features were much altered; her natural paleness, slightly tinted
with rose, was now as dead as the whitest alabaster; her expres-
sion had also changed; it had now assumed a kind of dignified
sadness. Fleur-de-Marie knew that to endure courageously the
grievous sacrifices of expiation is almost to obtain a kind of regen-
eration.
"Ask their pardon for me, La Goualeuse," said Mont Saint
Jean. *' See how they drag in the dirt all that I had collected
with so much trouble; what good can it do them?"
Fleur-de-Marie did not say a word, but she began actively to
collect, one by one, from under the feet of the prisoners, all the
rags she could find. One of the prisoners retaining mischievously
under her foot a piece of coarse muslin, Fleur-de-Marie, stooping,
raised her enchanting face toward this woman, and said, in her
sweet voice, "I beg you to let me take this, in the name of the
poor weeping woman."
The prisoner withdrew her foot. The muslin was saved, as well
as all the other rags, which the Goualeuse secured piece by piece.
There remained only one little cap, which two of them were con-
tending for, laughing.
Fleur-de-Marie said to them, "Come, be good now, and give
her that little cap."
"My eye! is it for a baby harlequin, this cap? Made of grey
stuff, with peaks of green and black fustian, and a bedtick lin-
ing!" This description of the cap was received with shouts of
laughter.
"Laugh at it as much as you please, but give it to me," said
Mont Saint Jean; "don't drag it in the gutter, as you did the
rest. I beg your pardon, La Goualeuse, for having made you soil
your hands for me," added she, in a grateful voice.
"Give me the harlequin cap," said La Louve, who caught it,
and shook it in the air as a trophy.
"I entreat you to give it to me," said La Goualeuse.
"Ah! bah! such a rag! it's not worth while."
"It is because Mont Saint Jean has nothing but rags to dress
her child with that you should have pity on her, La Louve," said
Fleur-de-Marie, sadly, extending her hand toward the cap.
"You shan't have it!" answered La Louve, brutally; "must
one always give up to you because you are the weakest? You
take advantage of this."
"Where would be the merit of giving it to me if I were the
strongest?" answered La Goualeuse, with a smile full of grace.
"No, no, you wish to twist me about again with your little soft
voice; you shan't have it!"
"Come, now, La Louve ; see how she weeps!"
"What is that to me? So much the worse for her; she is om
target''


WOLF AND LAMB.
377
"That's true, that's true, don't give it up," murmured several
of the prisoners, carried away by the example of La Louve.
"You are right—so much the worse for her!" said Fleur-de-
Marie, with bitterness. "She is your butt; she ought to be
resigned to it; her groans amuse you, her tears make you laugh.
You must pass the time in some way; if you should kill her on
the spot, she has no right to say anything. You are right, La
Louve—it is just! this poor woman has done no harm; she can-
not defend herself; she is one against the whole—you overpower
her—that is very brave and very generous."
"Are we cowards, then?" cried La Louve, carried away by
the violence of her character, and by her impatience of all con-
tradiction.
"La Goualeuse must ask our pardon for having called us cow-
ards! If not, and we let her go ori, she'll finish by eating us up;
we are very stupid not to see that. She must ask our pardon.
On her knee! on both knees! or we'll treat her like Mont Saint
Jean, her prot Igie. On your knees—on your knees! Oh! we are
cowards, are we?"
Fleur-de-Marie was not alarmed at these furious cries; she let
tke storm rage, but as soon as she could be heard, casting a calm
and melancholy glance around her, she replied to La Louve, who
vociferated anew, " Dare to repeat that we are cowards!"
"You? no, no; it is this poor woman whose clothes you have
torn, whom you have beaten, dragged in the mire, who is a cow-
ard! Do you not see how she weeps, how she trembles in look-
ing at you? It is she who is a coward, since she is afraid of you."
The discernment of Fleur-de-Marie served her perfectly. She
might have invoked justice and duty to disarm the stupid and
brutal conduct of the prisoners, they would not have listened to
her; but in addressing them with this sentiment of natural gener-
osity, which is never extinct even in the most contemptible natures,
she awoke a feeling of pity.
La Louve and her companions still murmured; Fleur-de-Marie
continued: "Your target does not deserve compassion, you say;
but her child deserves it. Who would not pity a child? If it
was hungry you would take the bread out of your own mouth;
would you not, La Louve?"
"Yes, and willingly. I am no worse than others."
"Nor we neither."
"I told you truly," said Fleur-de-Marie, "that you were not
cruel. You are kind; your error is not reflecting that Mont Saint
Jean deserves as much compassion as though she had her child ir
her arms, that's all."
Nothing is more easily moved than popular passion—nothing
more abrupt and rapid than the return from evil to good and from
good to evil. The few simple and touching words from Fleur-de-
Marie had caused a sudden reaction in favor of Mont Saint lean,
*rho wept gently.


WOLF AND LAMB.
379
change us from black to white: we listen to you, we give way to
our impulses, and we are your dupes."
"My dupe—because you have generously assisted this pool
woman!"
"It shall not be said," cried La Louve, "that a little girl like
you can trample me under foot."
"1! how?
'' Do I know how? You come here—you have made me think.
Yes, there are some words you say which, in spite of me, have
touched my heart, and make me think all manner of sad things.
You are for me a bad acquaintance; if this is continued, in fifteen
days, instead of being called Wolf, they will call me Sheep.
Thank you! it's not me they'll baptise so. Martial would kill
me. In short, I want none of your company; I am going to ask
to be put in another hall; if they refuse, I'll flare up so that they'll
put me in the black-hole until my time is out. That's what I have
to say to you, La Goualeuse."
"I assure you, La Louve," said Fleur-de-Marie, "that you feel
an interest in me, not because you are soft, but because you are
generous—brave hearts alone feel the misfortunes of others."
"There is neither generosity nor courage in this," said La
i^ouve, brutally; "it is cowardice. Besides, I do not wish you to
tell me that I am touched—softened; it is not true."
"I will not say so any more, La Louve; but since you have
shown some interest for me, you will let me be grateful to you for
it, will you not?"
"To-night I shall be in another hall from you, or alone in
chokey; and soon I shall be away from here."
*And where will you go?"
"Home; Rue Pierre Lescot. I have my own furnished room."
"And Martial!" said Goualeuse, who hoped to continue the
conversation by speaking of an object interesting to her; "you'll
be very happy to see him?"
"Yes; oh, yes!" answered she. "When I was arrested he
was recovering from sickness—a fever which he had, because he
is always on the water. For sixteen or seventeen nights I never
left him for a moment. I sold half that I possessed to pay for
a doctor and medicines. I can boast of it; and I do boast of it.
If my man lives, he owes it to me."
"Where is he now? what does he do?"
"He lives near the Asnieres Bridge, on the shore, with his
family, in a solitary house. He is always warring with the river-
keepers; and when once he is in his boat, with his double-bar-
relled gun, it's no good to approach him!" said La Louve,
proudly.
"What is his trade?"
"He fishes by stealth at night; his father had some misunder-
standing with justice. He has still a mother, two sisters, and a
brother. It would be better for him not to have such a brother,
'j


38o
WVLF AND LAMB.
for he is a scoundrel, who will be guillotined one of these days;
his sisters also. However, never mind, their necks belong to
themselves."
"Where did you first meet Martial?"
"In Paris. He wished to learn the trade of a locksmith ; a
fine trade, always red-hot iron and fire around one, and danger,
too; that suited him, but, like me, he had a bad head—couldn't
agree with the slow-pokes: so he returned to his family, and
began to maraud on the river. He came to Paris to see me, and
I went to see him at Asnieres; but if it had been farther, I should
have gone, even if I had been obliged to go on my hands and
knees."
"You will be very happy to go to the country, you, La Louve,"
said the Goualeuse, signing; "above all, if you love, as I do, to
walk in the fields."
"I prefer to walk in the woods—in the large forests, with
Martial! The thicker and darker the forests, the more I like it.
A lonely hut, where I should live with Martial, who should be a
poacher; to go with him at night, to set traps for the game; and
then, if the guards come to arrest us, to fire on them, hiding in the
bushes—ah! that's what I like!"
"Who gave you such ideas?" *' Martial. He was a poacher
in Rambouillet Wood. About a year ago he was looked upon as
having fired upon a guard who had fired upon him—villain of a
guard! It was not proved in court, but Martial was obliged to
leave. So he then came to Paris to learn a trade; as I said, he
left and went to pick up on the river; it is less slavish. But he
always regrets the woods, and will return there some day or
other."
"And, La Louve, where are your parents?" "Do you think
I know!"
"Is it a long time since you have seen them?"
'' I do not know if they are dead or alive."
"Tell me, La Louve," continued Fleur-de-Marie, after a
moment's silence, "do you not sometimes like to build castles in
the air here in prison? It is so amusing."
"Castles in the air?"
"Let me build one for you and Martial."
"Well, let us see this castle." "Just imagine, for example,
that by chance you should meet some one who should say to you,
'Abandoned by your father and mother, your childhood has been
surrounded by bad examples; that you must be pitied as much as
blamed for having become '"
"Having become what?"
"What you and I—have become," answered the Goualeuse, in
a soft voice. "Suppose this person were to say to you, 'You lovft
Martial—he loves you; leave your present mode of life, and
become his wife.'"
La Louve shrugged her shoulders.


J82
THE PROTECTRESS.
fool enough to tell you that I would like to live in a forest with
Martial! But who are you, then? Why do you turn my head in
this way? You do not know what you have done, unlucky girl!
Now, in spite of myself, I shall always be thinking of that wood,
that house, those children, all that happiness, which I never shall
have—never, never! And if I cannot forget what you have told
me, my life will be a torment, a hell; and all by your fault—yes,
by your fault!"
"So much the better!—oh! so much the better!" said Fleur"
de-Marie.
i "You dare to say so? " cried La Louve, with threatening eyes.
"Yes, so much the better; for if your miserable mode of living
from henceforth proves a hell, you will prefer that of which I have
spoken."
"And what good for me to prefer it, since I cannot enjoy it?"
Fleur-de-Marie was about to reply, when Madame Armand
came and interrupted her to conduct her to Madame d'Harville.
She said to La Louve, who remained dumb from surprise, "I see
with pleasure that the presence of La Goualeuse in this prison has
been beneficial to you and your companions. I know that you
have made a collection for poor Mont Saint Jean ; that is good and
charitable. La Louve. It shall be reckoned to you. I %vas sure
that you were better than you appeared to be. In recompense for
your good action, I think I can promise you that your imprison-
ment shall be abridged by many days." And Madame Armand
departed, followed by Fleur-de-Marie.
CHAPTER LV.
THE PROTECTRESS.
The inspectress entered, with La Goualeuse, the room where
Cl£mence was; the pale cheeks of the girl were slightly flushed
from her earnest conversation with La Louve.
*' My lady the marchioness, pleased with the excellent accounts
I have given of you," said Madame Armand to Fleur-de-Marie,
"desires to see you, and perhaps will deign to obtain permission
for you to leave here before the expiration of your time."
"I thank you, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie, timidly, to
Madame Armand, who left her alone with the noble lady.
Clemence, struck with the beautiful features of her protegee, and
her graceful and modest bearing, could not help remembering
that the Goualeuse had, in her sleep, pronounced the name of
Rudolf, and that the inspectress believed her to be preyed upon
by a deep and concealed love. Although perfectly convinced
that the Grand Duke Rudolf could not be in question, Clemence
allowed that, at least in point of beauty, La Goualeuse was


3^4
THE PROTECTRESS.
name she pronounced in her sleep. Under what strange circum-
stances had the prince and this poor girl met? Why did Rudolf
go disguised into the City ?" she could not resolve these questions;
only she remembered that Lady Sarah had formerly, wickedly
and falsely, related to her some pretended eccentricities of Rudolf,
and of his strange amours. Was it not, indeed, strange that he
had taken from a life of misery this creature, of ravishing beauty
and of no common mind?
Clemence had noble qualities, but she was a woman, and she
loved Rudolf profoundly, although she had determined to bury
this secret in the very depths of her heart. Without reflecting
that this, no doubt, was one of those generous actions which the
prince was accustomed to do secrectly ; without reflecting that,
perhaps, she confounded with love a sentiment of warm grati-
tude; without reflecting, finally, that of this sentiment, even if it
were more tender, Rudolf might be ignorant, the lady, in the first
feeling of bitterness and injustice, could not prevent herself con-
sidering the Goualeuse as a rival.
Cle'mence resumed gently, not to awaken the suspicions of her
protlgee, " In truth, I repeat to you, I cannot comprehend that,
having so much to praise in your benefactor, you should be a pris-
oner here ; how, after having sincerely returned to the paths of
rectitude, could you cause yourself to be arrested in a place to
you interdicted? All this seems to me extraordinary. Hence, I
promise you, in guarding scrupulously your secret, if. you confide
it to me, I will do all in my power to meet your wishes."
"It is about three months since M. Rudolf placed me at a farm
situated four or five leagues hence. He confided me to the care
of a lady as good as she was venerable, whom I soon loved as a
mother. She and the cur6 of the village, at the request of M.
Rudolf, took charge of my education. One night, a short time
since," said Fleur de Marie, trembling at the recital, " I went to
the parsonage of the village when a wicked woman, who had
treated me cruelly in my childhood, and a man, her accomplice,
who was concealed with her in a ravine, threw themselves upon
me, wrapped me up, and carried me off in a carriage."
"For what purpose?"
"I do not know, madame. My waylayers were acting, I
think, under the orders of some powerful persons."
"What then ensued?"
"Hardly had the vehicle moved, than the bad woman, whose
nick name was the Owl, cried, ' I have got some vitriol; I am
going to wash the face of La Goualeuse, to disfigure her.'"
"How horrid! Unfortunate child! What saved you from
that danger?"
"The accomplice of this woman, a blind man, called the
Schoolmaster."
"He defended you?"
"Yes, madame, on this occasion and on another- This time s


3*6
THE PROTECTRESS.
and declare she is a gay girl, whom he found near his tav( \ As
such are condemned to three months' imprisonment when n, ey ar»
caught on the Champs Elysees, and Goualeuse is still ^n the
police lists, she will be arrested, and sent to Saint Lazare, where
she will be as well guarded and concealed as in the cellar of Red
Arm.' 'But,' replied the Owl, 'the Goualeuse will not suf«
fer herself to be arrested ; once at the guard-house, she will tell
all, she will denounce us. Supposing, even, that she is impris-
oned, she will write to her protectors; all will be discovered.'
'No, she will go to prison willingly,' answered the Schoolmaster;
• she must swear that she will not denounce us to any one as long
as she remains at Saint Lazare, nor afterward neither. She owes
as much to me, for I have prevented her being disfigured by
you, and drowned at Red Arm's; but if, after having sworn not
to speak, she should do it, we will set the farm at Bouqueval
a-fire.' Then, addressing me, he said, ' Decide! swear the oath
I ask! you shall go to prison for two months; otherwise I
abandon you to the Owl, who will take you to the cellar, where
you'll be drowned. Come, decide. I know if you »wear you
will keep your oath.'"
"And you have sworn?"
"Alas! yes, madame; I feared so much to be disfigured by
the Owl, or to be drowned in a cellar; that appeared to me so
frightful. Any other kind of death would have appeared less fear-
ful. I should not, perhaps, have endeavored to escape."
"What a gloomy idea at your age!" said Madame d'Harville,
looking at La Goualeuse with surprise. "And sometimes you
wish to die?"
"Sometimes!" said La Goualeuse, smiling bitterly; "yes,
madame, sometimes."
"Yet you feared to be disfigured by that horrible woman?
you cling to your beauty, then, poor child? That announces
that life has still som" t-',iapr.3 Wyou. Courage, then—courage!"
"It is, perhaps,: waalcness o think so; but if I were hand-
some, as you say, m Same, I shi uld wish to die handsome, in pro-
nouncing the name i-f ray benefixtor."
The eyes of Mada iie d'Harville filled with tears.
"I hope that, in future, you will be less severe toward yourself;
now I can understand your silence. But your friends a'- the farm
must be very much alarmed."
"Alas, madame, in my fright I did not reflect that my oath
would prevent me from informing them; now it gives me much
pain, but I believe that, without breaking my oath, I can beg you
to write to Madame Georges, at the farm of Bouqueval, to have
no uneasiness about me, without telling her where I am, for I have
promised to be silent."
"My child, these precautions will become useless if, at my
recommendation, you are pardoned ; to-morrow you shall return
m> the farm, without having broken your oath; you can then con-


THE PROTECTRESS.
387
tult your benefactors to know how far you are restricted by this
oath, drawn from you by threats."
*' How can I show my gratitude?"
"By continuing to conduct yourself as you have done. I only
regret I can do nothing for your future welfare—it is a pleasure
that your friends have reserved."
Madame Armand entered suddenly, with an alarmed air.
"Madame," said she to Clemence, with hesitation, "I am grieved
at the message I have to deliver to you."
"What do you mean to say, madame?"
"The Duke de Lucenay is below—he comes from your house,
madame."
"Sad news," said Madame d'Harville. Then suddenly she
cried in a heartrending tone, " My daughter—my child, perhaps!
Oh, speak, madame!"
"I am ignorant, madame."
"Oh! in mercy, madame, take me to M. de Lucenay," cried
Madame d'Harville, going out, quite bewildered, and followed by
Madame Armand.
"Poor mother!" said the Goualeuse, sadly, "oh, no, it is
impossible! At the moment even when she was showing so much
benevolence toward me, such a blow to fall! No, no—once
more, it is impossible!"
End of Vol. I.





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