r LIBRARY 
 
 A 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIPORNIA 
 SAN DIEeO 
 
 presented to the 
 UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 SAN DIEGO 
 
 by 
 
 Mrs. Townsend
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 CALiFOBNl/V. SAN D.EOy 
 
 ';S2 02237 5109 
 
 r^ 
 
 V.'\
 
 
 ; ^ 
 
 
 
 \ ffH' 
 
 Cije WovkQ of 
 Eugene Sue 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 WITH 
 
 ORIGINAL ETCHINGS 
 
 In Twenty Volumes 
 Volume IF. 
 
 ^/^" 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO. 
 
 LONDON AND BOSTON 
 
 
 ■'^¥^i^" ^r .Ji ^
 
 Limited to 1000 copies 
 of which this is 
 
 NoMS:..^..
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. Rigolette's F1R8T Sorrow 
 n. The Will 
 TTT. L'Ile du Ravageur 
 rV. The Freshwater Pirate 
 V. The Mother and Son . 
 VI. Francois and Amandine 
 VII. A Lodging-house . 
 Vni. The Victims of Misplaced 
 IX. The Rue de Chaillot . 
 X. The Comte de Saint-Remy 
 XI. The Interview 
 XII. The Search . 
 XIII. The Adieux . 
 XrV. Recollections 
 XV. The Boats 
 
 XVI. The Happiness of Meeting 
 XVII. Doctor Griffon . 
 XVIII. The Portrait 
 XIX. The Agent of Safety. 
 XX. The Chouette 
 
 Confidence 
 
 FAes 
 11 
 33 
 
 48 
 60 
 82 
 101 
 119 
 132 
 , 156 
 , 170 
 . 185 
 . 204 
 . 226 
 . 239 
 . 262 
 . 273 
 . 298 
 . 305 
 . 315 
 . 321 
 
 Vol. IV.
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The abduction Frontispiece 
 
 The brigand dashed at his brother ... 87 
 
 He exhibited such ferocious joy .... 168 
 Was about to embrace his father .... 199 
 
 Vol. rv.
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 eigolette's first sorrow. 
 
 EiGOLETTE's apartment was still m all its extreme 
 nicety the large silver watch placed over the mantel- 
 ; n a small boxwood stand, denoted the ^om- of 
 
 four The severe cold weather having ceased, the thrifty 
 little needlewoman had not lighted her stove. 
 
 From the window, a corner of blue sky ^^^^earcely 
 perceptible over the masses of irregularly built roofs, 
 garrets, and tall chimneys, which bounded the horizon 
 on the other side of the street. Suddenly a sunbeam 
 which, as it were, wandered for a moment between two 
 high gables, came for an instant to purple with its 
 bright rays the windows of the young girl's chamber 
 Sigolette was at work, seated by her window ; and the 
 soft shadow of her charming profile stood out from 
 the transparent light of the glass as a cameo of rosy 
 whiteness'on a silver ground, brilliant hues plaj^^^^^^^^^^ 
 her jet black hair, twisted in a knot at the back of hei 
 head, and shaded with a warm amber co our Jie i.ory 
 of h^r industrious little fingers, which plied the needle 
 with incomparable activity. The long folds o her brown 
 gown, confined at the waist by the bands of ber green 
 apron, half concealed her straw-seated chair, and her 
 pretty feet rested on the edge of a stool before her.
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Like a rich lord, who sometimes amuses himself in 
 hiding the walls of a cottage beneath splendid hangings, 
 the setting sun for a moment lighted up this little 
 chamber with a thousand dazzling fires, throwing his 
 golden tints on the curtains of gray and green stuif, 
 and making the walnut-tree furniture glisten with bright- 
 ness, and the dry-rubbed floor look like heated copper ; 
 whilst it encircled in a wire-work of gold the grisette's 
 bird-cage. But, alas ! in spite of the exciting splendour 
 of this sun-ray, the two canaries (male and female) 
 flitted about uneasily, and, contrary to their usual habit, 
 did not sing a note. This was because, contrary to her 
 usual habit, Rigolette did not sing. The three never 
 warbled without one another ; almost invariably the 
 cheerful and matin song of the latter called forth that 
 of the birds, who, more lazy, did not leave their nests as 
 early as their mistress. Then there were rivalries, — 
 contentions of clear, sonorous, pearly, silvery notes, in 
 which the birds had not always the advantage. 
 
 Rigolette did not sing, because, for the first time in 
 her life, she experienced a sorrow. Up to this time, the 
 sight of the misery of the Morels had often affected her ; 
 but such sights are too familiar to the poorer classes to 
 cause them any very lasting melancholy. After having, 
 almost every day, succoured these unfortunates as far as 
 was in her power, sincerely wept with and for them, the 
 young girl felt herself at the same time moved and sat- 
 isfied, — moved by their misfortunes, and satisfied at hav- 
 ing shown herself pitiful. But this was not a sorrow. 
 Rigolette's natural gaiety soon regained its empire ; and 
 then, without egotism, but by a simple fact of compari- 
 son, she found herself so happy in her little chamber, 
 after leaving the horrible den of the Morels, that her 
 momentary sadness speedily disappeared. 
 
 This lightness of impression was so little affected by 
 personal feeling, that, by a mode of extremely delicate 
 reasoning, the grisette considered it almost a duty to aid 
 
 12
 
 RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 those more unhappy than herself, that she might thus 
 unscrupulously enjoy an existence so very precarious and 
 entirely dependent on her labour, but which, compared 
 with the fearful distress of the lapidary's family, appeared 
 to her almost luxurious. 
 
 " In order to sing without compunction, when we have 
 near us persons so much to be pitied," she said, naively, 
 " we must have been as charitable to them as possible." 
 
 Before we inform our reader the cause of Rigolette's 
 first sorrow, we are desirous to assure him, or her, com- 
 pletely as to the virtue of this young girl. We are sorry 
 to use the word virtue, — a serious, pompous, solemn 
 word, which almost always brings with it ideas of pain- 
 ful sacrifice, of painful struggle against the passions, of 
 austere meditations on the final close of all things here 
 below. Such was not the virtue of Rigolette. She had 
 neither deeply struggled nor meditated ; she had worked, 
 and laughed, and sung. Her prudence, as she called it, 
 when speaking frankly and sincerely to Rodolph, was 
 with her a question of time, — -'she had not the leisure 
 to be in love. Particularly lively, industrious, and 
 orderly, order, work, and gaiety had often, unknown 
 to herself, defended, sustained, saved her. 
 
 It may be deemed, perchance, that this morality is 
 light, frivolous, casual ; but of what consequence is the 
 cause, so that the effect endures ? Of what consequence 
 are the directions of the roots of a plant, provided the 
 flower blooms pure, expanded, and full of perfume ? 
 
 Apropos of our utopianisms, as to the encouragement, 
 help, and recompenses which society ought to grant to 
 artisans remarkable for their eminent social qualities, 
 we have alluded to that protection of virtue (one of the 
 projects of the Emperor, by the way). Let us suppose 
 this admirable idea realised. One of the real philan- 
 thropists whom the Emperor proposed to employ in 
 searching after worth has discovered Rigolette. Aban- 
 doned without advice, witliout aid, exposed to all the 
 
 13
 
 THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 perils of poverty, to all the seductions with which 
 youth and beauty are surrounded, this charming girl 
 has remained pure ; her honest, hard-working life might 
 serve for a model and example. Would not this young 
 creature deserve, not a mere recompense, not succour 
 only, but some impressive words of approbation and 
 encouragement, which would give her a consciousness 
 of her own worth, exalt her in her own eyes, and lay on 
 her obligations for the future ? At least she would 
 know that she was followed by eyes full of solicitude 
 and protection in the difficult path in which she is 
 progressing with so much courage and serenity; she 
 would know that, if one day the want of work or sick- 
 ness threatened to destroy the equilibrium of the poor 
 and occupied life, which depends solely on work and 
 health, a slight help, due to her former deserts, would 
 be given to her. 
 
 People, no doubt, will exclaim against the impossibility 
 of this tutelary surveillance, which would surround per- 
 sons particularly worthy of interest through their previ- 
 ous excellent lives. It seems to us that society has 
 already resolved this problem. Has it not already imag- 
 ined the superintendence of the police, for life or for a 
 period, for the most useful purpose of constantly con- 
 trolling the conduct of dangerous persons, noted for the 
 infamy of their former lives ? Why does not society 
 exercise also a superintendence of moral charity ? 
 
 But let us leave the lofty stilts of our utopianisms, and 
 return to the cause of Rigolette's first sorrow. 
 
 With the exception of Germain, a well-behaved, open- 
 hearted young man, the grisette's neighbours had all, at 
 first, begun on terms of familiarity, believing her offers 
 of good neighbourship were little flirtations; but these 
 gentlemen had been compelled to admit, with as much 
 astonishment as annoyance, that they found in Rigolette 
 an amiable and mirthful companion for their Sunday 
 excursions, a pleasant neighbour, and a kind-hearted 
 
 14
 
 RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 creature, but not a mistress. Their surprise and their 
 annoyance, at first very great, gradually gave way before 
 the frank and even temper of the grisette ; and then, as 
 she had sagaciously said to Rodolph, her neighbours 
 were proud on Sundays to have on their arms a pretty 
 girl, who was an honour to them in every way (Rigo- 
 lette was quite regardless of appearances), and who only 
 cost them the share of the moderate pleasures, whose 
 value was doubled by her presence and nice appearance. 
 Besides, the dear girl was so easily contented ! In her 
 days of penury she dined well and gaily off a morsel of 
 warm cake, which she nibbled with all the might of her 
 little white teeth; after which, she amused herself so 
 much with a walk on the boulevards or in the arcades. 
 
 If our readers feel but little sympathy with Rigolette, 
 they will at least confess that a person must be very 
 absurd, or very cruel, to refuse once a week these simple 
 amusements to so delightful a creature, who, besides 
 having no right to be jealous, never prevented her cav- 
 aliers from consoling themselves for her cruelty by 
 flirtations with other damsels. 
 
 Francois Germain alone never founded any vain hopes 
 on the familiarity of the young girl, but, either from 
 instinct of heart or delicacy of mind, he guessed from 
 the first day how very agreeable the singular companion- 
 ship of Rigolette might be made. 
 
 What might be imagined happened, and Germain fell 
 passionately in love with his neighbour, without daring 
 to say a word to her of his love. 
 
 Far from imitating his predecessors, who, convinced 
 of the vanity of their pursuit, had consoled themselves 
 with other loves, without being on that account the less 
 on good terms with their neighbour, Germain had most 
 supremely enjoyed his intimacy with the young girl, 
 passing with her not only his Sunday but every evening 
 when he was not engaged. During these long hours 
 Rigolette was, as usual, merry and laughing; Germain 
 
 15
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 lender, attentive, serious, and often somewhat sad. This 
 sadness was his only drawback, for his manners, natu- 
 rally good, were not to be compared with the foppery 
 of M. Girandeau, the commercial traveller, alias bag- 
 man, or with the noisy eccentricities of Cabrion ; but M. 
 Girandeau by his unending loquacity, and the painter 
 by his equally interminable fun, took the lead of Ger- 
 main, whose quiet composure rather astonished his little 
 neighbour, the grisette. 
 
 Rigolette then had not, as yet, testified any decided 
 preference for any one of her beaux ; but as she was 
 by no means deficient in judgment, she soon discovered 
 that Germain alone imited all the qualities requisite for 
 making a reasonable woman happy. 
 
 Having stated all these facts, we will inquire why 
 Rigolette was sad, and why neither she nor her birds 
 sang. Her oval and fresh-looking face was rather pale ; 
 her large black eyes, usually gay and brilliant, were 
 slightly dulled and veiled ; whilst her whole look bespoke 
 unusual fatigue. She had been working nearly all the 
 night; from time to time she looked sorrowfully at a 
 letter which lay open on a table near her. This letter 
 had been addressed to her by Germain, and contained as 
 follows : 
 
 " Prison of the Conciergerie. 
 
 "Mademoiselle: — The place from which I address you will 
 sufficiently prove to you the extent of my misfortune, — I am 
 locked up as a robber. I am guilty in the eyes of all the world, 
 and yet I am bold enough to write to you ! It is because it 
 would, indeed, be dreadful to me to believe that you consider me 
 as a degraded criminal. I beseech you not to condemn me until 
 you have perused this letter. If you discard me, that will be the 
 final blow, and will indeed overwhelm me. I will tell you all that 
 has passed. For some time I had left the Rue du Temple, but 
 I knew through poor Louise that the Morel family, in whom you 
 and I took such deep interest, were daily more and more wretched. 
 Alas, my pity for these poor people has been my destruction ! 
 I do not repent it, but my fate is very cruel. Last night I had 
 
 16
 
 RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 stayed very late at M. Ferrand's, occupied with business of 
 importance. In the room in which I was at work was a bureau, 
 in which my employer shut up every day the work I had done. 
 This evening he appeared much disturbed and troubled, and said 
 to me, ' Do not leave until these accounts are finished, and then 
 put them in the bureau, the key of which I will leave with you ; ' 
 and then he left the room. When my work was done I opened 
 the drawer to put it away, when, mechanically, my eyes were 
 attracted by an open letter, on which I read the name of Jerome 
 Morel, the lapidary. I confess that, seeing that it referred to 
 this unfortunate man, I had the indiscretion to read this letter; 
 and I learnt that the artisan was to be arrested next day on an 
 overdue bill of thirteen hundred francs, at the suit of M. Ferrand, 
 who, under an assumed name, had imprisoned him. This infor- 
 mation was from an agent employed by M. Ferrand. I knew 
 enough of the situation of the Morel family to be aware of the 
 terrible blow which the imprisonment of their only support must 
 inflict upon them, and I was equally distressed and indignant. 
 Unfortunately I saw in the same drawer an open box, with two 
 thousand francs in gold in it. At this moment I heard Louise 
 coming up the stairs, and without reflecting on the seriousness of 
 my offence, but profiting by the opportunity which chance offered, 
 I took thirteen hundred francs, went to her in the passage, and 
 put the money in her hand, saying, ' They are going to arrest 
 your father to-morrow at daybreak, for thirteen hundred francs, 
 
 here they are. Save him, but do not say that the money comes 
 
 from me. M. Ferrand is a bad man.' You see, mademoiselle, my 
 intention was good, but my conduct culpable. I conceal nothing 
 from you, but this is my excuse. By dint of saving for a long 
 time I had realised, and placed with a banker, the sum of fifteen 
 hundred francs, but the cashier of the banker never came to the 
 oflice before noon. Morel was to be arrested at daybreak, and 
 therefore it was necessary that she should have the money so as 
 to pay it in good time ; if not, even if I could have gone in the 
 day to release him from prison, still he would be arrested and 
 carried off in presence of his wife, whom such a blow must 
 have killed. Besides, the heavy costs of the writ would have 
 been added to the expenses of the lapidary. You wiU under- 
 stand, I dare say, that all these new misfortunes would not have 
 befallen me if I had been able to restore the thirteen hundred 
 francs I had taken back again to the bureau before M. Ferrand 
 discovered anything ; unfortunately, I fell into that mistake. I 
 left M. Ferrand's, and was no longer under the impression of 
 indignation and pity which had impelled me to the step. I began 
 to reflect upon all the dangers of my position. A thousand fears 
 
 17
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 then came to assail me. I knew the notary's severity, and he 
 might come after I left and search in his bureau and discover 
 the theft ; for in his eyes — in the eyes of the world — it is a 
 theft. These thoughts overwhelmed me, and, late as it was, 
 I ran to the banker's to supplicate him to give me my money 
 instantl3^ I should have found an excuse for this urgent request, 
 and then I should have returned to M. Ferrand and replaced the 
 money I had taken. By an unlucky chance, the banker had gone 
 to Belleville for two days, to his country-house, where he was 
 engaged in some plantations. Everything seemed to conspire 
 against me. I waited for daybreak with intense anxiety, and 
 hastened to Belleville, — the banker had just left for Paris. I 
 returned, saw him, obtained my money, hastened to M. Fer- 
 rand ; everything was discovered. But this is only a portion of 
 my misfortunes. The notaiy at once accused me of having 
 robbed him of fifteen thousand francs in bank-notes, which, he 
 declared, were in the drawer of the bureau, with the two thousand 
 francs in gold. This was a base accusation, — an infamous lie I 
 I confess myself guilty of the first abstraction, but, by all that is 
 most sacred in the world, I swear to you, mademoiselle, that I am 
 innocent of the second. I never saw a bank-note in the drawer. 
 There were only two thousand francs in gold, from which I took 
 the thirteen hundred francs I have mentioned. This is the truth, 
 mademoiselle. I am under this terrible accusation, and yet I 
 afiirm that you ought to know me incapable of a lie. But will 
 you, — do you believe me ? Alas, as M. Ferrand said, ' he who 
 has taken a small sum may equally have taken a large amount, 
 and his word does not deserve belief.' I have always seen you so 
 good and devoted to the unhappy, mademoiselle, and I know you 
 are so frank and liberal-minded, that your heart will guide you in 
 the just appreciation of the truth, I hope. I do not ask any more. 
 Give credit to my words, and you will find in me as much to pity 
 as to blame ; for, I repeat to you, my intention was good, and 
 circumstances impossible to foresee have destroyed me. Oh, 
 Mile. Kigolette, I am very unhappy ! If you knew in the midst 
 of what a set of persons I am doomed to exist until my trial is 
 over I Yesterday they took me to a place which they call the 
 d^pot of the prefecture of police. I cannot tell you what I felt 
 when, after having gone up a dark staircase, I reached a door with 
 an iron wicket, which was opened and soon closed upon me. I 
 was so troubled in my mind that I could not, at first, distinguish 
 anything. A hot and fetid air came upon me, and I heard a loud 
 noise of voices mingled with sinister laughs, angry exclamations, 
 and depraved songs. I remained motionless at the door for 
 awhile, looking at the stone flooring of the apartment, and neither 
 
 18
 
 RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 daring to advance nor lift up my eyes, thinking that everybody 
 ■was looking at me. They were not, however, thinking of me ; for 
 a prisoner more or less does not at all disturb these men. At last I 
 ventured to look up, and, oh, what horrid countenances I What 
 ragged wretches ! What dirty and bespattered garments 1 All 
 the exterior marks of misery and vice ! There were forty or fifty 
 seated, standing, or lying on benches secured to the wall, — var- 
 grants, robbers, assassins, and all who had been apprehended 
 during the night and day. When they perceived me I found 
 a sad consolation in seeing that they did not recognise me as 
 belonging or known to them. Some of them looked at me with 
 an insulting and derisive air, and then began to talk amongst 
 themselves in a low tone, and in some horrible jargon, not one 
 word of which did I understand. After a short time one of the 
 most brutal amongst them came, and, slapping me on the shoul- 
 der, asked me for money to pay my footing. I gave them some 
 silver, hoping thus to purchase repose ; but it was not enough, and 
 they demanded more, which I refused. Then several of them sur- 
 rounded me and assailed me with threats and imprecations, and 
 were proceeding to extremities, when, fortunately for me, a turn- 
 key entered, who had been attracted by the noise. I complained 
 to him, and he insisted on their restoring to me the money I had 
 given them already, adding that, if I liked to pay a small fee, 
 I should go to what is called the pistole ; that is, be in a cell to 
 myself. I accepted the offer gratefully, and left these ruffians in 
 the midst of their loud menaces for the future ; ' for,' said they, 
 *we are sure to meet again, when I could not get away fi'om 
 them.' The turnkey conducted me to a cell, where I passed the 
 rest of the night. It is from here that I now write to you, Mile. 
 Rigolette. Directly after my examination I shall be taken to 
 another prison, called La Force, where I expect to meet many 
 of my companions in the station-house. The turnkey, interested 
 by my grief and tears, has promised me to forward this letter to 
 you, although such kindnesses are strictly forbidden. I ask. 
 Mile. Rigolette, a last service of your friendship, if, indeed, you 
 do not blush now for such an intimacy. In case you will kindly 
 grant my request, it is this : With this letter you will receive 
 a small key, and a line for the porter of the house I live in. Bou- 
 levard St. Denis, No. 11. I inform him that you will act as if it 
 were myself with respect to everything that belongs to me, and 
 that he is to attend to your instructions. He will take you to 
 my room, and you will have the goodness to open my secretaire 
 with the key I send you herewith. In this you will find a large 
 packet containing different papers, which I beg of you to take 
 care of for me. One of them was intended for you, as you will 
 
 19
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARTS. 
 
 see by the address ; others have been written of you, in happier 
 days. Do not be angry. I did not think they would ever come 
 to your knowledge. I beg you, also, to take the small sum of 
 money which is in this drawer, as well as a satin bag, which con- 
 tains a small orange silk handkerchief, which you wore when we 
 used to go out on Sundays, and which you gave me on the day 
 I quitted the Rue du Temple. I should wish that, excepting a 
 little linen which you will be so good as send to me at La 
 Force, you would sell the furniture and things I possess; for, 
 whether acquitted or found guilty, I must of necessity be obliged 
 to quit Paris. Where shall I go ? What are my resources ? God 
 only knows. Madame Bouvard, the saleswoman of the Temple, 
 who has already sold and bought for me many things, will per- 
 haps take all the furniture, etc., at once. She is a very fair- 
 dealing woman, and this would save you a great deal of trouble, 
 for I know how precious your time is. I have paid my rent in 
 advance, and I have, therefore, only to ask you to give a small 
 present to the porter. Excuse, mademoiselle, the trouble of these 
 details ; but you are the only person in the world to whom I dare 
 and can address myself. I might, perhaps, have asked one of M. 
 Ferrand's clerks to do this service for me, as we were on friendly 
 terms, but I feared his curiosity as to certain papers. Several 
 concern you, as I have said, and others relate to the sad events 
 in my life. Ah, believe me. Mile. Rigolette, if you grant me 
 this last favour, this last proof of former regard, it will be my 
 only consolation under the great affliction in which I am plunged ; 
 and, in spite of all, I hope you will not refuse me. I also beg of 
 you to give me permission to write to you sometimes. It will be 
 so consoling, so comforting to me, to be able to pour out my heavy 
 sorrows into a kind heart. Alas, I am alone in the world, — 
 no one takes the slightest interest in me 1 This isolation was 
 before most painful to me. Think what it must be now I And 
 yet I am honest, and have the consciousness of never having 
 injured any one, and of always having, at the peril of my life, 
 testified my aversion for what is wicked and wrong ; as you will 
 see by the papers, which I pray of you to take care of, and which 
 you may read. But when I say this, who will believe me ? M. 
 Ferrand is respected by all the world ; his reputation for probity 
 is long established ; he has a just cause of accusation against me, 
 and he will crush me. I resign myself at once to my fate. Now, 
 Mile. Rigolette, if you do believe me, you will not, I hope, feel 
 any contempt for me, but pity me ; and you will, perhaps, carry 
 your generosity so far as to come one day, — some Sunday (alas, 
 what recollections that word brings up !) — some Sunday, to see 
 me in the reception-room of my prison. But no, no ; I never 
 
 20
 
 KIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 could dare to see you in such a place ! Yet you are so good, so 
 kind, that — if — I am compelled to break off this letter and 
 send it to you at once, with the key, and a line for the porter, 
 "which I write in great haste. The turnkey has come to tell me 
 that I am going directly before the magistrate. Adieu, adieu, 
 Mile. Rigolette ! Do not discard me, for my hope is in you, and 
 in you only! Francois Germain. 
 
 " P. S. — If you reply, address your letter to me at the prison 
 of La Force." 
 
 We may now divine the cause of Rigolette's first 
 sorrow. 
 
 Her excellent heart was deeply wounded at a mis- 
 fortune of which she had no suspicion until that 
 moment. She believed unhesitatingly in the entire 
 veracity of the statement of Germain, the unfortunate 
 son of the Schoolmaster. 
 
 Not very strait-laced, she thought her old neighbour 
 exaggerated his fault immensely. To save the unhappy 
 father of a family, he had momentarily appropriated a 
 sum which he thought he could instantly refund. This 
 action, in the grisette's eyes, was but generous. 
 
 By one of those contradictions common to women, 
 and especially to women of her class, this young girl, 
 who until then had not felt for Germain more than her 
 other neighbours, but a kind and mirthful friendship, 
 now experienced for him a decided preference. As soon 
 as she knew that he was unfortunate, unjustly accused, 
 and a prisoner, his remembrance effaced that of all his 
 former rivals. Yet Rigolette did not all at once feel 
 intense love, but a warm and sincere affection, full of 
 pity and determined devotion, — a sentiment which was 
 the more new with her in consequence of the better 
 sensations it brought with it. 
 
 Such was the moral position of Rigolette when 
 Rodolph entered her chamber, having first rapped 
 very discreetly at the door. 
 
 " Good morning, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigo- 
 lette ; " do not let me disturb you." 
 
 21
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIg. 
 
 "Not at all, neighbour. On the contrary, I am de- 
 lighted to see you, for I have had something to vex me 
 dreadfully." 
 
 " Why, in truth, you look very pale, and appear as 
 though you had been weeping." 
 
 " Indeed, I have been weeping, and for a good reason. 
 Poor Germain ! There — read ! " And Rigolette handed 
 the letter of the prisoner to Rodolph. " Is not that 
 enough to break one's heart ? You told me you took an 
 interest in him, — now's the time to prove it ! " she 
 added, whilst Rodolph was attentively reading the 
 letter. " Is that wicked old M. Ferrand at war with 
 all the world ? First he attacked that poor Louise, and 
 now he assails Germain. Oh, I am not ill-natured ; but 
 if some great harm happened to this notary, I should 
 really be glad ! To accuse such an honest young man 
 of having stolen fifteen thousand francs from him ! 
 Germain, too ! He who was honesty itself ! And 
 such a steady, serious young man ; and so sad, too ! 
 Oh, he is indeed to be pitied, in the midst of all these 
 wretches in his prison ! Ah, M. Rodolph, from to-day 
 I begin to see that life is not all couleur-de-rose.^^ 
 
 " And what do you propose to do, my little neigh- 
 bour ? " 
 
 " What do I mean to do ? Wliy, of course, all that 
 Germain asks of me, and as quickly as possible. I 
 should have been gone before now, but for this work, 
 which is required in great haste, and which I must take 
 instantly to the Rue St. Honor^, on my way to Ger- 
 main's room, where I am going to get the papers he 
 speaks of. I have passed part of the night at work, 
 that I might be forward. 1 shall have so many things 
 to do besides my usual work that I must be excessively 
 methodical. In the first place, Madame Morel is very 
 anxious that I should see Louise in prison. That will 
 be a hard task, but I shall try to do it. Unfortunately, 
 I do not know to whom I should address myself." 
 
 22
 
 RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 " I had thought of that." 
 
 " You, neighbour ? " 
 
 " Here is an order." 
 
 "How fortunate! Can't you procure me also an 
 order for the prison of poor, unhappy Germain? He 
 would be so delighted!" , ^^ 
 
 " I will also find you the means of seemg Germam. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, M. Rodolph." 
 
 " You will not be afraid, then, of going to his prison ? 
 
 "Certainly not; although my heart will beat very 
 Yiolcntly the first time. But that's nothing. When 
 Germain was free, was he not always ready to anticipate 
 all my wishes, and take me to the theatre, for a walk, 
 or read to me of an evening ? Well, and now he is in 
 trouble, it is my turn. A poor little mouse like me can- 
 not do much, I know that well enough ; but all I can do 
 I will do, that he may rely upon. He shall find that 
 I am a sincere friend. But, M. Rodolph, there is one 
 thing which pains me, and that is that he should doubt 
 me, — that he should suppose me capable of despising 
 hii^i I 1 1 _ and for what, I should like to know ? That 
 old notary accuses him of robbery. I know it is not 
 true. Germain's letter has proved to me that he is 
 innocent, even if I had thought him guilty. You have 
 only to see him, and you would feel certain that he is 
 incapable of a bad action. A person must be as wicked 
 as M. Ferrand to assert such atrocious falsehoods." 
 " Bravo, neighbour ; I like your indignation." 
 " Oh, how I wish I were a man, that I might go to 
 this notary and say to him, ' Oh, you say that Germain 
 has robbed you, do you? Well, then, that's for you! 
 And that he cannot steal from you, at all events? 
 And thump — thump— thump, I would beat him till 
 I couldn't stand over him." ^^ 
 
 "You administer justice very expeditiously, said 
 Rodolph, smiling. 
 
 « Because it makes my blood boil. And, as Germain 
 
 23
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 says in his letter, all the world will side with his em- 
 ployer, because he is rich and looked up to, whilst 
 Germain is poor and unprotected, unless you will come 
 to his assistance, M. Rodolph, — you who know such 
 benevolent persons. Do not you think that something 
 could be done ? " 
 
 " He must await his sentence. Once acquitted, as I 
 believe he will be, he will not want for proofs of the 
 interest taken in him. But listen, neighbour ; for I 
 know I may rely on your discretion." 
 
 " Oh, yes, M. Rodolph, I never blab." 
 
 "Well, then, no one must know — not even Germain 
 himself — that he has friends who are watching over 
 him, — for he has friends." 
 
 " Really ! " 
 
 " Very powerful and devoted." 
 
 " It would give him much courage to know that." 
 
 " Unquestionably ; but perhaps he might not keep it 
 to himself. Then M. Ferrand, alarmed, would be on his 
 guard, — his suspicions would be aroused ; and, as he is 
 very cunning, it would become very difficult to catch 
 him, which would be most annoying ; for not only must 
 Germain's innocence be made clear, but his denouncer 
 must be unmasked." 
 
 " I understand, M. Rodolph." 
 
 " It is the same with Louise ; and I bring you this 
 order to see her, that you may beg of her not to tell any 
 person what she disclosed to me. She will know what 
 that means." 
 
 " I understand, M. Rodolph." 
 
 " In a word, let Louise beware of complaining in 
 prison of her master's wickedness. This is most 
 important. But she must conceal nothing from the 
 barrister who will come from me to talk with her as to 
 the grounds of her defence. Be sure you tell her all this." 
 
 " Make yourself easy, neighbour, I will forget nothing; 
 I have an excellent memory. But, when we talk of 
 
 24
 
 EIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 goodness, it is you who are so good and^kind. If any 
 nnp is in trouble, then you come directly. 
 
 " i have told ;ou, my good little neighbour, that I am 
 hnt a noor clerk; but when I meet with good persons 
 who d^rve pro ection, I instantly tell a benevolent 
 Tnd^vidual who has entire confidence in me, and they 
 are helped at once. That's all I do m the matter. 
 
 "And where are you lodging, now you have given up 
 your chamber to the Morels ? " ^^ 
 
 « I hve in a furnished lodging. 
 
 u Oh, how I should hate that ! To be where all the 
 world has been before you, it is as if everybody had 
 
 been in your place." -, ^.i „„ " 
 
 "I am only there at nights, and then—- 
 "I understand, -it is less disagreeable. Yet 1 
 shouldn't hke it, M. Rodolph. My home made me so 
 happy I had got into such a quiet way of living that I 
 did not think it was possible I should ever know a 
 sorrow And yet, you see - But no, I cannot describe 
 o yoTthe blow which Germain's misfortune has brought 
 upon me. I have seen the Morels, and others beside 
 X were very much to be pitied -rtain ^ But at 
 best, misery is misery ; and amongst poor folk, who look 
 for it, it does not surprise them, and they help one 
 anoth r as well as they can. To-day it is one, to-morrow 
 it is another. As for oneself, what with courage and 
 good s^i^ one extricates oneself. But to see a poor 
 foung man honest and good, who has been JOur tend 
 for a long time, -to see him accused of ^obbeiy and 
 imprisoned and huddled up with ^^^"^"^^^^ ' ^ J'J'^^f 
 M. Rodolph, I cannot get over that; it is a misfortmie I 
 
 had never thought of, and it q^i^^^^.f ^^^Jj"^; .„^^ ^l,en 
 "Courage, courage! ^Your spirits will return when 
 
 your friend is acquitted." • ;i„o= Inve 
 
 "Oh, yes, he must be acquitted. The judges ha^e 
 only to read his letter to me, and that would be enough, 
 — would it not, M. Rodolph ?" 
 
 25
 
 THE MYSTERIES OE PARIS. 
 
 " Really, this letter has all the appearance of truth. 
 You must let me have a copy of it, for it will be neces- 
 sary for Germain's defence." 
 
 " Certainly, M. Rodolph. If I did not write such a 
 scrawl, in spite of the lessons which good Germain gave 
 me, I would offer to copy it myself ; but my writing is 
 so large, so crooked, and has so many, many faults." 
 
 " I will only ask you to trust the letter with me until 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 "There it is; but you will take great care of it, I 
 hope. I have burnt all the notes which M. Cabrion and 
 M. Girandeau wrote me in the beginning of our acquain- 
 tance, with flaming hearts and doves at the top of the 
 paper, when they thought I was to be caught by their 
 tricks and cajoleries ; but this poor letter of Germain's I 
 will keep carefully, as well as the others, if he writes me 
 any more ; for they, you know, M. Rodolph, will show 
 in my favour that he has asked these small services, — 
 won't they, M. Rodolph ? " 
 
 " Most assuredly ; and they will prove that you are 
 the best little friend any one can desire. But, now I 
 think of it, instead of going alone to Germain's room, 
 shall I accompany you ? " 
 
 " With pleasure, neighbour. The night is coming on, 
 and, in the evening, I do not like to be alone in the 
 streets ; besides that, I have my work to carry nearly as 
 far as the Palais Royal. But perhaps it will fatigue 
 and annoy you to go so far ? " 
 
 " Not at all. We will have a coach." 
 
 " Really ! Oh, how pleased I should be to go in a 
 coach if I had not so much to make me melancholy! 
 And I really must be melancholy, for this is the first 
 day since I have been here that I have not sung during 
 the day. My birds are really quite astonished. Poor 
 little dears ! They cannot make it out. Two or three 
 times Papa Cr(5tu has piped a little to try me ; I endeav- 
 oured to answer him, but, after a minute or two, I begaa 
 
 26
 
 RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 to cry. Ramonette then began ; but I could not answer 
 one any better than the other." 
 
 " What singular names you have given your birds : 
 Papa Cr^tu and Ramonette ! " 
 
 " Why, M. Rodolph, my birds are the joy of my 
 solitude, — my best friends; and I have given them the 
 names of the worthy couple who were the joy of my 
 childhood, and were also my best friends, not forget- 
 ting that, to complete the resemblance, Papa Cretu and 
 Ramonette were gay, and sang like birds." 
 
 " Ah, now, yes, I remember, your adopted parents were 
 called so." 
 
 " Yes, neighbour, they are ridiculous names for birds, 
 I know ; but that concerns no one but myself. And 
 besides, it was in this very point that Germain showed 
 his good heart." 
 
 " In what way ? " 
 
 " Why, M. Girandeau and M. Cabrion — especially M. 
 Cabrion — were always making their jokes on the names 
 of my birds. To call a canary Papa Crdtu ! There 
 never was such nonsense as M. Cabrion made of it, and 
 his jests were endless. If it was a cock bird, he said, 
 ' Why, that would be well enough to call him Cr^tu. As 
 to Ramonette, that's well enough for a hen canary, for 
 it resembles Ramona.' In fact, he quite wore my 
 patience out, and for two Sundays I would not go 
 out with him in order to teach him a lesson ; and I 
 told him very seriously, that if he began his tricks, 
 which annoyed me so much, we should never go out 
 together again." 
 
 " What a bold resolve ! " 
 
 " Yes, it was really a sacrifice on my part, M. Ro- 
 dolph, for I was always looking forward with delight to 
 my Sundays, and I was very much tried by being kept 
 in all alone in such beautiful weather. But that's noth- 
 ing. I preferred sacrificing my Sundays to hearing M. 
 Cabrion continue to make ridicule of those whom 
 
 27
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PAEIS. 
 
 I respected. Certainly, after that, but for the idea I 
 attached to them, I should have preferred giving my 
 birds other names ; and, you must know, there is one 
 name which I adore, — it is Colibri.^ I did not change, 
 because I never will call those birds by any other name 
 than Cr6t\i and Ramonette ; if I did, I should seem to 
 make a sacrifice, that I forgot my good, adopted parents, 
 — don't you think so, M. Rodolph ? " 
 
 " You are right a thousand times over. And Germain 
 did not turn these names into a jest, eh ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, the first time he heard them he 
 thought them droll, like every one else, and that was 
 natural enough. But when I explained to him my rea- 
 sons, as I had many times explained them to M. Cabrion, 
 tears started to his eyes. From that time I said to 
 myself, M. Germain is very kind-hearted, and there is 
 nothing to be said against him, but his weeping so. 
 And so, you see, M. Rodolph, my reproaching him with 
 his sadness has made me unhappy now. Then I could 
 not understand why any one was melancholy, but now 
 I understand it but too well. But now my packet is 
 completed, and my work is ready for delivery. Will 
 you hand me my shawl, neighbour ? It is not cold 
 enough to take a cloak, is it ? " 
 
 " We shall go and return in a coach." 
 
 " True ; we shall go and return very quickly, and 
 that will be so much gained." 
 
 " But, now I think of it, what are you to do ? Your 
 work will suffer from your visits to the prison." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ; I have made my calculations. In the 
 first place, I have my Sundays to myself, so I shall go 
 and see Louise and Germain on those days ; that will 
 serve me for a walk and a change. Then, in the week, 
 I shall go again to the prison once or twice. Each time 
 will occupy me three good hours, won't it ? Well, to 
 
 1 Colibri is a celebrated chanson of Beranger, the especial poet of gri- 
 settes. — English Translator. 
 
 28
 
 RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 manage this comfortably, I shall work an hour more 
 rvery day, and go to bed at twelve o'clock mstead of 
 eLven o'clock ; that will be a clear gam of seven or 
 eight hours a week, which I can employ m gomg to see 
 Louise and Germain. You see I am richer than I 
 appear," added Rigolette, with a smile. 
 
 "And you have no fear that you will be over- 
 
 f 4-* rl 9 " 
 
 ^ ""Bah ! Not at all ; I shall manage it. And, besides, 
 it can't last for ever." ^^ 
 
 « Here is your shawl, neighbour. ^^ 
 
 « Fasten it ; and mind you don't prick me. 
 « Ah, the pin is bent." 
 
 "Well, then, clumsy, take another then, — from the 
 pincushion. Ah, I forgot! Will you do me a great 
 favour, neighbour ? " 
 
 " Command me, neighbour.' 
 
 " Mend me a good pen, with a broad nib, so that when 
 I return I may write to poor Germain and tell him i 
 have executed all his commissions. He will have my 
 letter to-morrow morning m the prison, and that will 
 give him pleasure." 
 
 " Where are your pens ? " . . ,, ■■ 
 
 « There, -on the table ; the knife is m the drawer. 
 Wait until I light my taper, for it begins to grow dusk. 
 " Yes, I shall see better how to mend the pen. 
 "And I how to tie my cap." . ^^ ^.^. a ^ 
 
 Rigolette lighted a lucifer-match, and lighted a 
 wax-end in a small bright candlestick. 
 
 "The deuce, -a wax-light! Why, neighbour, what 
 
 '''" ol'^what'l burn costs but a very small trifle more 
 
 than a candle, and it's so much cleaner ! " 
 
 " Not much dearer?" ^ i „ +i.« 
 
 " Indeed, they are not ! I buy these wax-ends by the 
 
 pound, and a half a pound lasts nearly a year. 
 
 " But," said Rodolph, who was mending the pen veiy 
 
 29
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 carefully, whilst the grisette was tying on her cap 
 before the glass, "I do not see any preparations for 
 your dinner." 
 
 " I have not the least appetite. I took a cup of milk 
 this morning, and I shall take another this evening, 
 with a small piece of bread, and that will be enough for 
 me." 
 
 " Then you will not take a dinner with me quietly 
 after we have been to Germain's ? " 
 
 " Thank you, neighbour ; but I am not in spirits, — 
 my heart is too heavy, — another time with pleasure. 
 But the evening when poor Germain leaves his prison, 
 I invite myself, and afterwards you shall take me to the 
 theatre. Is that a bargain ? " 
 
 " It is, neighbour ; and I assure you I will not forget 
 the engagement. But you refuse me this to-day ?" 
 
 " Yes, M. Rodolph. I should be a very dull com- 
 panion, without saying a word about the time it would 
 occupy me ; for, you see, at this moment, I really cannot 
 afford to be idle, or waste one single quarter of an hour." 
 
 " Then, for to-day I renounce the pleasure." 
 
 "There is my parcel, neighbour. Now go out first, 
 and I will lock the door." 
 
 " Here's a capital pen for you ; and now for the 
 parcel." 
 
 " Mind you don't rumple it ; it is pout-de-soie^ and 
 soon creases. Hold it in your hand, — carefully, — 
 there, in that way ; that's it. Now go, and I will 
 show you a light." 
 
 And Rodolph descended the staircase, followed by 
 Rigolette. 
 
 At the moment when the two neighbours were passing 
 by the door of the porter's lodge they saw M. Pipelet, 
 who, with his arms hanging down, was advancing towards 
 them from the bottom of the passage, holding in one hand 
 the sign which announced his Partnership of Friendship 
 with Cabrion, and in the other the portrait of the con- 
 
 30
 
 BIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW. 
 
 founded painter. Alfred's despair was so overwhelming 
 that his chin touched his breast, so that the wide crown 
 of his bell-shaped hat was easily seen. Seeing him thus, 
 with his head lowered, coming towards Rodolph and 
 Rigolette, he might have been compared to a ram, or 
 a brave Breton, preparing for combat. 
 
 Anastasie soon appeared on the threshold of the 
 lodge, and exclaimed, at her husband's appearance : 
 
 " Well, dearest old boy, here you are ! And what did 
 the commissary say to you? Alfred, Alfred, mind 
 what you're doing, or you'll poke your head against my 
 king of lodgers. Excuse him, M. Rodolph. It is that 
 vagabond of a Cabrion, who uses him worse and worse. 
 He'll certainly turn my dear old darling into a donkey ! 
 Alfred, love, speak to me ! " 
 
 At this voice, so dear to his heart, M. Pipelet raised 
 his head. His features were impressed with a bitter 
 agony. 
 
 " What did the commissary say to you ? " inquired 
 Anastasie. 
 
 " Anastasie, we must collect the few things we possess, 
 embrace our friends, pack up our trunk, and expatriate 
 ourselves from Paris, — from France, — from my beauti- 
 ful France ; for now, assured of impunity, the monster 
 is capable of pursuing me everywhere, throughout the 
 length and breadth of the departments of the kingdom." 
 
 " What, the commissary ? " 
 
 " The commissary," exclaimed M. Pipelet, with fierce 
 indignation, — " the commissary laughed in my teeth ! " 
 
 "At you, — a man of mature age, with an air so 
 respectable that you would appear as silly as a goose 
 if one did not know your virtues ? " 
 
 " Well, notwithstanding that, when I had respectfully 
 deposed in his presence my mass of complaints and vexa- 
 tions against that infernal Cabrion, the magistrate, after 
 having looked and laughed — yes, laughed, and, I may 
 add, laughed indecorously — at the sign and the portrait 
 
 31
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 which I brought with me as corroborative testimony, — 
 the magistrate replied, ' My good fellow, this Cabrion is 
 a wag, — a practical joker. But pay no attention to his 
 pleasantries. I advise you to laugh at him, and heartily, 
 too, for really there is ample cause to do so.' ' To laugh 
 at it, sir-r-r ! ' I exclaimed, — ' to laugh at it, when grief 
 consumes me, — when this scamp poisons my very exis- 
 tence ; he placards me, and will drive me out of my wits. 
 I demand that they imprison, exile the monster, — at least 
 from my street ! ' At these words the commissary 
 smiled, and politely pointed to the door. I understood 
 the magistrate, sighed, and — and — here I am ! " 
 
 " Good-for-nothing magistrate ! " exclaimed Madame 
 Pipelet. 
 
 " It is all over, Anastasie, — all is ended, — hope 
 ceases. There's no justice in France ; I am really 
 atrociously sacrificed." 
 
 And, by way of peroration, M. Pipelet dashed the sign 
 and portrait to the farther end of the passage with all 
 his force. Rodolph and Rigolette had in the shade 
 smiled at M. Pipelet's despair. After having said 
 a few words of consolation to Alfred, whom Anastasie 
 was trying to calm as well as she could, the king of 
 lodgers left the house in the Rue du Temple with 
 Rigolette, and they both got into a coach to go to 
 Fran9ois Germain's. 
 
 82
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 Francois Germain resided No. 11 Boulevard St. 
 Denis. It may not be amiss to recall to the reader, 
 who has probably forgotten the circumstance, that Ma- 
 dame Mathieu, the diamond-matcher, whose name has 
 been already mentioned as the person for whom Morel 
 the lapidary worked, lodged in the same house as Ger- 
 main. During the long ride from the Rue du Temple 
 to the Rue St. Honore, where dwelt the dressmaker 
 for whom Rigolette worked, Rodolph had ample oppor- 
 tunities of more fully appreciating the fine natural dis- 
 position of his companion. Like all instinctively noble 
 and devoted characters, she appeared utterly unconscious 
 of the delicacy and generosity of her conduct, all she 
 said and did seeming to her as the most simple and 
 matter-of-course thing possible. 
 
 Nothing would have been more easy than for Rodolph 
 to provide liberally both for Rigolette's present and 
 future wants, and thus to have enabled her to carry her 
 consoling attentions to Louise and Germain, without 
 grieving over the loss of that time which was necessarily 
 taken from her work, — her sole dependence ; but the 
 prince was unwilling to diminish the value of the gri- 
 sette's devotion by removing all the difficulties, and, 
 although firmly resolved to bestow a rich reward on the 
 rare and beautiful qualities he hourly discovered in her, 
 he determined to follow her to the termination of this 
 new and interesting trial. It is scarcely necessary to 
 say that, had the health of the young girl appeared to 
 
 33
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 suffer in the smallest degree from the increase of labour 
 she so courageously imposed on herself, in order to ded- 
 icate a portion of each week to the unhappy daughter of 
 the lapidary and the son of the Schoolmaster, Rodolph 
 would instantaneously have stepped forward to her aid ; 
 and he continued to study with equal pleasure and emo- 
 tion the workings of a nature so naturally disposed to 
 view everything on its sunny side, so full of internal 
 happiness, and so little accustomed to sorrow that oc- 
 casionally she would smile, and seem the mirthful crea- 
 ture nature had made her, spite of all the grief by which 
 she was surrounded. 
 
 At the end of about an hour, the fiacre, returning 
 from the Rue St. Honor^, stopped before a modest, 
 unpretending sort of house, situated No. 11 Boulevard 
 St. Denis. Rodolph assisted Rigolette to alight. The 
 young sempstress then proceeded to the porter's lodge, 
 where she communicated Germain's intentions, without 
 forgetting the promised gratuity. 
 
 Owing to the extreme amenity of his disposition, the 
 son of the Schoolmaster was unusually beloved, and the 
 confrere of M. Pipelet was deeply grieved to learn that 
 so quiet and well-conducted a lodger was about to quit 
 the house, and to that purpose the worthy porter warmly 
 expressed himself. Having obtained a light, Rigolette 
 proceeded to rejoin her companion, having first arranged 
 with the porter that he should not follow her up-stairs 
 till a time she indicated should have elapsed, and then 
 merely to receive his final orders. The chamber occu- 
 pied by Germain was situated on the fourth floor. When 
 they reached the door, Rigolette handed the key to 
 Rodolph, saying : 
 
 " Here, will you open the door ? My hand trembles 
 so violently, I cannot do it. I fear you will laugh at 
 me. But, when I think that poor Germain will never 
 more enter this room, I seem as though I were about to 
 pass the threshold of a chamber of death." 
 
 34
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 " Come, come, my good neighbour, try and exert your- 
 self ; you must not indulge such thoughts as these." 
 
 " I know it is wrong ; but, indeed, I cannot help it," 
 And here Rigolette tried to dry up the tears with which 
 her eyes were filled. 
 
 Without being equally affected as his companion, 
 Rodolph still experienced a deep and painful emotion 
 as he penetrated into this humble abode. Well aware of 
 the detestable pertinacity with which the accomplices 
 of the Schoolmaster pursued, and were possibly still pur- 
 suing, Germain, he pictured to himself the many hours 
 the unfortunate youth was constrained to pass in this 
 cheerless solitude. Rigolette placed the light on the 
 table. Nothing could possibly be more simple than 
 the fittings-up of the apartment itself. Its sole furni- 
 ture consisted of a small bed, a chest of drawers, a wal- 
 nut-tree bureau, four rush-bottomed chairs, and a table ; 
 white calico curtains hung from the windows and around 
 the bed. The only ornament the mantelpiece presented 
 was a water-bottle and glass. The bed was made ; but, 
 by the impression left on it, it would seem that Germain 
 had thrown himself on it without undressing on the 
 night previous to his arrest. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said Rigolette, sadly, as she examined 
 each minute detail of the interior of the apartment ; " it 
 is very easy to see I was not near him. His room is 
 tidy, to be sure, but not as neat as it ought to be. Every- 
 thing is covered with dust. The curtains are smoke- 
 dried, the windows want cleaning, and the floor is not 
 kept as it should be. Oh, dear, what a difference ! 
 The Rue du Temple was not a better room, but it had 
 a much more cheerful look, because everything was kept 
 so bright and clean, — like in my apartment ! " 
 
 " Because in the Rue du Temple he had the benefit of 
 your advice and assistance." 
 
 " Oh, pray look here ! " cried Rigolette, pointing to 
 the bed. " Only see, — the poor fellow never went 
 
 35
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 to bed at all the last night he was here ! How uneasy 
 he must have been ! See, he has left his handkerchief 
 on his pillow, quite wet with his tears ! I can see that 
 plainly enough." Then, taking up the handkerchief, 
 she added, " Germain has kept a small, orange-coloured 
 silk cravat I gave him once during our happy days. I have 
 a great mind to keep this handkerchief in remembrance 
 of his misfortune. Do you think he would be angry ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, he would but be too much de- 
 lighted with such a mark of your affection." 
 
 " Ah, but we must not indulge in such thoughts now ; 
 let us attend to more serious matters. I will make up 
 a parcel of linen from the contents of those drawers, 
 ready to take to the prison, and Mother Bouvard, whom 
 1 will send to-morrow, will see to the rest ; but first of 
 all I will open the bureau, in order to get out the papers 
 au'l money Germain wished me to take charge of." 
 
 " But, now I think of it, Louise Morel gave me 
 back yesterday the thirteen hundred francs in gold she 
 received from Germain, to pay the lapidary's debt, 
 which I had already discharged. I have this money 
 about me ; it justly belongs to Germain, since he repaid 
 the notary what he withdrew from the cash-box. I will 
 place it in your hands, in order that you may add it to 
 the sum entrusted to your care." 
 
 " Just as you like, M. Rodolph, although really I 
 should prefer not having so large a sum in my posses- 
 sion, really there are so many dishonest people nowa- 
 days ! As for papers, that's quite another thing ; I'll 
 willingly take charge of as many papers as you please, 
 but money is such a dangerous thing ! " 
 
 " Perhaps you are right ; then I tell you what we will 
 do — eh, neighbour ? I will be banker, and undertake 
 the responsibility of guarding this money. Should Ger- 
 main require anything, you can let me know ; I will 
 leave you my address, and whatever you send for shall 
 be punctually and faithfully sent." 
 
 36
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes, that will be very much better ! Ho-w 
 good of you to offer, for I could not have ventured to 
 propose such a thing to you ! So that is settled ; I will 
 beg of you, also, to take whatever this furniture sells 
 for. And now let us see about the papers," continued 
 Rigolette, opening the bureau and pulling out several 
 drawers. " Ah, I dare say this is it ! See what a large 
 packet ! But, oh, good gracious, M. Rodolph, do pray 
 look what mournful words these are written on the 
 outside ! " 
 
 And here Rigolette, in a faltering voice, read as 
 follows : 
 
 " ' In the event of my dying by either a violent or 
 natural death, I request whoever may open this bureau 
 to carry these papers to Mile. Rigolette, dressmaker, No. 
 17 Rue du Temple.' Do you think, M. Rodolph, that I 
 may break the seals of the envelope ? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly ; does not Germain expressly say that 
 among the papers you will find a letter particularly 
 addressed to yourself ? " 
 
 The agitated girl broke the seals which secured the 
 outward cover, and from it fell a quantity of papers, one 
 of which, bearing the superscription of Mile. Rigolette, 
 contained these words : 
 
 "Mademoiselle: — "When this letter reaches your hands, I 
 shall be no more, if, as I fear, I should perish by a violent death, 
 through falling into a snare similar to that from "which I lately 
 escaped. A few particulars herein enclosed, and entitled < Xotes 
 on My Life,' may serve to discover my murderers." 
 
 " Ah, M. Rodolph," cried Rigolette, interrupting her- 
 self, " I am no longer astonished poor Germain was so 
 melancholy ! How very dreadful to be continually 
 pursued by such ideas ! " 
 
 " He must, indeed, have suffered deeply ; but, trust 
 me, his worst misfortunes are over." 
 
 37
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Alas, M. Rodolph, I trust it may prove so ! Still, 
 to be in prison, and accused of theft ! " 
 
 " Make yourself quite easy about him ; his innocence 
 once proved, instead of returning to his former seclusion 
 and loneliness, he will regain his friends. You, first 
 £Lnd foremost, and then a dearly loved mother, from 
 whom he has been separated from his childhood." 
 
 " His mother ! Has he, then, still a mother ? " 
 
 *' He has, but she has long believed him lost to her 
 for ever. Imagine her delight at seeing him again, 
 cleared from the unworthy charge now brought against 
 him. You see I was right in saying that his greatest 
 troubles were over ; do not mention his mother to him. 
 I entrust you with the secret, because you take so gen- 
 erous an interest in the fate of Germain that it is but 
 due to your devotedness that you should be tranquillised 
 as to his future fate." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, M. Rodolph ! I promise you to guard 
 the secret as carefully as you could do." 
 
 Rigolette then proceeded with the perusal of Ger- 
 main's letter ; it continued thus : 
 
 " < Should you deign, mademoiselle, to cast your eyes over these 
 notes, you will find that I have been unfortunate all my Life, 
 always unhappy, except during the hours I have passed with you ; 
 you will find sentiments I should never have ventured to express 
 by words fully revealed in a sort of memorandum, entitled " My 
 Only Days of Happiness." Nearly every evening, after quitting 
 you, I thus poured forth the cheering thoughts with which your 
 affection inspired me, and which only sweetened the bitterness of 
 a cup full even to ovei-flowing. That which was but friendship 
 in you, was, in my breast, the purest, the sincerest love ; but of 
 that love I have never spoken. No, I reserved its full disclosure 
 till the moment should arrive when I could be but as an object 
 of your sorrowing recollection. No, never would I have sought 
 to involve you in a destiny as thoroughly miserable as my own. 
 But, when your eye peruses these pages, there will be nothing to 
 fear from the power of my ill-starred fate. I shall have been 
 your faithful friend, your adoring lover, but I shall no longer be 
 dangerous to your future happiness in either sense. I have but 
 
 38
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 one last wish and desire, and I trust that you wiU kindly accom- 
 Xh t I have witnessed the noble courage with which you 
 Lbour day by day, as well as the care and management requisite 
 to make you J hard-earned gain suthce for your moderate wants 
 Oft" n have I shuddered at the bare idea of your being reduced 
 by illness (brought on, probably, by overattention to your work) 
 to a state too frfghtf ul to dwell upon. And it is no small cons(> 
 lation to me to believe it in my power to spare you, not only a 
 cSeraSe share of personal iLonvenience, but also to preserve 
 you from evils youi- unsuspicious nature dieams not ot. 
 
 " What does that last part mean, M. Rodolph ? " asked 
 Eigolette, much surprised. 
 
 " Proceed with the letter ; we shall see by and by. 
 Rigolette thus resumed : 
 
 «.I know upon how little you can live, and of what service 
 even a small sum would be to you in any case of emergenc}-. i 
 am veryToor myself, but still, by dint of rigid economy, I have 
 m^nSto save fifteen hundred francs, which are placed in the 
 hands of a banker; it is all I am worth in the wor d but by my 
 ^n which you wi 1 find with this, I have ventured to bequeath 
 TtoCu Lid I trust vou will not refuse to accept this last 
 proof Slhe sincere affection of a fi-iend and brother, from whom 
 death will have separated you when this meets your eye. 
 
 «0h M. Rodolph," cried Rigolette, bursting into 
 tears, "this is too much! Kind, good Germam, thus 
 to consider my future welfare! What an excellent 
 
 heart he must have ! " , „ • • „ j 
 
 "Worthy and noble-minded young man! rejomed 
 Rodolph, with deep emotion. " But calm yourself, my 
 good girl. Thank God, Germain is still Imng! And, 
 by anticipating the perusal of his last wishes, you will 
 at least have learned how sincerely he loved you, — nay, 
 
 still loves you ! " , , . -u^, 
 
 "And only to think," said Rigolette, drying up her 
 tears, "that I should never once have suspected it. 
 When first I knew M. Girandeau and M. Cabrion, they 
 were always talking to me of their violent love, and 
 
 39
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 flames, and darts, and such stuff ; but finding I took no 
 notice of them, they left off wearying me with such non- 
 sense. Now, on the contrary, Germain never named 
 love to me. When I proposed to him that we should 
 be good friends, he accepted the offer as frankly as it 
 was made, and ever after that we were always excellent 
 companions and neighbours ; but — now I don't mind 
 telling you, M. Rodolph, that I was not sorry Germain 
 never talked to me in the same silly strain." 
 
 " But still it astonished you, did it not ? " 
 
 " Why, M. Rodolph, I ascribed it to his melancholy, 
 and I fancied his low spirits prevented his joking like 
 the others." 
 
 " And you felt angry with him, did you not, for always 
 being so sad ? " 
 
 " No," said the grisette, ingenuously ; " no, I excused 
 him, because it was the only fault he had. But now 
 that I have read his kind and feeling letter, I cannot 
 forgive myself for ever having blamed him even for that 
 one thing." 
 
 " In the first place," said Rodolph, smiling, " you find 
 that he had many and just causes for his sadness ; and 
 secondly, that, spite of his melancholy, he did love you 
 deeply and sincerely." 
 
 " To be sure ; and it seems a thing to be proud of, to 
 be loved by so excellent a young man ! " 
 
 " Whose love you will, no doubt, return one of these 
 days?" 
 
 " I don't know about that, M. Rodolph, though it is 
 very likely, for poor Germain is so much to be pitied. 
 I can imagine myself in his place. Suppose, just when 
 I fancied myself despised and forsaken by all the world, 
 some one whom I loved very dearly should evince for 
 me more regard than I had ventured to hope for, don't 
 you think it would make me very happy ? " Then, after 
 a short silence, Rigolette continued, with a sigh, " On the 
 other hand, we are both so poor that, perhaps, it would 
 
 40
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 be very imprudent. Ah, well, M. Rodolph, I must not 
 think of such things. Perhaps, too, I deceive myself. 
 One thing, however, is quite sure, and that is, that so 
 long as Germain remains in prison I will do all in my 
 power for him. It will be time enough when he has 
 regained his liberty for me to determine whether 'tis 
 love or friendship I feel for him. Until then it would 
 only torment me needlessly to try to make up my mind 
 what I had better do. But it is getting late, M. Rodolph. 
 Will you have the goodness to collect all those papers, 
 while I make up a parcel of linen ? Ah, I forgot the 
 little bag containing the little orange-coloured cravat I 
 gave him. No doubt it is here — in this drawer. Oh, 
 yes, this is it. Oh, see, what a pretty bag ! How nicely 
 embroidered ! Poor Germain ! I declare he has kept 
 such a trifle as this little handkerchief with as much care 
 as though it had been some holy relic. I well remember 
 the last time I had it around my throat; and when I 
 gave it to him, poor fellow, how very pleased he was ! " 
 
 At this moment some one knocked at the door. 
 
 " Who's there ? " inquired Podolph. 
 
 " Want to speak to Ma'am Mathieu," replied a harsh, 
 hoarse voice, and in a tone which is peculiar to the 
 lowest orders. (Madame Mathieu was the matcher of 
 precious stones to whom we have before referred.) 
 
 This voice, whose accent was peculiar, awoke some 
 vague recollections in Rodolph's breast ; and, desirous 
 of elucidating them, he took the light, and went himself 
 to open the door. He found himself confronted by a 
 man who was one of the frequenters of the tapis-frano 
 of the ogress, and recognised him instantly, so deeply 
 was the print of vice stamped upon him, so completely 
 marked on his beardless and youthful features. It 
 was Barbillon. 
 
 Barbillon, the pretended hackney-coachman, who had 
 driven the Schoolmaster and the Chouette to the hol- 
 low way of Bouqueval, — Barbillon, the assassin of the 
 
 41
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 husband of the unhappy milkwoman, who had set the 
 labourers of the farm at Arnouville on. against La 
 Goualeuse. Whether this wretch had forgotten Ro- 
 dolph's face, which he had never seen but once at the 
 tapis-franc of the ogress, or that the change of dress 
 prevented him from recognising the Chourineur's con- 
 queror, he did not evince the slightest surprise at his 
 appearance. 
 
 " What do you want ? " inquired Rodolph. 
 
 " Here's a letter for Ma'am Mathieu, and I must give 
 it to her myself," was Barbillon's reply. 
 
 "She does not live here, — it's opposite," said Rodolph. 
 
 " Thank ye, master. They told me the left-hand door ; 
 but I've mistook." 
 
 Rodolph did not recollect the name of the diamond- 
 matcher, which Morel the lapidary had only mentioned 
 once or twice, and thus had no motive for interesting 
 himself in the female to whom Barbillon came with his 
 message ; but yet, although ignorant of the ruffian's 
 crimes, his face was so decidedly repulsive that he 
 remained at the threshold of the door, curious to see the 
 person to whom Barbillon brought the letter. 
 
 Barbillon had scarcely knocked at the door opposite 
 to Germain's, than it opened, and the jewel-matcher, a 
 stout woman of about fifty, appeared with a candle in 
 her hand. 
 
 " Ma'am Mathieu ? " inquired Barbillon. 
 
 " That's me, my man." 
 
 " Here's a letter, and I waits for an answer." 
 
 And Barbillon made a step forward to enter the door- 
 way, but the woman made him a sign to remain where 
 he was, and unsealed the letter, which she read by the 
 light of the candle she held, and then replied with an 
 air of satisfaction : 
 
 " Say it's all right, my man, and I will bring what is 
 required. I will be there at the same hour as usual. 
 My respects to the lady." 
 
 42
 
 THE WILL. . - 
 
 « Yes missus. Please to remember the porter ! " 
 « Oh, you must ask them as sent you ; they are richer 
 than I am." And she shut the door. ^ , ^ 
 
 Xdolph returned to Gern^un's room when he^a- 
 Barbillon run quickly down the ^taircase^ The ruffian 
 found on the boulevard a man ^^/^-^^J^' ^^^^^ 
 appearance, waiting for him in front of a ^^^P' 
 Althouo-h the passers-by could hear (it is tiue they 
 tuid n°ot comprehend), Barbillon appeared so delighted 
 that he could not help saying to his companion : 
 
 « Come and 'lush a drain of red tape, Nicho as tiie 
 old mot swallows the bait, hook and all. She 11 show 
 a the Chouette's. Old Mother Martial will lend a hand 
 to peel her of the swag, and a;terwards we can box the 
 ' cold meat' in your ' barkey.' " ,„;^vp^ 
 
 " Let's mizzle,^ then ; for I must get back to Asnieies 
 early, or else my brother Martial will smell summut 
 
 And the two robbers, after having exchanged these 
 words in their own slang, went towards the Rue .t. 
 Denis. 
 
 Some minutes afterwards Rigolette and Eodolph left 
 Germain's, got into the hackney-coach, and reached the 
 Rue du Temple. 
 
 The coach stopped. -o^^i^ir^i. 
 
 At the moment when the door opened Rodolph 
 
 recognised by the light of the d^am-shop lamps his 
 
 faitiSul Murphy, who was waiting for him at tne door 
 
 ''Si?s" presence always announced some senous 
 and sudden event, for it was he alone who knew at all 
 times where to find the prince. ^ ^ -, , , nnioklv 
 "What's the matter?" inqmred Rodolph, qmckl}, 
 
 . .. come and let's have some ^r.n^J^'Xf^.Tcllt^^^^^ ; Mother Manfa" 
 
 the dead bodv away in your boat. 
 « " Let's be quick, then. 
 
 43
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 whilst Rigolette was collecting several things out of 
 the vehicle. 
 
 " A terrible circumstance, monseigneur ! '* 
 
 " Speak, in heaven's name ! " 
 
 " M. the Marquis d'Harville — " 
 
 " You alarm me ! " 
 
 " Had several friends to breakfast with him this morn- 
 ing. He was in high spirits, had never been more joy- 
 ous, when a fatal imprudence — " 
 
 " Pray come to the point — pray ! " 
 
 " And playing with a pistol, which he did not believe 
 to be loaded — " 
 
 " Wounded himself seriously." 
 
 " Monseigneur ! " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Something dreadful ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " He is dead ! " 
 
 " D'Harville ! Ah, how horrible ! " exclaimed Rodolph, 
 in a tone so agonised that Rigolette, who was at the 
 moment quitting the coach with the parcels, said : 
 
 " Alas ! what ails you, M. Rodolph ? " 
 
 " Some very distressing information I have just told 
 my friend, mademoiselle," said Murphy to the young 
 girl, for the prince was so overcome that he could 
 not reply. 
 
 "Is it, then, some dreadful misfortune?" said 
 Rigolette, trembling all over. 
 
 " Very dreadful, indeed ! " replied the squire. 
 
 " Yes, most awful ! " said Rodolph, after a few 
 moment's silence ; then recollecting Rigolette, he said 
 to her, " Excuse me, my dear neighbour, if I do not go 
 up to your room with you. To-morrow I will send you 
 my address, and an order to go to see Germain in his 
 prison. I will soon see you again." 
 
 "Ah, M. Rodolph, 1 assure you that I share in the 
 grief you now experience ! I thank you very much for 
 
 44
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 having accompanied me ; but I shall soon see you again, 
 sha'n't I?" 
 
 " Yes, my child, very soon." 
 
 " Good evening, M. Rodolph," added Rigolette, and 
 then disappeared down the passage with the various 
 things she had brought away from Germain's room. 
 
 The prince and Murphy got into the liackney-coach, 
 which took them to the Rue Plumet. Rodolph imme- 
 diately wrote the following note to Cldmence : 
 
 " Madame : — I have this instant learned the sudden blow 
 which has struck you, and deprived me of one of my best friends. 
 I forbear any attempt to portray my horror and my regret. Yet I 
 must mention to you certain circumstances unconnected with tliis 
 cruel event. I have just learned that your stepmother, who has 
 been, no doubt, in Paris for several days, returns this evening to 
 Normandy, taking with her Polidori. No doubt but this fact 
 will convince you of the peril which threatens your father ; and 
 pray allow me to give you some advice, which I think requisite. 
 After the appalling event of this morning, every one must but too 
 easily conceive your anxiety to quit Paris for some time ; go, 
 therefore, go at once, to Aubiers, so that you may arrive there 
 before your stepmother, or, at least, as soon as she. Make your- 
 self easy, madame, for I shall watch at a distance, as well as 
 close, the abominable projects of your stepmother. Adieu, 
 madame ; I write these few lines to you in great haste. My 
 heart is lacerated when I remember yesterday evening, when I 
 left him, — him, — more tranquil and more happy than he had 
 been for a veiy long time. 
 
 " Believe, madame, in my deep and lasting devotion, 
 
 " Rodolph." 
 
 Following the prince's advice, three hours after she 
 had received this letter, Madame d'Harville, accompanied 
 by her daughter, was on the road to Normandy. A post- 
 chaise, despatched from Rodolph's mansion, followed in 
 the same route. Unfortunately, in the troubled state into 
 which this complication of events and the hurry of her 
 departure had driven her, Cl^mence had forgotten to 
 inform the prince that she had met Fleur-de-Marie at 
 St. Lazare. 
 
 45
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Our readers may, perhaps, remember that, on the 
 previous evening, the Chouette had been menacing 
 Madame Sdraphin, and threatening to unfold the whole 
 history of La Goualeuse's existence, affirming that she 
 knew (and she spoke truth) where the young girl then 
 was. The reader may also recollect that, after this con- 
 versation, the notary, Jacques Ferrand, dreading the 
 disclosure of his criminal course, believed that he had 
 a strong motive for effecting the disappearance of La 
 Goualeuse, whose existence, once known, would com- 
 promise him fatally. He had, in consequence, written 
 to Bradamanti, one of his accomplices, to come to him 
 that they might together arrange a fresh plot, of which 
 Fleur-de-Marie was to be the victim. Bradamanti, occu- 
 pied by the no less pressing interests of Madame d'Har- 
 ville's stepmother, who had her own sinister motives for 
 taking the charlatan with her to M. d'Orbigny, finding 
 it, no doubt, more profitable to serve his ancient female 
 ally, did not attend to the notary's appointment, but set 
 out for Normandy without seeing Madame Sdraphin. 
 
 The storm was gathering over the head of Jacques 
 Ferrand. During the day the Chouette had returned to 
 reiterate her threats ; and to prove that they were not 
 vain, she declared to the notary that the little girl, 
 formerly abandoned by Madame Sdraphin, was then a 
 prisoner in St. Lazare, under the name of La Goualeuse ; 
 and that if he did not give ten thousand francs (400^.) 
 in three days, this young girl would receive the papers 
 which belonged to her, and which would instruct her 
 that she had been confided in her infancy to the care of 
 Jacques Ferrand. According to his custom, the notary 
 denied all boldly, and drove the Chouette away as an 
 impudent liar, although he was perfectly convinced, and 
 greatly alarmed at the dangerous drift of her threats. 
 Thanks to his numerous connections, the notary found 
 means to ascertain that very day (during the conversa- 
 tion of Fleur-de-Marie and Madame d'Harville) that La 
 
 46
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 Goualeuse was actually a prisoner m St. Lazare, and so 
 marked for her good conduct that they were expecting 
 her discharge every moment. Thus informed, Jacques 
 Ferrand, having determined on his deadly scheme, felt 
 that, in order to carry it into execution, Bradamanti's 
 help was more than ever indispensable ; and thereon 
 came Madame S^raphin's vain attempts to see the 
 doctor. Having at length heard, in the evening, of 
 the departure of the charlatan, the notary, driven to 
 act by the imminence of his fears and danger, recalled 
 to mind the Martial family, those freshwater pirates 
 established near the bridge of Asni^res, with whom 
 Bradamanti had proposed to place Louise, in order to 
 get rid of her undetected. Having absolutely need of 
 an accomplice te carry out his deadly purposes against 
 Fleur-de-Marie, the notary took every precaution not to 
 be compromised in case a fresh crime should be com- 
 mitted ; and, the day after Bradamanti's departure for 
 Normandy, Madame Sdraphin went with all speed to the 
 Martials. 
 
 47
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 l'ile du ravageur. 
 
 The following scenes took place during the evening of 
 the day in which Madame S^raphin, in compliance with 
 Jacques Ferrand the notary's orders, went to the Mar- 
 tials, the freshwater pirates established at the point of 
 a small islet of the Seine, not far from the bridge of 
 Asni^res. 
 
 The Father Martial had died, like his own father, on 
 the scaffold, leaving a widow, four sons, and two daugh- 
 ters. The second of these sons was already condemned 
 to the galleys for life, and of the rest of this numerous 
 family there remained in the He du Ravageur (a name 
 which was popularly given to this place ; why, we will 
 hereafter explain) the Mother Martial ; three sons, the 
 eldest (La Louve's lover) twenty-five years of age, the 
 next twenty, and the youngest twelve ; two girls, one 
 eighteen years of age, the second nine. 
 
 The examples of such families, in whom there is 
 perpetuated a sort of fearful inheritance of crime, are 
 but too frequent. And this must be so. Let us repeat, 
 unceasingly, society thinks of punishing, but never of 
 preventing, crime. A criminal is sentenced to the 
 galleys for life ; another is executed. These felons will 
 leave young families ; does society take any care or 
 heed of these orphans, — these orphans, whom it has 
 made so, by visiting their father with a civil death, or 
 cutting off his head ? Does it substitute any careful 
 or preserving guardianship after the removal of him 
 
 48
 
 L'lLE DU RAVAGEUR. 
 
 whom the law has declared to be unworthy, infamous, — • 
 after the removal of him whom the law has put to 
 death ? No ; " the poison dies with the beast," says 
 society. It is deceived ; the poison of corruption is so 
 subtle, so corrosive, so contagious, that it becomes almost 
 invariably hereditary ; but, if counteracted in time, it 
 would never be incurable. Strange contradiction ! Dis- 
 section proves that a man dies of a malady that may 
 be transmitted, and then, by precautionary measures, 
 his descendants are preserved from the affection of 
 which he has been the victim. Let the same facts be 
 produced in the moral order of things ; let it be demon- 
 strated that a criminal almost always bequeaths to his 
 son the germ of a precocious depravity. Will society 
 do for the safety of this young soul what the doctor 
 does for the body, when it is a question of contending 
 against hereditary vitiation ? No ; instead of curing 
 this unhappy creature, we leave him to be gangrened, 
 even to death ; and then, in the same way as the people 
 believe the son of the executioner to be an executioner, 
 perforce, also, they will believe the son of a criminal 
 also a criminal. And then we consider that the result 
 of an inheritance inexorably fatal, which is really a 
 corruption caused by the egotistical neglect of society. 
 Thus, if, in spite of the evil mark on his name, the 
 orphan, whom the law has made so, remains, by chance, 
 industrious and honest, a barbarous prejudice will still 
 reflect on him his father's offences ; and thus subjected 
 to undeserved reprobation, he will scarcely find employ- 
 ment. And, instead of coming to his aid, to save him 
 from discouragement, despair, and, above all, the dan- 
 gerous resentments of injustice, which sometimes drive 
 the most generous disposition to revolt to ill, society 
 will say : 
 
 " Let him go wrong if he will, — we shall watch him. 
 Have we not gaolers, turnkeys, and executioners ? " 
 
 Thus for him who (and it is as rare as it is meritori- 
 
 49
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 ous) preserves himself pure in spite of the worst ex- 
 amples, is there any support, any encouragement ? Thus 
 for him who, plunged from his birth in a focus of 
 domestic depravity, is vitiated quite young, what hope 
 is there of cure ? 
 
 " Yes, yes, I will cure him, the orphan I have made,'* 
 replies society; "but in my own way, — by and by. 
 To extirpate the smallpox, to cut out the imposthume, 
 it must come to a head." 
 
 A criminal desires to speak. 
 
 " Prisons and galleys, they are my hospitals. In 
 incurable cases there is the executioner. As to the cure 
 of my orphan," adds society, "I will reflect upon it. 
 Let the germ of hereditary corruption ripen; let it 
 increase ; let it extend its ravages far and wide. When 
 our man shall be rotten to the heart, when crime oozes 
 out of him at every pore, when a robbery or desperate 
 murder shall have placed him at the same bar of infamy 
 at which his father stood, then we will cure this inheritor 
 of crime, — as we cured his progenitor. At the galleys 
 or on the scaffold the son will find his father's seat still 
 warm." 
 
 Society thus reasons ; and it is astonished, and indig- 
 nant, and frightened, to see how robberies and murders 
 are handed down so fatally from generation to generation. 
 
 The dark picture which is now to follow — The 
 Freshwater Pirates — is intended to display what the 
 inheritance of evil in a family may be when society does 
 not come legally or officially to preserve the unfortunate 
 victims of the law from the terrible consequences of the 
 sentence executed against the father. ^ 
 
 1 In proportion as -we advance in this work, its moral aim is attacked with 
 so much bitterness, and, as we think, with so much injustice, that we ask 
 permission t<i dwell a little on the serious and honourable idea which hitherto 
 has sustained and guided us. Many serious, delicate, and lofty minds, being 
 desirous of encouraging; us in our endeavours, and having forwarded to us 
 the flattering testimonials of their approval, it is due, perhaps, to these 
 known and unknown friends to reply over again to the blind accusations 
 which have reached, we may say, even to the bosom of the legislative 
 assembly. To proclaim the odious immorality of our work is to proclaim 
 
 50
 
 L'lLE DU RAVAGEUR. 
 
 The ancestor of the Martial family who first estab- 
 lished himself on this islet, on payment of a moderate 
 rent, was a ravageur (a river-scavenger). The ravageurSy 
 as well as the dSbardeurs and dichireurs of boats, remain 
 nearly the whole of the day plunged in water up to the 
 waist in the exercise of liieir trade. The debardeurs 
 bring ashore the floating wood. The dichireurs break 
 up the rafts which have brought the wood. Equally 
 aquatic as these other two occupations, the business of 
 a ravageur is different. Going into the water as far 
 as possible, the ravageur, or mud-lark, draws up, by aid 
 of a long drag, the river sand from beneath the mud; then, 
 collecting it in large wooden bowls, he washes it like a 
 person washing for gold dust, and extracts from it metallic 
 particles of all kinds, — iron, copper, lead, tin, pewter, 
 brass, — the results of the relics of all sorts of utensils. 
 The ravageurs, indeed, often find in the sand fragments 
 of gold and silver jewelry, brought into the Seine 
 
 decidedly, it appears to us, the odiously immoral tendencies of the persons 
 •who honour us with the deepest sympathies. It is in the name of these 
 sympathies, as well as in our own, "that we shall endeavour to prove, by an 
 example selected from amongst others, that this work is not altogether 
 destitute of generous and practical ideas. We gave, some time bacK, the 
 sketch of a model farm founded by Rodolph, in order to encourage, teach, 
 and remunerate poor, honest, and industrious labourers. We add to this: 
 Honest men who are unfortunate deserve, at least, as much interest as 
 criminals; yet there are numerous associations intended for the patronage 
 of young prisoners, or those discharged, but there is no society founded for 
 the' purpose of giving succour to jioor young persons whose conduct has been 
 invariably exemplary. So that it is absolutely necessary to have committed 
 an offence to become qualified for these institutions, which are, unquestion- 
 ably, most meritorious and salutary. And we make a peasant of the Bpu- 
 queval farm to say : 
 
 " It is humane and charitable not to make the wicked desperate, but it is 
 also requisite that the good should not be without hope. If a stout, sturdy, 
 honest fellow, desirous of doing well, and of learning all he can, were to 
 present himself at the farm for young ex-thieves, they would say to him, 
 • My lad, haven't you stolen some trifle, or been somewhat dissolute ? ' ' No ! ' 
 ' Well, then, this is no place for you.' " 
 
 This discordance of things had struck minds much superior to our own, 
 and, thanks to them, what we considered as an utopianism was realised. 
 Under the superintendence of one of the most distinguished and most 
 honourable men of the age, M. le Comte Portalis, and under the able direc- 
 ' tion of a real philanthropist with a generous heart and an enlightened and 
 practical mind, M. AUier, a society has been established for the purpose of 
 succouring poor and honest persons of the Department of the Seine, and of 
 employing them in agricultural colonies. This single and sole result is 
 Bufticient to affirm the moral idea of our work. We are very proud and very 
 happy to have been met iu the midst of our ideas, our wishes, and our hopes 
 by the founders of this new work of charity ; for we are one of the most 
 obscure, but most convinced, propagators of these two great truths, — that it 
 
 51
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 either by the sewers which are washed by the stream, 
 or by the masses of snow or ice collected in the streets, 
 and which are cast into the river. We do not know by 
 "what tradition or custom these persons, usually honest 
 and industrious, are called by a name so formidable. 
 Martial, the father, the first inhabitant of this islet, 
 being a ravageur (and a sad exception to his comrades), 
 the inhabitants of the river's banks called it the He du 
 Ravageur. 
 
 The dwelling of these freshwater pirates was placed 
 at the southern end of the island. In daytime there 
 was visible, on a sign-board over the door : 
 
 "AU RENDEZVOUS DES RAVAGEURS. 
 
 GOOD WINE, GOOD EELS, AND FRIED FISH. 
 
 BOATS LET BY THE DAY OR HOUR." 
 
 We thus see that the head of this depraved family 
 added to his visible or hidden pursuits those of a public- 
 is the duty of society to prevent evil, and to encourage and recompense good, 
 as much as in it lies. 
 
 Whilst we are speaking of this new work of charity, whose just and moral 
 idea ought to have a salutary and fruitful result, let us hope that its founders 
 will perchance think of supplying another vacancy, by extending hereafter 
 their tutelary patronage, or, at least, their solicitude, over young children 
 whose fathers have been executed, or condemned to an infamous sentence 
 involving civil death, and who, we will repeat, are made orphans by the act 
 and operation of the law. Such of these unfortunate children as shall be 
 already worthy of interest from their wholesome tendencies and their misery 
 will still more deserve particular notice, in consequence of their painful, 
 difficult, and dangerous position. Let us add : The family of a condemned 
 criminal, almost always victims of cruel repulses, apply in vain for labour, 
 and are compelled, in order to escape universal reprobation, to fly from the 
 spot where they have hitherto found work. Then, exasperated and enraged 
 by injustice, already branded as criminals, for faults of which they are 
 innocent, frequently at the end of all honourable resource, these unfortu- 
 nates would sink and die of famine if they remained honest. If they have, 
 on the other hand, already undergone an almost inevitable corruption, ought 
 we not to try and rescue them whilst there is yet time ? The presence of 
 these orphans of the law in the midst of other children protected by the 
 society of whom we have spoken, would be, moreover, a useful example to 
 all. It would show that if the guilty Is unfailingly punished, his family 
 lose nothing, but rather gain in the esteem of the world, if by dint of courage 
 and virtues they achieve the reestablishing of a tarnished name. Shall we 
 say that the lesislature desires to render the chastisement still more terrible 
 by virtually striking the criminal father in the fortune of his innocent son ? 
 That would be barbarous, immoral, irrational. Is it not, on the contrary, of 
 the highest moral consequence to prove to the people that there is no 
 hereditary succession of evil ; that the original stain is not ineffaceable ? 
 
 Let us venture to hope that these reflections will appear deserving of 
 some attention from the new Society of Patronage. Unquestionably it is 
 painful to think that the state never takes the initiative in these questions 
 BO vital and so deeply interesting to social organisation. 
 
 52
 
 L'lLE DU RAYAGEUR. 
 
 house keeper, fisherman, and letter of boats. The fel- 
 on's widow continued to keep the house, and reprobates, 
 vagrants, escaped convicts, wandering wild-beast show- 
 men, and scamps of every description came there to 
 pass Sundays and other days not marked with a red 
 letter in the calendar, in parties of pleasure. Martial 
 (La Louve's lover), the eldest son of the family, the 
 least guilty of all the family, was a river poacher, and 
 now and then, as a real champion, and for money paid, 
 took the part of the weak against the strong. One of 
 his brothers, Nicholas, the intended accomplice of Bar- 
 billon in the murder of the jewel-matcher, was in appear- 
 ance a ravageur, but really a freshwater pirate in the 
 Seine and its banks. Fran9ois, the youngest son of 
 the executed felon, rowed visitors who wished to go 
 on the river in a boat. We have alluded to Ambroise 
 Martial, condemned to the galleys for burglary at night 
 with attempt to murder. The eldest daughter, nick- 
 named Calabash (Calebasse), helped her mother in the 
 kitchen, and waited on the company. Her sister. 
 Amandine, nine years of age, was also employed in the 
 house according to her years and strength. 
 
 At the period in question it was a dull night out of 
 doors ; heavy, gray, opaque clouds, driven by the wind, 
 showed here and there in the midst of their openings a 
 few patches of dark blue spotted with stars. The out- 
 line of the islet, bordered by high and ragged poplars, 
 was strongly and darkly defined in the clear haze of the 
 sky and in the white transparency of the river. The 
 house, with its irregular gables, was completely buried 
 in the shade ; two windows in the ground floor only 
 were lighted, and these windows showed a deep red 
 light, which was reflected like long trails of fire in the 
 little ripples which washed the landing-place close to 
 the house. The chains of the boats which were moored 
 there made a continual clashing, that mingled unpleas- 
 antly with the gusts of the wind in the branches 
 
 53
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 of the poplars, and the hoarse murmurs of the main 
 stream. 
 
 A portion of the family was assembled in the kitchen 
 of the house. This was a large low-roofed apartment. 
 Facing the door were two windows, under which a long 
 stove extended. To the left hand there was a high 
 chimney ; on the right a staircase leading to the upper 
 story. At the side of this staircase was the entrance to 
 a large room, containing several tables for the use of the 
 guests at the cabaret. The light of a lamp, joined to 
 the flame of the fire, was strongly reflected by a number 
 of saucepans and other copper utensils suspended against 
 the wall, or ranged on shelves with a quantity of earthen- 
 ware ; and a large table stood in the middle of the kitchen. 
 The felon's widow, with three of her children, was seated 
 in the corner near the fireplace. 
 
 This woman, tall and meagre, seemed about five and 
 forty years of age. She was dressed in black, with a 
 mourning handkerchief tied about her head, concealing 
 her hair, and surrounding her flat, livid, and wrinkled 
 brows ; her nose was long and straight ; her cheek-bones 
 prominent ; her cheeks furrowed ; her complexion bilious 
 and sallow ; the corners of her mouth, always curved 
 downwards, rendered still harsher the expression of her 
 countenance, as chilling, sinister, and immovable as a 
 marble mask. Her gray eyebrows surmounted her dull 
 blue eyes. 
 
 The felon's widow was employed with needlework, as 
 well as her two daughters. The eldest girl was tall and 
 forbidding like her mother, with her features, calm, harsh, 
 and repulsive, her thin nose, her ill-formed mouth, and 
 her pale look. Her yellow complexion, which resembled 
 a ripe quince, had procured for her the name of Calabash 
 (^Calehasse). She was not in mourning, but wore a 
 brown gown, whilst a cap of black tulle did not conceal 
 two bands of scanty hair of dull and dingy light brown. 
 
 Fran9ois, the youngest of the Martial sons, was sitting
 
 L'lLE DU RAVAGEUR. 
 
 on a low stool repairing an aldrel, a thin-meshed net 
 forbidden to be used on the Seine. In spite of the tan 
 of his features, this boy seemed in perfect health ; a 
 forest of red hair covered his head ; his face was round, 
 his lips thick, his forehead projecting, his eyes quick and 
 piercing. He was not like his mother or his elder sister, 
 but had a subdued and sly look, as from time to time, 
 through the thick mass of hair that fell over his eyes, he 
 threw a stealthy and fearful glance at his mother, or 
 exchanged a look of intelligence and affection with his 
 little sister. Amandine. 
 
 The latter was seated beside her brother, and was 
 occupied, not in marking, but in unmarking, some linen 
 stolen on the previous evening. She was nine years old, 
 and was as like her brother as her sister was like her 
 mother. Her features, without being more regular, were 
 less coarse than those of Frangois. Although covered 
 with freckles, her complexion was remarkably clear, her 
 lips thick and red, her hair also red, but silky, and her 
 eyes, though small, were of a clear bright blue. When 
 Amandine's look met that of her brother, she turned a 
 glance towards the door, and then Frangois replied by 
 sigh ; after which, calling his sister's attention by a slight 
 gesture, he counted with the end of his needle ten loops 
 of the net. This was meant to imply, in the symbolical 
 language of children, that their brother Martial would 
 not return until ten o'clock that evening. 
 
 Seeing these two women so silent and ill-looking, and 
 the two poor little mute, frightened, uneasy children, we 
 might suppose they were two executioners and two \'ic- 
 tims. Calabash, perceiving that Amandine had ceased 
 from her occupation for a moment, said, in a harsh 
 tone : 
 
 " Come, haven't you done taking the mark out of that 
 shirt?" 
 
 The little girl bowed her head without making any 
 reply, and, by the aid of her fingers and scissors, hastily 
 
 55
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 finished taking out the red cotton threads which marked 
 the letters in the linen. 
 
 After a few minutes Amandine, addressing the widow 
 timidly, showed her the shirt, and said : 
 
 " Mother, I have done it." 
 
 Without making any reply, the widow threw her 
 another piece of linen. The child did not catch it 
 quickly enough, and it fell on the ground. Her tall 
 sister gave her, with her hand as hard as wood, a sharp 
 slap on the arm, saying: 
 
 "You stupid brat!" 
 
 Amandine resumed her seat, and set to work actively, 
 after having exchanged with her brother a glance of her 
 eye, into which a tear had started. 
 
 The same silence continued to reign in the kitchen. 
 Without, the wind still moaned and dashed about the 
 sign in front of the house. This dismal creaking, 
 and the dull boiling of a pot placed over the fire, were 
 the only sounds that were heard. The two children 
 observed, with secret fright, that their mother did not 
 speak. Although she was habitually taciturn, this 
 complete silence, and a certain drawing in of the 
 lips, announced to them that the widow was in what 
 they called her white passion, that is to say, was a prey 
 to concentrated irritation. 
 
 The fire was going out for want of fuel. 
 
 " FranQois, a log," said Calabash. 
 
 The young mender of forbidden nets looked into a 
 nook beside the chimney, and replied : 
 
 " There are no more there." 
 
 " Then go to the wood-pile," said Calabash. 
 
 Francois murmured some unintelligible words, but did 
 not stir. 
 
 " Do you hear me, Fran9ois ? " inquired Calabash, 
 harshly. 
 
 The felon's widow laid on her knees a towel she was 
 also unmarking, and looked at her son. He had lowered 
 
 56
 
 L'lLE DU RAVAGEUR. 
 
 his head, but he guessed he felt, if we may use the 
 expression, the fierce look his mother cast upon him, 
 and, fearful of encountering her dreaded countenance, 
 the boy remained without stirring. 
 
 " I say, are you deaf, Fran9ois ? " said Calabash, in an 
 irritated tone. " Mother, you see ! " 
 
 The tall sister seemed to be happy in finding fault 
 with the two children, and to seek for them the punish- 
 ment which the widow pitilessly inflicted. Amandine, 
 without being observed, gently touched her brother's 
 elbow, to make him quietly do what Calabash desired. 
 Francois did not stir. The elder sister still looked 
 at her mother as demanding the punishment of the 
 offender, and the widow understood her. With her 
 long lean finger she pointed to a stick of stout and 
 pliant willow placed in a recess near the chimney. 
 Calabash stooped forward, took up this staff of chas- 
 tisement, and handed it to her mother. Francois had 
 seen his mother's gesture, and, rising suddenly, sprung 
 out of the reach of the threatening stick. 
 
 " Do you want mother to break your back ? " ex- 
 claimed Calabash. 
 
 The widow, still holding the willow stick in her hand, 
 pinching her pale lips together more and more, looked at 
 Francois with a fixed eye, but without uttering a syllable. 
 By the slight tremor of Amandine's hands, with her head 
 bent downwards, and the redness which suddenly over- 
 spread her neck, it was easy to see that the child, al- 
 though habituated to such scenes, was alarmed at the fate 
 that threatened her brother, who had taken refuge in a 
 corner of the kitchen, and seemed frightened and irritated. 
 
 " Mind yourself, mother's going to begin, and then it 
 will be too late ! " said the tall sister. 
 
 " I don't care ! " replied Francois, tm-ning pale. " I'd 
 rather be beaten as I was the day before yesterday, tlian 
 — go to the wood-pile — and at night — again." 
 
 " And why ? " asked Calabash, impatiently. 
 
 57
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 "I am — afraid of the wood-pile — I — " answered 
 the boy, shuddering as he spoke. 
 
 " Afraid — you stupid ! And of what ? " 
 
 Fran9ois shook his head, but did not reply. 
 
 " Will you answer ? What are you afraid of ? " 
 
 " I don't know. But I am frightened." 
 
 " Why, you've been there a hundred times, and last 
 night, too." 
 
 " I won't go there any more." 
 
 " Mother's going to begin." 
 
 " So much the worse for me," exclaimed the lad. 
 " But she may beat me, kill me, and I'll not go near 
 the wood-pile — not at night." 
 
 " Once more — why not ? " inquired Calabash. 
 
 *' Why, because — " 
 
 " Because — ? " 
 
 " Because there's some one — " 
 
 " There's some one — " 
 
 " Buried there ! " said FranQois, with a shudder. 
 
 The felon's widow, in spite of her impassiveness, could 
 not repress a sudden start ; her daughter did the same. 
 It seemed as though the two women were struck with an 
 electric shock. 
 
 " Some one buried by the wood-pile ?" said Calabash, 
 shrugging her shoulders. 
 
 " I tell you that just now, whilst I was piling up some 
 wood, I saw in a dark corner near the wood-pile a dead 
 man's bone ; it was sticking a little way out of the 
 ground where it was damp, just by the corner," added 
 Francois. 
 
 " Do you hear him, mother ? Why, the boy's a fool ! " 
 said Calabash, making a signal to the widow. " They 
 are mutton-bones I put there for washing-lye." 
 
 " It was not a mutton-bone," replied the boy, with 
 alarm, " it was a dead person's bones, — a dead man's 
 bones. I saw quite plainly a foot that stuck out of the 
 ground." 
 
 58
 
 L'lLE DU RAYAGEUR. 
 
 " And, of course, you told your brother, your dear 
 friend Martial, of your grand discovery, didn't you?" 
 asked Calabash, with brutal irony. 
 
 Fran9ois made no reply. 
 
 " Nasty little spy ! " said Calabash, savagely ; " because 
 he is as cowardly as a cur, and would as soon see us 
 scragged, as our father was scragged before us." 
 
 " If you call me a spy, I'll tell my brother Martial 
 everything ! " said Frangois, much enraged. " I haven't 
 told him yet, for I haven't seen him since ; but, when he 
 comes here this evening, I'll — " 
 
 The child could not finish ; his mother came up to 
 him, calm and inexorable as ever. Although she habitu- 
 ally stooped a little, her figure was still tall for a woman. 
 Holding the willow wand in one hand, with the other 
 the widow took her son by the arm, and, in spite of 
 alarm, resistance, prayers, and tears of the child, she 
 dragged him after her, and made him ascend the stair- 
 case at the further end of the kitchen. After a moment's 
 interval, there was heard heavy trampling, mingled with 
 cries and sobs. Some minutes afterwards this noise 
 ceased. A door shut violently ; the felon's widow de- 
 scended. Then, as impassive as ever, she put the stick 
 in its usual place, seated herself close to the fireplace, 
 and resumed her occupation, without saying a word. 
 
 59
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 After a silence of several minutes, the criminal's 
 widow said to her daughter : 
 
 " Go and get some wood ; we will set the wood-pile 
 to rights when Nicholas and Martial return home this 
 evening." 
 
 " Martial ! Do you mean to tell him also that — " 
 
 " The wood, I say ! " repeated the widow, abruptly 
 interrupting her daughter, who, accustomed to yield to 
 the imperious and iron rule of her mother, lighted a 
 lantern, and went out. 
 
 During the preceding scene. Amandine, deeply dis- 
 quieted concerning the fate of Fran9ois, whom she 
 tenderly loved, had not ventured either to lift up her 
 eyes, or dry her tears, which fell, drop by drop, on 
 to her lap. Her sobs, which she dared not give utter- 
 ance to, almost suffocated her, and she strove even to 
 repress the fearful beatings of her heart. Blinded by 
 her fast gathering tears, she sought to conceal her emo- 
 tian by endeavouring to pick the mark from the chemise 
 given to her, but, from the nervous trembling of her 
 hand, she ran the scissors into her finger sufificiently 
 deep to cause considerable effusion of blood ; but the 
 poor child thought much less of the pain she experi- 
 enced than of the certain punishment which awaited 
 her for staining the linen with her blood. Happily 
 for her, the widow was too deeply absorbed in profound 
 
 60
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 reflection to take any notice of what had occurred. 
 Calabash now returned, bearing a basket filled with 
 wood. To the inquiring look of her mother, she re- 
 turned an affirmative nod of the head, which was 
 intended to acquaint her with the fact of the dead 
 man's foot being actually above the ground. The widow 
 compressed her lips, and continued the work she was 
 occupied upon ; the only difference perceptible in her 
 being that she plied her needle with increased rapidity. 
 Calaijash, meanwhile, renewed the fire, superintended 
 the state of the cookery progressing in the saucepan 
 beside the hearth, and then resumed her seat near her 
 mother. 
 
 " Nicholas is not here yet," said she to her parent. 
 " It is to be hoped that the old woman who this morning 
 engaged him to meet a gentleman from Bradamanti has 
 not led him into any scrape. She had such a very off- 
 hand way with her ; she would neither give any explana- 
 tion as to the nature of the business Nicholas was wanted 
 for, nor tell her name, or where she came from." 
 
 The widow shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " You do not consider Nicholas is in any danger, I 
 see, mother. And, after all, I dare say you are quite 
 right ! The old woman desired him to be on the Quai 
 de Billy, opposite the landing-place, about seven o'clock 
 in the evening, and wait there for a person who wished 
 to speak with him, and who would utter the word 
 ' Bradamanti ' as a sort of countersign. Certainly 
 there is nothing very perilous in doing so much. No 
 doubt Nicholas is late from having to-day found, as he 
 did yesterday, something on the road. Look at this 
 capital linen which he contrived to filch from a boat, 
 in which a laundress had just left it ! " So saying, she 
 pointed to one of the pieces of linen Amandine was 
 endeavouring to pick the mark out of. Then, address- 
 ing the child, she said, "What do folks mean when 
 they talk of filching ? " 
 
 61
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " I believe," answered the frightened child, without 
 venturing to look up, " it means taking things that are 
 not ours." 
 
 " Oh, you little fool ! It means stealing, not taking. 
 Do you understand ? — stealing ! " 
 
 " Thank you, sister ! " 
 
 " And when one can steal as cleverly as Nicholas, 
 there is no need to want for anything. Look at that 
 linen he filched yesterday ; how comfortably it set us 
 all up ; and that, too, with no other trouble than just 
 taking out the marks; isn't it true, mother?" added 
 Calabash, with a burst of laughter, which displayed her 
 decayed and irregular teeth, yellow and jaundiced as 
 her complexion. 
 
 The widow received this pleasantry with cold indiffer- 
 ence. 
 
 " Talking of fitting ourselves up without any expense," 
 continued Calabash, " it strikes me we might possibly do 
 so at another shop. You know quite well that an old 
 man has come, within the last few days, to live in the 
 country-house belonging to M. Griffon, the doctor of 
 the hospital at Paris. I mean that lone house about 
 a hundred steps from the river's side, just opposite the 
 lime-kilns, — eh, mother? You understand me, don't 
 you?" 
 
 The widow bowed her head, in token of assent. 
 
 " Well, Nicholas was saying yesterday that it was 
 very likely a good job might be made out of it," pursued 
 Calabash. " Now I have ascertained, this very morning, 
 that there is good booty to be found there. The best 
 way will be to send Amandine to watch the place a 
 little ; no one will take notice of a child like her ; and 
 she could pretend to be just playing about, and amusing 
 herself ; all the time she can take notice of everything, 
 and will be able to tell us all she sees or hears. Do 
 you hear what I say ? " added Calabash, roughly address- 
 ing Amandine. 
 
 62
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 " Yes, sister," answered the trembling child ; " I -will 
 be sure to do as you wish me." 
 
 " Yes, that is what you always say ; but you never do 
 more than promise, you little slink ! That time that I 
 desired you to take a five-franc piece out of the grocer's 
 till at Asnieres, while I managed to keep the man occu- 
 pied at the other end of the shop, you did not choose to 
 obey me ; and yet you might have done it so easily ; no 
 one ever mistrusts a child. Pray what was your reason 
 for not doing as you were bid ? " 
 
 " Because, sister, my heart failed me, and I was 
 afraid." 
 
 " And yet, the other day, you took a handkerchief out 
 of the peddler's pack, when the man was selling his 
 goods inside the public-house. Pray did he find it out, 
 you silly thing ? " 
 
 " Oh, but, sister, you know the handkerchief was for 
 you, not me ; and you made me do it. Besides, it was 
 not money." 
 
 " What difference does that make ? " 
 
 " Oh, why, taking a handkerchief is not half so wicked 
 as stealing money ! " 
 
 " Upon my word," said Calabash, contemptuously, 
 " these are mighty fine notions ! I suppose it is Mar- 
 tial stuffs your head with all this rubbish. I suppose 
 you will run open-mouthed to tell him every word we 
 have said, — eh, little spy ? But Lord bless you ! We 
 are not afraid of you or Martial either ; you can neither 
 eat us nor drink us, that is one good thing." Then, 
 addressing herself to the widow. Calabash continued, 
 " I tell you what, mother, that fellow will get himself 
 into no good by trying to rule, and domineer, and lay 
 down the law here, as he does ; both Nicholas and 
 myself are determined not to submit to it. He sets 
 both Amandine and FranQois against everything either 
 you or I order them to do. Do you think this can last 
 much longer ? " 
 
 63
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " No ! " said the mother, in a harsh, abrupt voice. 
 
 " Ever since his Louve has been sent to St. Lazare, 
 Martial has gone on like a madman, savage as a bear 
 with every one. Pray is it our fault ? Can we help his 
 sweetheart being put in prison ? Only let her show her 
 face here when she comes out, and I'll serve her in such 
 a way she sha'n't forget one while ! I'll match her ! 
 I'll — " 
 
 Here the widow, who had been buried in profound 
 reflection, suddenly interriipted her daughter by saying : 
 
 " You think something profitable might be got out of 
 the old fellow who lives in the doctor's house, do you 
 not ? " 
 
 " Yes, mother ! " 
 
 " He looks poor and shabby as any common beggar ! '* 
 
 " And, for all that, he is a nobleman." 
 
 " A nobleman ? " 
 
 *' True as you're alive ! And, what's more, he carries 
 a purse full of gold, spite of his always going into Paris, 
 and returning, on foot, leaning on an old stick, just for 
 all the world like a poor wretch that had not a sou in 
 the world." 
 
 " How do you know that he has gold ? " 
 
 "A little while ago I was at the post-office at 
 Asnieres, to inquire whether there was any letter for 
 us from Toulon — " 
 
 At these words, which recalled the circumstance of 
 her son's confinement in the galleys, the brows of the 
 widow were contracted with a dark frown, while a half 
 repressed sigh escaped her lips. Unheeding these signs 
 of perturbation. Calabash proceeded : 
 
 " I was waiting my turn, when the old man who lives 
 at the doctor's house entered the office. I knew him 
 again directly, by his white hair and beard, his dark com- 
 plexion, and thick black eyebrows. He does not look 
 like one that would be easily managed, I can tell you ; 
 and, spite of his age, he has the appearance of a deter- 
 
 6i
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 mined old fool that would die sooner than yield. He 
 walked straight up to the postmistress. ' Pray,' said he, 
 * have you any letters from Angers for M. le Comte de 
 Remy ? ' ' Yes,' replied the woman, ' here is one.' 
 ' Then it is for me,' said the old man ; ' here is my pass- 
 port.' While the postmistress was examining it, he 
 drew out a green silk purse, to pay the postage ; and, 
 I promise you, one end was stuffed with gold till it 
 looked as large as an egg. I know it was gold, for I 
 saw the bright, yellow pieces shining through the 
 meshes of the purse ; and I am quite certain there 
 must have been at least forty or fifty louis in it ! " 
 cried Calabash, her eyes glowing with a covetous eager- 
 ness to possess herself of such a treasure. " And only 
 to think," continued she, " of a person, with all that 
 money in his pocket, going about like an old beggar ! 
 No doubt he is some old miser, too rich to be able to 
 count his hoards. One good thing, mother, we know 
 his name ; that may assist us in gaining admittance into 
 the house. As soon as Amandine can find out for us 
 whether he has any servants or not — " 
 
 A loud barking of dogs here interrupted Calabash. 
 
 " Listen, mother," cried she ; " no doubt the dogs 
 hear the sound of a boat approaching ; it must be 
 either Martial or Nicholas." 
 
 At the mention of Martial's name, the features of 
 Amandine expressed a sort of troubled joy. After 
 waiting for some minutes, during which the anxious 
 looks of the impatient child were fixed on the door, 
 she saw, to her extreme regret, Nicholas, the future 
 accomplice of Barbillon, make his appearance. The 
 physiognomy of the youth was at once ignoble and 
 ferocious; small in figure, short in stature, and mean 
 in appearance, no one would have deemed him a likely 
 person to pursue the dangerous and criminal path he 
 trod. Unhappily, a sort of wild, savage energy supplied 
 the place of that physical force in which the hardened 
 
 65
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 youth was deficient. Over his blue loose frock he wore 
 a kind of vest, without sleeves, made of goatskin, 
 covered with long brown hair. As he entered, he threw 
 on the ground a lump of copper, which he had with 
 difficulty carried on his shoulder. 
 
 " A famous good night I have made of it, mother ! " 
 said he, in a hoarse and hollow voice, after he had freed 
 himself from Lis burden. " Look there ! There's a 
 prize. Well, I've got three more lumps of copper, 
 quite as big as that, in my boat, a bundle of clothes, 
 and a case filled with something, I know not what, 
 for I did not waste my time in opening it. Per- 
 haps I have been robbed on my way home ; we shall 
 see." 
 
 "And the man you were to meet on the Quai de 
 Billy ? " inquired Calabash, while the widow regarded 
 her son in silence. 
 
 The only reply made by the young man consisted in 
 his plunging his hand into the pocket of his trousers, 
 and jingling a quantity of silver. 
 
 " Did you take all that from him ? " cried Calabash. 
 
 " No, I didn't ; he shelled out two hundred francs of 
 his own accord ; and he will fork out eight hundred 
 more as soon as I have — But that's enough ; let's, 
 first of all, unload my boat ; we can jabber afterwards. 
 Is not Martial here ? " 
 
 " No," said his sister. 
 
 " So much the better ; we will put away the swag 
 before he sees it ; leastways, if he can be kept from 
 knowing about it." 
 
 " What ! Are you afraid of him, you coward ? " 
 asked Calabash, provokingly. 
 
 Nicholas shrugged his shoulders significantly ; then 
 replied : 
 
 " Afraid of him ? No, I should rather think not ! 
 But I have a strong suspicion he means to sell us, — 
 tiiat is my only fear ; as for any other sort of dread, 
 
 66
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 my weazen-slicer (knife) has rather too keen an edge 
 for that!" 
 
 " Ah, when he is not here, you are full of boast and 
 brag ; but only let him show his face, and you are quiet 
 as a mouse ! " 
 
 This reproach seemed quite thrown away upon 
 Nicholas, who, affecting not to have heard it, 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Come, come ! Let's unload the boat at once. 
 Where is Fran9ois, mother ? He could help us a 
 good deal." 
 
 " Mother has locked him up, after having preciously 
 flogged him ; and, I can tell you, he will have to go to 
 bed without any supper." 
 
 " Well and good as far as that goes ; but still, he 
 might lend a hand in unloading the boat, — eh, mother ? 
 Because, then myself and Calabash could fetch all in at 
 once." 
 
 The widow raised her hand, and pointed with her 
 finger towards the ceiling. Her daughter perfectly 
 comprehended the signal, and departed at once to 
 fetch Frangois. 
 
 The countenance of the widow Martial had become 
 less cloudy since the arrival of Nicholas, whom she 
 greatly preferred to Calabash, but by no means enter- 
 taining for him the affection she felt for her Toulon son, 
 as she designated him ; for the maternal love of this 
 ferocious woman appeared to increase in proportion to 
 the criminality of her offspring. This perverse prefer- 
 ence will serve to account for the widow's indifference 
 towards her two younger children, neither of whom 
 exhibited any disposition to evil, as well as her perfect 
 hatred of Martial, her eldest son, who, although not 
 leading an altogether irreproachable life, might still 
 have passed for a perfectly honest and ■^ell-conductcd 
 person if placed in comparison with Nicholas, Calabash, 
 or his brother, the felon at Toulon. 
 
 67
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Whicti road did you take to-night ? " inquired the 
 widow of her son. 
 
 " Why, as I returned from the Quai de Billy, where, 
 you know, I had to go to meet the gentleman who 
 appointed to see me there, I spied a barge moored along- 
 side the quay ; it was as dark as pitch. ' Halloa ! ' says 
 I, ' no light in the cabin ? No doubt,' says I, 'all hands 
 are ashore. I'll just go on board, and have a look ; if I 
 meet any one, it's easy to ask for a bit of string, and 
 make up a fudge about wanting to splice my oar.' So 
 up the side I climbs, and ventures into the cabin. Not 
 a soul was there ; so I began collecting all I could find : 
 clothes, a great box, and, on the deck, four quintals of 
 copper. So, you may guess, I was obliged to make two 
 journeys. The vessel was loaded with copper and iron ; 
 but here comes Fran9ois and Calabash. Now, then, let's 
 be off to the boat. Here, you young un, you Amandine ! 
 Look sharp, and make yourself useful ; you can carry 
 the clothes ; we must get new things, you know, before 
 we can throw aside our old ones." 
 
 Left alone, the widow busied herself in preparations 
 for the family supper. She placed on the table bottles, 
 glasses, earthenware, plates, with forks and spoons of 
 silver ; and, by the time this occupation was completed, 
 her offspring returned heavily laden. 
 
 Little Frangois staggered beneath the weight of copper 
 which he carried on his shoulders, and Amandine was 
 almost buried beneath the mass of stolen garments which 
 she bore on her head, while Nicholas and Calabash 
 brought in between them a wooden case, on the top 
 of which lay the fourth lump of copper. 
 
 "The case, — the case!" cried Calabash, with savage 
 eagerness. " Come, let's rip it open, and know what's 
 in it." 
 
 The lumps of copper were flung on the ground. 
 Nicholas took the heavy hatchet he carried in his belt, 
 and introduced its strong iron head between the lid and
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 the box which he had set down in the middle of the 
 kitchen, and endeavoured with all his strength to force 
 it open. The red and flickering light of the fire illu- 
 mined this scene of pillage, while, from without, the loud 
 gusts of the night wind increased in violence. 
 
 Nicholas, meanwhile, attired in his goatskin vest, 
 stooped over the box, and essayed with all his might 
 to wrench off the top, breaking out into the most 
 horrible and blasphemous expressions, as he found the 
 solidity of the fastenings resist all his endeavours to 
 arrive at a knowledge of its contents ; and Calabash, 
 her eyes inflamed by covetousness, her cheeks flushed 
 by the excitement of plunder, knelt down beside the 
 case, on which she leaned her utmost weight, in order 
 to give more power to the action of the lever employed 
 by Nicholas. The widow, separated from the group by 
 the table, on the other side of which she was standing, 
 in her eagerness to behold the spoils, threw herself 
 almost across the table, the better to gaze on the booty ; 
 her longing eyes sparkled with eagerness to learn the 
 value of it. And finally — though unhappily, too true 
 to human nature — the two children, whose naturally 
 good inclinations had so often triumphed over the sea 
 of vice and domestic corruption by which they were 
 surrounded, even they, forgetting at once both their 
 fears and their scruples, were alike infected by the 
 same fatal curiosity. 
 
 Huddling close to each other, their eyes glittering 
 with excitement, the breathing short and quick, Fran- 
 cois and Amandine seemed of all the party most impa- 
 tient to ascertain the contents of the case, and the most 
 irritated and out of patience with the slow progress 
 made by Nicholas in his attempts to break it open. At 
 length the lid yielded to the powerful and repeated 
 blows dealt on it by the vigorous arm of the young 
 man, and as its fragments fell on the ground a loud, 
 exulting cry rose from the joyful and almost breathless 
 
 69
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 group, who, joining in one wild mass, from the mother 
 to the little girl, rushed forward, and with savage 
 haste threw themselves on the opened box, which, 
 forwarded, doubtless, by some house in Paris to a 
 fashionable draper and mercer residing near the 
 banks of the river, contained a large assortment of 
 the different materials employed in female attire. 
 
 " Nicholas has not done amiss I " cried Calabash, 
 unfolding a piece of mousseline-de-laine. 
 
 " No, faith ! " returned the plunderer, opening, in his 
 turn, a parcel of silk handkerchiefs ; " I shall manage 
 to pay myself for my trouble." 
 
 " Levantine, I declare ! " cried the widow, dipping 
 into the box, and drawing forth a rich silk. " Ah, 
 that is a thing that fetches a price as readily as a loaf 
 of bread." 
 
 " Oh, Bras Rouge's receiver, who lives in the Rue du 
 Temple, will buy all the finery, and be glad of it. And 
 Father Micou, the man who lets furnished lodgings in 
 the Quartier St. Honor^, will take the rest of the swag." 
 
 " Amandine," whispered Fran9ois to his little sister, 
 "what a beautiful cravat one of those handsome silk 
 handkerchiefs Nicholas is holding in his hand would 
 make, wouldn't it ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; and what a sweet pretty marmotte it would 
 make for me ! " replied the child, in rapture at the 
 very idea. 
 
 " Well, it must be confessed, Nicholas," said Calabash, 
 " that it was a lucky thought of yours to go on board 
 that barge, — famous ! Look, here are shawls, too ! 
 How many, I wonder? One, two, three. And just 
 see here, mother ! This one is real Bourre de Soie.'* 
 
 " Mother Burette would give at least five hundred 
 francs for the lot," said the widow, after closely exam- 
 ining each article. 
 
 " Then, I'll be sworn," answered Nicholas, " if she'll 
 give that, the things are worth at least fifteen hundred 
 
 70
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 francs. But, as the old saying is, ' The receiver's as 
 bad as the thief.' Never mind ; so much the worse for 
 us ! I'm no hand at splitting differences ; and I shall 
 be quite flat enough this time to let Mother Burette 
 have it all her own way, and Father Micou also, for 
 the matter of that; but then, to be sure, he is a friend." 
 
 " I don't care for that, he'd cheat you as soon as 
 another ; I'm up to the old dealer in marine stores. 
 But then these rascally receivers know we cannot do 
 without them," continued Calabash, putting on one of 
 the shawls, and folding it around her, " and so they 
 take advantage of it." 
 
 " There is nothing else," said Nicholas, coming to the 
 bottom of the box. 
 
 " Now, let us put everything away," said the widow. 
 
 " I shall keep this shawl for myself," exclaimed Cala- 
 bash. 
 
 " Oh, you will, will you?" cried Nicholas, roughly; 
 " that depends whether I choose to let you or not. You 
 are always laying your clutches on something or other ; 
 you are Madame Free-and-Easy ! " 
 
 " You are so mighty particular yourself — about tak- 
 ing whatever you have a fancy to, arn't you ? " 
 
 " Ah, that's as different as different can be ! I filch 
 at the risk of my life ; and if I had happened to have 
 been nabbed on board the barge, you would not have 
 been trounced for it." 
 
 " La ! Well, don't make such a fuss, — take your shawl ! 
 I'm sure I don't want it ; I was only joking about it," 
 continued Calabash, flinging the shawl back into the 
 box ; " but you never can stand the least bit of fun." 
 
 " Oh, I don't speak because of the shawl ; I am not 
 stingy enough to squabble about a trumpery shawl. One 
 more or less would make no difference in the price 
 Mother Burette would give for the things ; she buys in 
 the lump, you know," continued Nicholas ; " only I con- 
 sider that, instead of calling out you should keep the 
 
 71
 
 THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 shawl, it would have been more decent to have asked me 
 to give it you. There — there it is — keep it — you may 
 have it ; keep it, I say, or else I'll just fling it into the 
 fire to make the pot boil." 
 
 These words entirely appeased Calabash, who forth- 
 with accepted the shawl without further scruple. 
 
 Nicholas appeared seized with a sudden fit of gener- 
 osity, for, ripping off the fag end from one of the pieces 
 of silk, he contrived to separate two silk handkerchiefs, 
 which he threw to Amandine and Francois, who had 
 been contemplating them with longing looks, saying : 
 
 " There ! that's for you brats ; just a little taste to 
 give you a relish for prigging ; it's a thing you'll take 
 to more kindly if it's made agreeable to you. And now, 
 get off to bed. Come, look sharp, I've got a deal to say 
 to mother. There — you shall have some supper brought 
 lip-stairs to you." 
 
 The delighted children clapped their hands with joy, 
 and triumphantly waved the stolen handkerchiefs which 
 had just been presented to them. 
 
 " What do you say now, you little stupids ? " said 
 Calabash to them ; " will you over go and be persuaded 
 by Martial again ? Did he ever give you beautiful silk 
 handkerchiefs like those, I should be glad to know? " 
 
 Fran9oi8 and Amandine looked at each other, then 
 hung down their heads, and made no answe-r. 
 
 " Answer, can't you ? " persisted Calabash, roughly. 
 " I ask you whether you ever received such presents 
 from Martial ? " 
 
 " No," answered Francois, gazing with intense delight 
 on his bright red silk handkerchief, " Brother Martial 
 never gives us anything." 
 
 To which Amandine replied, in a low yet firm voice : 
 
 " Ah, Francois, that is because Martial has nothing to 
 give anybody." 
 
 " He might have as much as other people if he chose to 
 steal it, mightn't he, Fran9ois ? " said Nicholas, brutally. 
 
 72
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 " Yes, brother," replied Frangois. Then, as if glad 
 to quit the subject, he resumed his ecstatic contemplation 
 of his handkerchief, saying : 
 
 " Oh, what a real beauty it is ! What a fine cravat it 
 will make for Sundays, won't it ? " 
 
 " That it will," answered Amandine. " And just see, 
 Francois, how charming I shall look with my sweet 
 pretty handkerchief tied around my head, — so, brother." 
 
 " What a rage the little children at the lime-kilns will 
 be in when they see you pass by ! " said Calabash, fixing 
 her malignant glances on the poor children to ascertain 
 whether they comprehended the full and spiteful mean- 
 ing of her words, — the hateful creature seeking, by the 
 aid of vanity, to stifle the last breathings of virtue 
 within their young minds. " The brats at the lime- 
 kilns," continued she, " will look like beggar children 
 beside you, and be ready to burst with envy and jealousy 
 at seeing you two looking like a little lady and gentle- 
 man with your pretty silk handkerchiefs." 
 
 " So they will," cried Francois. " Ah, and I like my 
 new cravat ever so much the better, Sister Calabash, 
 now you have told mo that the children at the kilns will 
 be so mad with me for being smarter than they ; don't 
 you, Amandine ? " 
 
 " No, Fran9oi8, I don't find that makes any difference. 
 But I am quite glad I have got such a nice new pretty 
 marmotte as that will make, all the same." 
 
 " Go along with you, you little mean-spirited thing ! " 
 cried Calabash, disdainfully ; " you have not a grain of 
 proper pride in you." Then, snatching from the table a 
 morsel of bread and cheese, she thrust them into the 
 children's hands, saying, " Now, get off to bed, — there 
 is a lanthorn ; take care you don't set fire to anything, 
 and be sure to put it out before you go to sleep." 
 
 "And hark ye," added Nicholas, "remember that if 
 you dare to say one word to Martial of the box, the cop- 
 per, or the clothes, I'll make you dance upon red-hot 
 
 73
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 iron ; and, besides that, your pretty silk handkerchiefs 
 shall be taken from you." 
 
 After the departure of the children, Nicholas and 
 his sister concealed the box, with its contents, the 
 clothes, and lumps of copper, in a sort of cellar below 
 the kitchen, the entrance to which was by a low flight of 
 steps not far from the fireplace. 
 
 " That'll do ! " cried the hardened youth. " And now, 
 mother, give us a glass of your very best brandy ; none 
 of your poor, every-day stuff, but some of the real right 
 sort, and plenty of it. Faith ! I think I've earned a 
 right to eat and to drink whatever you happen to have 
 put by for grand occasions. Come, Calabash, look sharp, 
 and let's have supper. Never mind Martial, he may 
 amuse himself with picking the bones we may leave ; 
 they are good enough for him. Now, then, for a bit of 
 gossip over the affair of the individual I went to meet 
 on the Quai de Billy, because that little job must be 
 settled at once if I mean to pouch the money he prom- 
 ised me. I'll tell you all about it, mother, from begin- 
 ning to end. But first give me something to moisten 
 my throat. Give me some drink, I say ! Devilish hard 
 to be obliged to ask so many times, considering what I 
 have done for you all to-day ! I tell you I can stand 
 treat, if that's what you are waiting for." 
 
 And here Nicholas again jingled the five-franc pieces 
 he had in his pocket; then flinging his goatskin waist- 
 coat and black woollen cap into a distant part of the 
 room, he seated himself at table before a huge dish of 
 ragout made of mutton, a piece of cold veal, and a salad. 
 As soon as Calabash had brought wine and brandy, the 
 widow, still gloomy and imperturbable, took her place at 
 one side of the table, having Nicholas on her right hand 
 and her daughter on her left ; the other side of the table 
 had been destined for Martial and the two younger chil- 
 dren. Nicholas then drew from his pocket a long and 
 wide Spanish knife, with a horn handle and a trenchant 
 
 74
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 blade. Contemplating this murderous weapon with a 
 sort of savage pleasure, he said to the widow : 
 
 " There's my bread-earner, — what an edge it has ! 
 Talking of bread, mother, just hand me some of that 
 beside you." 
 
 " And talking of knives, too," replied Calabash, 
 " Frangois has found out — you know what — in the 
 wood-pile ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Nicholas, not under- 
 standing her. 
 
 " Why, he saw — one of the feet ! " 
 
 " Phew ! " whistled Nicholas ; " what, of the man ? " 
 
 "Yes," answered the widow, concisely, at the same 
 time placing a large slice of meat on her son's plate. 
 
 " That's droll enough," returned the young ruffian ; 
 " I'm sure the hole was dug deep enough ; but I suppose 
 the ground has sunk in a good deal." 
 
 " It must all be thrown into the river to-night," said 
 the widow. 
 
 " That is the surest way to get rid of further bother," 
 said Nicholas. 
 
 " Yes," chimed in Calabash, " throw it la the river, 
 with a heavy stone fastened to it, with part of an old 
 boat-chain." 
 
 " We are not quite such fools as that either," returned 
 Nicholas, pouring out for himself a brimming glass of 
 wine. Then, holding the bottle up, he said, addressing 
 the widow : " Come, mother, let's touch glasses, and 
 drink to each other. You seem a cup too low, and it 
 will cheer you up." 
 
 The widow drew back her glass, shook her head, and 
 said to her son : 
 
 " Tell me of the man you met on the Quai de Billy.'* 
 
 " Why, this is it," said Nicholas, without ceasing to 
 eat and drink : " When I got to the landing-place, I fas- 
 tened my boat, and went up the steps of the quay as the 
 clock was striking seven at the military bakehouse at
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Chaillot. You could not see four yards before you, but 
 I walked up and down by the parapet wall for a quarter 
 of an hour, when I heard footsteps moving softly behind 
 me. I stopped, and a man, completely wrapped up in a 
 mantle, approached me, coughing as he advanced. As 1 
 paused, he paused ; and all I could make out of him was 
 that his cloak hid his nose, and his hat fell over his 
 eyes." 
 
 We will inform our readers that this mysterious per- 
 sonage was Jacques Ferrand, the notary, who, anxious 
 to get rid of Fleur-de-Marie, had, that same morning, 
 despatched Madame S^raphin to the Martials, whom 
 he hoped to find the ready instruments of his fresh 
 crime. 
 
 " ' Bradamanti,' said the man to me," continued 
 Nicholas ; " thr.t was the password agreed upon by the 
 old woman, that I might know my man. ' Ravageur,' 
 says I, as was agreed. ' Is your name Martial ? ' he 
 asked. ' Yes, master.' ' A woman was at your isle to- 
 day : what did she say to you ? ' ' That you wished to 
 speak to me on the part of M. Bradamanti.' ' You have 
 a boat ? ' ' We have four, that's our number : boatmen 
 and ravageurs, from father to son, at your service.' 
 * This is what I want you to do if you are not 
 afraid — ' ' Afraid of what, master ? ' 'Of seeing a 
 person accidentally drowned. Only you must assist with 
 the accident. Do you understand ? ' ' Perfectly, mas- 
 ter ; we must make some individual have a draught of 
 the Seine, as if by accident ? I'll do it ; only, as the 
 dish to be dressed is a dainty one, why, the seasoning 
 will cost rather dear.' ' How much for two ? ' ' For 
 two ? What ! are there two persons who are to have a 
 mess of broth in the river ? ' ' Yes.' ' Five hundred 
 francs a head, master ; that's not too dear.' ' Agreed, 
 for a thousand francs.' ' Money down, master ? ' ' Two 
 hundred francs now, and the rest afterwards.' ' Then 
 you doubt me, master ? ' ' No ; you may pocket the two 
 
 76
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 hundred francs, without completing the bargain.' ' And 
 you may say, after it's done, " Don't you wish you may 
 get it ? " ' ' That as may be ; but does it suit you ? yes 
 or no. Two hundred francs down, and on the evening 
 of the day after to-morrow, here, at nine o'clock, I will 
 give you the eight hundred francs.' ' And who will in- 
 form you that I have done the trick with these two per- 
 sons ? ' 'I shall know ; that is my affair. Is it a 
 bargain ? ' < Yes, master.' ' Here are two hundred 
 francs. Now listen to me ; you will know again the old 
 woman who was at your house this morning ? ' ' Yes, 
 master.' ' To-morrow, or next day at latest, you will 
 see her come, about four o'clock in the evening, on the 
 bank in face of your island with a young fair girl. The 
 old woman will make a signal to you by waving her 
 handkerchief.' * Yes, master.' ' What time does it take 
 to go from the bank-side to your island ? ' ' Twenty 
 minutes, quite.' ' Your boats are fiat-bottomed ? ' 'Flat 
 as your hand, master.' ' Then you must make, very 
 skilfully, a sort of large hole in the bottom of one of 
 these boats, so that, when you open it, the water may 
 flow in rapidly. Do you understand ? ' ' Quite well, 
 master ; how clever you are ! I have by me a worn-out 
 old boat, half rotten, that I was going to break up, but 
 it will just do for this one more voyage.' ' You will then 
 leave the island with this boat, with the hole prepared ; 
 let a good boat follow you, conducted by some one of 
 your family. Go to the shore, accost the old woman 
 and the fair young girl, and take them on board the 
 boat with the hole in it ; then go back towards your 
 island ; but, when you are at some distance from the 
 bank, pretend to stoop for some purpose, open the hole, 
 and leap into the other boat, whilst the old woman and 
 the fair young girl — ' ' Drink out of the same cup, — 
 that's it, — eh, master ? ' ' But are you sure you will 
 not be interrupted ? Suppose some customers should 
 come to your house ? ' ' There is no fear, master. At 
 
 77
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 this time, and especially in winter, no one comes, it is 
 our dead time of year ; and, if they come, that would 
 not be troublesome ; on the contrary, they are all good 
 friends.' ' Very well. Besides, you in no way com- 
 promise yourselves ; the boat will be supposed to have 
 sunk from old age, and the old woman who brings the 
 young girl will disappear with her. In order to be quite 
 assured that they are drowned (by accident, mind ! quite 
 by accident), you can, if they rise to the surface, or if 
 they cling to the boat, appear to do all in your power to 
 assist them, and — ' ' Help them — to sink again ! 
 Good, master ! ' 'It will be requisite that the passage 
 be made after sunset, in order that it may be quite dark 
 when they fall into the water.' ' No, master ; for if one 
 does not see clear, how shall we know if the two women 
 swallow their doses at one gulp, or want a second ? * 
 ' True ; and, therefore, the accident will take place be- 
 fore sunset.' ' All right, master ; but the old woman has 
 no suspicion, has she ? ' ' Not the slightest. When she 
 arrives, she will whisper to you : " The young girl is to 
 be drowned ; a little while before you sink the boat, 
 make me a signal, that I may be ready to escape with 
 you." You will reply to the old woman in such a way as 
 to avoid all suspicion.' ' So that she may suppose the 
 young 'un only is going to swallow the dose ? ' ' But 
 which she will drink as well as the fair girl.' ' It's 
 " downily " arranged, master.' ' But mind the old 
 woman has not the slightest suspicion.' ' Be easy on 
 that score, master ; she will be done as nicely as possi- 
 ble.' ' Well, then, good luck to you, my lad ! If I am 
 satisfied, perhaps I shall give you another job.' ' At 
 your service, master.' Then," said the ruffian, in con- 
 clusion, " I left the man in the cloak, and ' prigged the 
 swag ' I've just brought in." 
 
 We may glean from Nicholas's recital that the notary 
 was desirous, by a twofold crime, of getting rid at once 
 of Fleur-de-Marie and Madame Sdraphin, by causing the 
 
 78
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 latter to fall into the snare which she thought was only 
 spread for the Goualeuse. It is hardly necessary to re- 
 peat that, justly alarmed lest the Ohouette should inform 
 Fleur-de-Marie at any moment that she had been aban- 
 doned by Madame Sdraphin, Jacques Ferrand believed he 
 had a paramount interest in getting rid of this young 
 girl, whose claims might mortally injure him both in his 
 fortune and in his reputation. As to Madame Sdraphin, 
 the notary, by sacrificing her, got rid of one of his ac- 
 complices (Bradamanti was the other), who might ruin 
 him, whilst they ruined themselves, it is true ; but 
 Jacques Ferrand believed that the grave would keep 
 his secrets better than any personal interests. 
 
 The felon's widow and Calabash had listened atten- 
 tively to Nicholas, who had not paused except to swallow 
 large quantities of wine, and then he began to talk with 
 considerable excitement. 
 
 "That is not all," he continued. "I have begim 
 another affair with the Chouette and Barbillon of the 
 Rue aux Feves. It is a capital job, well planted ; and if 
 it does not miss fire, it will bring plenty of fish to net, 
 and no mistake. It is to clean out a jewel-matcher, 
 who has sometimes as much as fifty thousand francs in 
 jewelry in her basket." 
 
 " Fifty thousand francs ! " cried the mother and 
 daughter, whose eyes sparkled with cupidity. 
 
 " Yes — quite. Bras Rouge is in it with us. He 
 yesterday opened upon the woman with a letter which 
 we carried to her — Barbillon and I — at her house, 
 Boulevard St. Denis. He's an out-and-outer. Bras Rouge 
 is ! As he appears — and, I believe, is — well-to-do, 
 nobody mistrusts him. To make the jewel-matcher 
 bite he has already sold her a diamond worth four 
 hundred francs. She'll not be afraid to come towards 
 nightfall to his cabaret in the Champs Elysdes. We 
 shall be concealed there. Calabash may come with us, 
 and take care of my boat along the side of the Seine. 
 
 79
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 If we are obliged to carry her off, dead or alive, that 
 will be a convenient conveyance, and one that leaves no 
 traces. There's a plan for you ! That beggar Bras 
 Rouge is nothing but a good 'un ! " 
 
 " I have always distrusted Bras Rouge," said the 
 widow. " After that affair of the Rue Montmartre 
 your brother Ambroise was sent to Toulon, and Bras 
 Rouge was set at liberty." 
 
 " Because he's so downy there's no proofs against 
 him. But betray others ? — never ! " 
 
 The widow shook her head, as if she were only 
 half convinced of Bras Rouge's probity. After a few 
 moments' reflection she said : 
 
 " I like much better that affair of the Quai de Billy 
 for to-morrow or next day evening, — the drowning the 
 two women. But Martial will be in the way as usual." 
 
 " Will not the devil's thunder ever rid us of him ? " 
 exclaimed Nicholas, half drunk, and striking his long 
 knife savagely on the table. 
 
 " I have told mother that we had enough of him, and 
 that we could not go on in this way," said Calabash. 
 " As long as he is here we can do nothing with the 
 children." 
 
 " I tell you that he is capable of one day denouncing 
 us, — the villain ! " said Nicholas. " You see, mother, if 
 you would have believed me," he added, with a savage 
 and significant air, " all would have been settled ! " 
 
 " There are other means — " 
 
 " This is the best ! " said the ruffian. 
 
 " Now ? No ! " replied the widow, with a tone so 
 decided that Nicholas was silent, overcome by the influ- 
 ence of his mother, whom he knew to be as criminal, as 
 wicked, but still more determined than himself. 
 
 The widow added, "To-morrow he will quit the island 
 for ever." 
 
 " How ? " inquired Nicholas and Calabash at the same 
 time. 
 
 80
 
 THE FRESHWATER PIRATE. 
 
 " When he comes in pick a quarrel with him, — but 
 boldly, mind, — out to his face, as you have never yet 
 dared to do. Come to blows, if necessary. He is 
 powerful, but you will be two, for I will help you. 
 Mind, no steel, — no blood ! Let him be beaten, but 
 not wounded." 
 
 " And what then, mother ? " asked Nicholas. 
 
 " "We shall then explain afterwards. We will tell 
 him to leave the island next day ; if not, that the 
 scenes of the night before will occur over and over 
 again. I know him ; these perpetual squabbles disgust 
 him ; until now we have let him be too quiet." 
 
 " But he is as obstinate as a mule, and is likely 
 enough to insist upon staying, because of the chil- 
 dren," observed Calabash. 
 
 " He's a regular hound ; but a row don't frighten 
 him," said Nicholas. 
 
 "One? No!" said the widow. "But every day — 
 day by day — it is hell in earth, and he will give way." 
 
 " Suppose he don't ? " 
 
 "Then I have another sure means to make him go 
 away, — this very night or to-morrow at farthest," 
 replied the widow, with a singular smile. 
 
 " Really, mother ! " 
 
 " Yes, but I prefer rather to annoy him with a row ; 
 and, if that don't do, why, then, it must be the other 
 way." 
 
 " And if the other way does not succeed, either, 
 mother ? " said Nicholas. 
 
 " There is one which always succeeds," replied the 
 widow. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and Martial entered. It 
 blew so strong without that they had not heard the 
 barkings of the dogs at the return of the first-born 
 son of the felon's widow. 
 
 81
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 Unaware of the evil designs of his family, Martial 
 entered the kitchen slowly. 
 
 Some few words let fall by La Louve in her con- 
 versation with Fleur-de-Marie have already acquainted 
 the reader with the singular existence of this man. 
 Endowed with excellent natural instincts, incapable 
 of an action positively base or wicked, Martial did not, 
 however, lead a regular life : he poached on the water ; 
 but his strength and his boldness inspired so much fear 
 that the keepers of the river shut their eyes on this 
 irregularity. 
 
 To this illegal occupation Martial joined another that 
 was equally illicit. A redoubtable champion, he will- 
 ingly undertook — and more from excess of courage, 
 from love of the thing, than for gain — to avenge in 
 pugilistic or single-stick encounters those victims who 
 had been overcome by too powerful opponents. 
 
 We should add that Martial was very particular in 
 the selection of those causes which he pleaded by 
 strength of fist, and usually took the part of the weak 
 against the strong. 
 
 La Louve's lover was very much like Frangois and 
 Amandine. He was of middle height, stout, and broad- 
 shouldered ; his thick red hair, cropped short, came in 
 five points over his open brow ; his close, harsh, short 
 beard, his broad, bluff cheeks, his projecting nose, flat- 
 
 82
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 tened at the extremity, his blue and bold eyes, gave to 
 his masculine features a singularly resolute expression. 
 
 He was covered with an old glazed hat ; and, despite 
 the cold, he had only a worn-out blouse over his vest, 
 and a pair of velveteen trousers, which had seen con- 
 siderable service. He held in his hand a very thick, 
 knotted stick, which he put down beside him near the 
 dresser. 
 
 A large dog, half terrier, half hound, with crooked 
 legs and a black hide, marked with bright red, came in 
 with Martial, but he remained close to the door, not 
 daring to approach the fire, nor the guests who were 
 sitting at table, experience having proved to old Miraut 
 (that was the name of Martial's poaching companion) 
 that he, as well as his master, did not possess much of 
 the sympathy of the family. 
 
 " Where are the children ? " were Martial's first 
 words, as he sat down to table. 
 
 " Where they ought to be," replied Calabash, surlily. 
 
 " Where are the children, mother ? " said Martial 
 again, without taking the slightest notice of his sister's 
 reply. 
 
 " Gone to bed," replied the widow, in a harsh tone. 
 
 " Haven't they had their supper, mother ? " 
 
 " What's that to you ? " exclaimed Nicholas, brutally, 
 after having swallowed a large glass of wine to increase 
 his courage, for his brother's disposition and strength 
 had a very strong effect on him. 
 
 Martial, as indifferent to the attacks of Nicholas as to 
 those of Calabash, then said to his mother, " I'm sorry 
 the children are gone to bed so soon." 
 
 " So much the worse," responded the widow. 
 
 " Yes, so much the worse ; for I like to have them 
 beside me when I am at supper." 
 
 "And we, because they were troublesome and 
 annoyed us, have sent them off," cried Nicholas ; 
 " and if you don't like it, why, you can go after them." 
 
 83
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Martial, astonished, looked steadfastly at his brother. 
 Then, as if convinced of the futility of a quarrel, he 
 shrugged his shoulders, cut off a slice of bread and a 
 piece of meat. 
 
 The dog had come up towards Nicholas, although 
 keeping at a very respectful distance ; and the ruffian, 
 irritated at the disdain with which his brother treated 
 him, and hoping to wear out his patience by ill-using 
 his dog, gave Miraut a savage kick, which made the 
 poor brute howl fearfully. Martial turned red, clasped 
 in his hand the knife he held, and struck violently 
 on the table with the handle ; but, again controlling 
 himself, he called the dog to him, saying, quietly, " Here, 
 Miraut ! " The hound came, and crouched at his master's 
 feet. 
 
 This composure quite upset Nicholas's plans, who was 
 desirous of pushing his brother to extremities, in order 
 to produce an explosion. So he added, " I hate dogs — I 
 do ; and I won't have this dog remain here." Martial's 
 only reply was to pour out a glass of wine, and drink it 
 off slowly. Exchanging a rapid glance with Nicholas, 
 the widow encouraged him by a signal to continue his 
 hostilities towards Martial, hoping, as we have said, that 
 a violent quarrel would arise that would lead to a rup- 
 ture and complete separation. 
 
 Nicholas, then, taking up the willow stick which the 
 widow had used to beat Fran9ois, went up to the dog, 
 and, striking him sharply, said, " Get out, you brute, 
 Miraut ! " 
 
 Up to this time Nicholas had often shown himself 
 sulkily offensive towards Martial, but he had never 
 dared to provoke him with so much audacity and 
 perseverance. La Louve's lover, thinking they were 
 desirous of driving him to extremities for some secret 
 motive, quelled every impulse of temper. 
 
 At the cry of the beaten dog, Martial rose, opened the 
 door of the kitchen, made the dog go out, and then. 
 
 84
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 returned, and went on with his supper. This incredible 
 patience, so little in harmony with Martial's usual de- 
 meanour, puzzled and nonplussed his aggressors, who 
 looked at each other with amazement. He, affecting to 
 appear wholly unconscious of what was passing around 
 him, ate away with great appetite, keeping profound 
 silence. 
 
 " Calabash, take the wine away," said the widow to 
 her daughter. 
 
 She hastened to comply, when Martial said, " Stay, I 
 haven't done my supper." 
 
 " So much the worse," said the widow, taking the 
 bottle away herself. 
 
 " Oh, that's another thing ! " answered La Louve's 
 lover. And pouring out a large glass of water, he 
 drank it, smacking his tongue, and exclaiming, " Capital 
 water ! " 
 
 This excessive calmness irritated the burning anger 
 of Nicholas, already heated by copious libations; but 
 still he hesitated at making a direct attack, well know- 
 ing the vast power of his brother. Suddenly he cried 
 out, as if delighted at the idea, " Martial, you were quite 
 right to turn the dog out. It is a good habit to begin to 
 give way, for you have but to wait a bit, and you will 
 see us kick your sweetheart out just as we have driven 
 away your dog." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; for if La Louve is impudent enough to 
 come to the island when she leaves gaol," added Cala- 
 bash, who quite understood Nicholas's motive, " I'll 
 serve her out." 
 
 " And I'll give her a dip in the mud by the hovel at 
 the end of the island," continued Nicholas ; " and, if she 
 gets out, I'll give her a few rattlers over the nob with 
 my wooden shoe, the " 
 
 This insult addressed to La Louve, whom he loved 
 with savage ardour, triumphed over the pacific resolu- 
 tions of Martial; he frowned, and the blood mounted 
 
 85
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 to his cheeks, whilst the veins in his brow swelled and 
 distended like cords. Still, he had so much control over 
 himself as to say to Nicholas, in a voice slightly altered 
 by his repressed wrath : 
 
 " Take care of yourself ! You are trying to pick a 
 quarrel, and you will find a bone to pick that wiU be 
 too tough for you." 
 
 " A bone for me to pick ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and I'll thrash you more soundly than I did 
 last time." 
 
 " What ! Nicholas," said Calabash, with a sardonic 
 grin, " did Martial thrash you ? Did you hear that, 
 mother ? I'm not astonished that Nicholas is so afraid 
 of him." 
 
 " He walloped me, because, like a coward, he took me off 
 my guard," exclaimed Nicholas, turning pale with rage. 
 
 " You lie ! You attacked me unexpectedly ; I knocked 
 you flat, and then showed you mercy. But if you talk 
 of my mistress, — I say, mind you, of my mistress, — 
 this time I look it over, — you shall carry my marks for 
 many a long day." 
 
 " And suppose I choose to talk of La Louve ? " 
 inquired Calabash. 
 
 " Why, I'll pull your ears to put you on your guard ; 
 and if you begin again, why, so will I." 
 
 " And suppose I speak of her ? " said the widow, 
 slowly. 
 
 "You?" 
 
 "Yes, — I!" 
 
 " You ? " said Martial, making a violent effort over 
 himself; "you?" 
 
 " You'll beat me, too, I suppose, — won't you ? " 
 
 " No ; but, if you speak to me unkindly of La Louve, 
 I'll give Nicholas a hiding he shall long remember. So 
 now, mind ! It is his affair as well as yours." 
 
 "You?" exclaimed the ruffian, rising, and drawing 
 his dangerous Spanish knife ; " you give me a hiding ? "
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 « Nicholas, no steel ! " cried the widow, quickly, leav- 
 ing her seat, and trying to seize her son's arm ; but 
 he, drunk with wine and passion, repulsed his mother 
 savagely, and rushed at his brother. 
 
 Martial receded rapidly, laid hold of the thick, 
 knotted stick which he had put down by the dresser, 
 as he entered, and betook himself to the defensive. 
 
 " Nicholas, no steel ! " repeated the widow. 
 
 " Let him alone ! " cried Calabash, taking up the 
 ravageur's hatchet. 
 
 Nicholas, still brandishing his formidable knife, 
 watched for a moment when he could spring on his 
 brother. 
 
 " I tell you," he exclaimed, " you and your trollop, 
 La Louve, that'll I'll slash your eyes out ; and here goes 
 to begin ! Help, mother ! Help, Calabash ! Let's make 
 cold meat of the scamp ; he's been in our way too long 
 already ! " And, believing the moment favourable for 
 his attack, the brigand dashed at his brother with his 
 uplifted knife. 
 
 Martial, who was a dexterous cudgeller, retreated a 
 pace rapidly, raising his stick, which, as quick as light- 
 ning, cut a figure of eight, and fell so heavily on the right 
 forearm of Nicholas that he, seized with a sudden and 
 overpowering pain, dropped his trenchant weapon. 
 
 " Villain, you have broken my arm ! " he shouted, 
 grasping with his left hand the right arm, which hung 
 useless by his side. 
 
 " No ; for I felt my stick rebound ! " replied Martial, 
 kicking, as he spoke, the knife underneath the dresser. 
 
 Then, taking advantage of the pain which Nicholas 
 was suffering, he seized him by tlie collar, and thrust 
 him violently backwards, until he had reached the door 
 of the little cellar we have alluded to, which he opened 
 with one hand, whilst, with the other, he thrust his 
 brother into it, and locked him in, all stupefied as he 
 was with this sudden attack. 
 
 87
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Then, turning round upon the two women, he seized 
 Calabash by the shoulders, and, in spite of her resistance, 
 her shrieks, and a blow from the hatchet, which cut his 
 head slightly, he shut her up in the lower room of the 
 cabaret, which communicated with the kitchen. 
 
 Then addressing the widow, who was still stupefied 
 ■with this manoeuvre, as skilful as it was sudden. Martial 
 said to her, calmly, " Now, mother, you and I are alone," 
 
 " Yes, we are alone," replied the widow, and her 
 usually immobile features became excited, her sallow 
 skin grew red, a gloomy fire lighted up her dull eye, 
 whilst anger and hate gave to her countenance a terrible 
 expression. " Yes, we two are alone now ! " she repeated, 
 in a menacing voice. " I have waited for this moment ; 
 and at length you shall know all that I have on my 
 mind." 
 
 " And I will tell you all I have on my mind." 
 
 " If you live to be a hundred years old, I tell you you 
 shall remember this night." 
 
 " I shall remember it, unquestionably. My brother 
 and sister have tried to murder me, and you have done 
 nothing to prevent them. But come, let me hear what 
 you have against me ? " 
 
 " What have I ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Since your father's death you have acted nothing 
 but a coward's part." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 " Yes, a coward's ! Instead of remaining with us to 
 support us, you went off to Rambouillet, to poach in the 
 ■woods with that man who sells game whom you knew 
 at Bercy." 
 
 " If I had remained here, I should have been at the 
 galleys like Ambroise, or on the point of going there 
 like Nicholas. I would not be a robber like the rest, 
 fend that is the cause of your hatred." 
 
 " And what track are you following now ? You 
 
 88
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 steal game, you steal fish, — thefts without danger, — 
 a coward's thefts ! " 
 
 "Fish, like game, is no man's property. To-day 
 belongs to one, to-morrow to another. It is his who 
 can take it. I don't steal. As to being a coward — " 
 
 " Why, you fight — and for money — men who are 
 weaker than yourself." 
 
 " Because they have beaten men weaker than them- 
 selves." 
 
 " A coward's trade, — a coward's trade ! " 
 
 " Why, there are more honest pursuits, it is true. 
 But it is not for you to tell me this ! " 
 
 " Then why did you not take up with those honest 
 trades, instead of coming here skulking and feeding out 
 of my saucepans ? " 
 
 " I give you the fish I catch, and what money I have. 
 It isn't much, but it's enough ; and I don't cost you any- 
 thing. I have tried to be a locksmith to earn more ; but 
 when one has from one's infancy led a vagabond life on 
 the river and in the woods, it is impossible to confine 
 oneself to one spot. It is a settled thing, and one's life 
 is decided. And then," added Martial, with a gloomy 
 air, " I have always preferred living alone on the water 
 or in the forest. There no one questions me ; whilst 
 elsewhere men twit me about my father, who was (can 
 I deny it ?) guillotined, — of my brother, a galley-slave, 
 — of my sister, a thief ! " 
 
 " And what do you say of your mother ? " 
 
 " I say — " 
 
 « What ? " 
 
 " I say she is dead." 
 
 " You do right ; it is as if I were, for I renounce you, 
 dastard ! Your brother is at the galleys ; your grand- 
 father and your father finished their lives daringly on 
 the scaffold, mocking the priest and the executioner! 
 Instead of avenging them you tremble ! " 
 
 " Avenging them ? " 
 
 89
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Yes, by showing yourself a real Martial, spitting at 
 the headsman's knife and the red cassock, and ending 
 like father, mother, brother, sister — " 
 
 Accustomed as he was to the savage excitement of 
 his mother. Martial could not forbear shuddering. The 
 countenance of the widow as she uttered the last 
 words was fearful. She continued, with increasing 
 wrath : 
 
 " Oh, coward ! and even worse than coward ! You 
 wish to be honest! Honest? Why, won't you ever 
 be despised, repulsed, as the son of an assassin or the 
 brother of a felon ? But you, instead of rousing your 
 revenge and wrath, this makes you frightened ! Instead 
 of biting, you run away ! When they guillotined your 
 father, you left us, — coward ! And you knew we could 
 not leave the island to go into the city, because they call 
 after us, and pelt us with stones, like mad dogs. Oh, 
 they shall pay for it, I can tell you, — they shall pay 
 for it ! " 
 
 " A man ? — ten men would not make me afraid ! 
 But to be called after by all the world as the son and 
 brother of criminals ! Well, I could not endure it. I 
 preferred going into the woods and poaching with Pierre, 
 who sells game." 
 
 " Why didn't you remain in the woods ? " 
 
 " I returned because I got into trouble with a keeper, 
 and besides on the children's account, because they are 
 of an age to take to evil from example." 
 
 " And what is that to you ? " 
 
 " To me ? Why, I will not allow them to become 
 depraved like Ambroise, Nicholas, and Calabash." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " And if they were left with you, then they would not 
 fail to become so. I went apprentice to try and gain a 
 livelihood, so that I might take them into my own care 
 and leave the island with the children ; but in Paris 
 everything was known, and it was always, ' You son of 
 
 90
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 the guillotined ! ' or, * You brother of the felon ! ' I had 
 battles daily, and I grew tired of it." 
 
 " But you didn't grow tired of being honest, — that 
 answered so well ! Instead of having the pluck to come 
 to us, and do as we do, — as the children will do, in 
 spite of you, — yes, in spite of you! You think to 
 cajole them with your preaching ! But we are always 
 here. Francois is already one of us, or nearly. Let 
 the occasion serve, and he'll be one of the band." 
 
 " I tell you, no ! " 
 
 " You will see, — yes ! I know what I say. He has 
 vice in him ; but you spoil him. As to Amandine, as 
 soon as she is fifteen she will begin on her own account ! 
 Ah, they throw stones at us ! Ah, they pursue us like 
 mad dogs ! They shall see what our family is made of ! 
 Except you, dastard ; for here you are the only one who 
 brings down shame upon us ! " ^ 
 
 " That's a pity ! " 
 
 " And as you may be spoiled amongst us, why, to-mor- 
 row you shall leave this place, and never return to it." 
 
 Martial looked at his mother with surprise, then, after 
 a moment's silence, said, " Was it for this that you tried 
 to get up a quarrel with me at supper ? " 
 
 " Yes, to show you what you might expect if you 
 would stay here in spite of us, — a hell upon earth, — I 
 tell you, a hell ! Every day a quarrel and blows — 
 
 1 These frightful facts are, unfortunately, not exaggeratefl. The follow- 
 ing is from the admirable report of M. de Bretignferes on the Penitentiary 
 Colony of Mettray (March 12, 1843) : 
 
 " The civil condition of our colonists it is important to state. Amongst 
 them we count thirty-two natural children ; thirty-four whose fathers and 
 mothers are re-married ; fifty-one whose parents are in prison; l'2i whose 
 parents have not been pursued by justice, but are in the utmost distress. 
 These figures are eloquent, and full of instruction. They allow ns to go 
 from effects to causes, and give us the hope of arresting the progress of an 
 evil whose origin is thus arrived at. The number of parents who are crimi- 
 nals enable us to appreciate the education whicli the children have received 
 under the tutelage of such instructors. Taught evil by their fathers, the 
 sons have become wicked by their orders, and have believed they were acting 
 properly in following their exanii)le. Arrested by the hand of the law, they 
 resign themsalves to share the destiny of their family in prison, to which 
 they only bring the emulation of vice ; and it is absolutely necessary that a 
 ray of divine light should still exist within these rude and coarse natureb, in 
 order that all the germs of honesty should not be utterly destroyed." 
 
 91
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS: 
 
 struggles. And we shall not be alone as we were this 
 evening ; we shall have friends who will help us. And 
 you will not hold out for a week." 
 
 "Do you think to frighten me ? " 
 
 " I only tell you what will happen." 
 
 " I don't heed it. I shall stay ! " 
 
 « You will stay ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " In spite of us ? " 
 
 "In spite of you, of Calabash, of Nicholas, and all 
 blackguards like him." 
 
 " Really, you make me laugh." 
 
 From the lips of this woman, with her repulsive and 
 ferocious look, these words were horrible. 
 
 " I tell you I will remain here until I find the means 
 of gaining my livelihood elsewhere with the children. 
 Alone, I should not long be unemployed, for I could 
 return to the woods ; but, on their account, I may be 
 some time in finding what I am seeking for. In the 
 meanwhile, here I remain." 
 
 " Oh, you remain until the moment when you can 
 take away the children ? " 
 
 " Exactly as you say." 
 
 " Take away the children ? " 
 
 " When I say to them ' Come ! ' they will come ; and 
 quickly too, I promise you." 
 
 The widow shrugged her shoulders, and replied : 
 
 " Listen ! I told you a short time since that, even if 
 you were to live for a hundred years, you should recol- 
 lect this night. I will explain those words. But, before 
 I do so, have you quite made up your mind ? " 
 
 " Yes ! Yes ! Yes ! A thousand times over, yes ! " 
 
 " In a little while, however, you will say ' No ! No ! 
 No ! A thousand times, no ! ' Listen to me attentively ! 
 Do you know the trade your brother follows ? " 
 
 " I have my suspicions ; but I do not wish to know." 
 
 " You shall know. He steals ! " 
 
 92
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 « So much the worse for him ! " 
 
 « And for you ! " 
 
 "Forme?" , .. . ... , 
 
 "He commits robberies at night, with forcible entry, 
 — burglary; a case of the galleys. We receive what 
 he plunders. If we are discovered, we shall be sen- 
 tenced to the same punishment as he is, as receivers, 
 and you too. They will sweep away the whole family, 
 and the children will be turned out into the streets 
 where they will learn the trade of their father and 
 grandfather as well as here." 
 
 «I apprehended as a receiver, — as your accomplice i 
 
 Where's the proofs?" 
 
 " No one knows how you live. You are vagabondis- 
 ing on the water ; you have the reputation of a bad 
 fellow; you dwell with us, and who will believe that 
 you are ignorant of our thefts^ and receivings ? 
 
 « I will prove the contrary." 
 
 « We will accuse you as our accomplice." 
 
 " Accuse me ! And why ? " 
 
 "To pay you off for staying amongst us against our 
 
 ^'"'just now you tried to make me frightened in one 
 way, now you are trying another tack. Butit^wont 
 do I will prove that I never robbed. I remain. 
 
 " Ah ' You remain ? Listen then, again ! Do you 
 remember last year a person who passed the Christmas 
 
 niffht here ?" , , ,, , . 
 
 " Christmas night? " said Martial, trymg to recall his 
 
 memory. 
 
 " Try and remember, — try ! " 
 
 « I do not recollect." 
 
 " Don't you recollect that Bras Rouge brought here 
 in the evening a well-dressed man, who was desirous ot 
 
 concealing himself?" , ■, t a \r.(^ 
 
 " Yes, now I remember. I went up to bed and lett 
 
 him taking his supper with you. He passed the nigh« 
 
 93
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS: 
 
 here, and, before daybreak, Nicholas took him to St. 
 Ouen." 
 
 " You are sure Nicholas took him to St. Ouen ? " 
 
 " You told me so next morning." 
 
 " On Christmas night you were here ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and what of that ? " 
 
 " Why, that night this man, who had a good deal of 
 money about him, was murdered in this house." 
 
 uMur— ! He! Here?" 
 
 "And robbed and buried by the little wood-pile." 
 
 " It is not true ! " cried Martial, becoming pale with 
 horror, and unable to believe in this fresh crime of his 
 family. " You mean to frighten me. Once more, it is 
 not true ? " 
 
 "Ask Francois what he saw this morning in the 
 wood-pile." 
 
 " Francois ! And what did he see ? " 
 
 " A man's foot sticking out of the ground. Take a 
 lantern ; go and convince your eyes ! " 
 
 " No," said Martial, wiping his brow, which had burst 
 forth in a cold sweat. " No, I do not believe you. You 
 say it to — " 
 
 " To prove to you that, if you remain here in spite 
 of us, you risk every moment being apprehended as an 
 accomplice in robbery and murder. You were here on 
 Christmas night, and we shall declare that you helped us 
 to do this job. How will you prove the contrary ? " 
 
 " Merciless wretch ! " said Martial, hiding his face in 
 his hands. 
 
 " Now will you go ? " said the widow, with a devilish 
 smile. 
 
 Martial was overwhelmed. He, unfortunately, could 
 not doubt what his mother had said to him. The wan- 
 dering life he led, his dweUing with so criminal a 
 family, must induce the most horrible suspicions of 
 him, and these suspicions would be converted into cer- 
 tainty in the eyes of justice, if his mother, brother, and 
 
 94
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 sister declared him to be their accomplice. The widow 
 was rejoiced at the depression of her son : 
 
 " You have one means of getting out of the difficulty : 
 denounce us ! " 
 
 " I ought, but I will not ; and you know that right 
 well." 
 
 " That is why I have told you all this. Now, will 
 you go ? " 
 
 Martial, wishing to soften this hag, said to her, in a 
 subdued voice : 
 
 " Mother, I do not believe you are capable of this 
 murder ! " 
 
 " As you please ; but go ! " 
 
 " I will go on one condition." 
 
 " No condition at all ! " 
 
 " You shall put the children apprentices somewhere in 
 the country." 
 
 " They shall remain here ! " 
 
 " But, mother, when you have made them like Nicho- 
 las, Calabash, Ambroise, my father, — what good will 
 that be to you ?" 
 
 " To make good ' jobs ' by their assistance. "We are 
 not too many now. Calabash will remain here with me 
 to keep the cabaret. Nicholas is alone. Once properly 
 instructed, Francois and Amandine will help him. They 
 have already been pelted with stones, — young as they 
 are, — and they must revenge themselves!" 
 
 " Mother, you love Calabash and Nicholas, don't you?" 
 
 " Well, if I do, what then ? " 
 
 " Suppose the children imitate them, and their crimes 
 are detected ? " 
 
 "Well, what then?" 
 
 " They will come to the scaffold, like my father." 
 
 " What then ? What then ? " 
 
 " And does not their probable fate make you tremble ?" 
 
 " That fate will be mine, neither better nor worse. 
 I rob, they rob; I kill, they kill. Whoever takes the 
 
 95
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 mother will take the young ones ; we will not leave each 
 other. If our heads fall, theirs will fall in the same 
 basket, and we shall all take leave at once ! We will 
 not retreat ! You are the only coward in the family, 
 and we drive you from us ! " 
 
 " But the children, — the children ! " 
 
 " The children will grow up, and, but for you, they 
 would have been quite formed already. Fran9ois is 
 almost ready, and, when you are gone. Amandine will 
 make up for lost time." 
 
 " Mother, I entreat of you, consent to having the 
 children sent away from here, and put in apprenticeship 
 at a distance." 
 
 " I tell you that they are in apprenticeship here ! " 
 
 The felon's widow uttered these last words so immov- 
 ably that Martial lost all hope of mollifying this soul of 
 bronze. 
 
 " Since it is so," he replied, " hear me in my turn, 
 mother, — I remain ! " 
 
 "Ha! ha!" 
 
 " Not in this house. I shall be assassinated by Nicho- 
 las, or poisoned by Calabash. But, as I have no means 
 of lodging elsewhere, I and the children will occupy the 
 hovel at the end of the island ; the door of that is 
 strong, and I will make it still more secure. Once 
 there, I will barricade myself, and, with my gun, my 
 stick, and my dog, I am afraid of no one. To-morrow 
 morning I will take the children with me. During the 
 day they will be with me, either in my boat or else- 
 where ; and, at night, they shall sleep near me in the 
 hovel. We can live on the fish I catch until I find some 
 means of placing them, and find it I will." 
 
 " Oh ! That's it, is it ? " 
 
 " Neither you, nor my brother, nor Calabash can pre- 
 vent this, can you ? If your robberies and murders are 
 discovered during my abode on the island, so much the 
 worse ; but I'll chance it. I will declare that I came
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON. ' 
 
 back and remained here in consequence of the children, 
 to prevent them from becoming infamous. They will 
 decide. The children shall not remain another day in 
 this abode ; and I defy you and your gang to drive me 
 from this island ! " 
 
 The widow knew Martial's resolution, and the chil- 
 dren, who loved their eldest brother as much as they 
 feared her, would certainly follow him unhesitatingly 
 whenever and wherever he called them. As to himself, 
 well armed and most determined, always on his guard, 
 in his boat during the day, and secure and barricaded in 
 the hovel on the island at night, he had nothing to fear 
 from the malevolence of his family. 
 
 Martial's project, then, might be realised in every 
 particular; but the widow had many reasons for pre- 
 venting its execution. In the first place, as honest 
 work-people sometimes consider the number of their 
 children as wealth, in consequence of the services 
 which they derive from them, the widow relied on 
 Amandine and FranQois to assist her in her atrocities. 
 Then, what she had said of her desire to avenge her 
 husband and son was true. Certain beings, nurtured, 
 matured, hardened in crime, enter into open revolt, into 
 war of extermination, against society, and believe that, 
 by fresh crimes, they shall avenge themselves for the 
 just penalties which have been exacted from them 
 and those belonging to them. Then, too, the sinister 
 designs of Nicholas against Fleur-de-Marie, and after- 
 wards against the jewel-matcher, might be thwarted by 
 Martial's presence. 
 
 The widow had hoped to effect an immediate separa- 
 tion between herself and Martial, either by keeping up 
 and aiding Nicholas's quarrel, or by disclosing to him 
 that, if he obstinately persisted in remaining in the 
 island, he ran the risk of being suspected as an accom- 
 plice in many crimes. 
 
 As cunning as she was penetrating, the widow, per- 
 
 97
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 ceiving that she had failed, saw that she must have 
 recourse to treachery to entrap her son in her bloody 
 snare, and she therefore replied, after a lengthened 
 pause, with assumed bitterness : 
 
 " I see your plan. You will not inform against us 
 yourself, but you will contrive that the children shall 
 do so." 
 
 "I ?" 
 
 " They know now that there is a man buried here ; 
 they know that Nicholas has robbed. Once apprenticed 
 they would talk, we should be apprehended, and we 
 should all suffer, — you with us. That is what would 
 happen if I listened to you, and allowed you to place 
 the children elsewhere. Yet you say you do not wish 
 us any harm ? I do not ask you to love me ; but do not 
 hasten the hour of our apprehension ! " 
 
 The milder tone of the widow made Martial believe 
 that his threats had produced a salutary effect on her, 
 and he fell into the fearful snare. 
 
 " I know the children," he replied ; " and I am sure 
 that, in desiring them to say nothing, not a word will 
 they say. Besides, in one way or another, I shall be 
 always with them, and I will answer for their silence." 
 
 " Can we answer for the chatter of children, especially 
 in Paris, where people are so curious and so gossiping ? 
 It is as much that they should not betray us, as that 
 they should assist us in our plans, that I desire to keep 
 them here." 
 
 " Don't they go sometimes to the villages, and even to 
 Paris ? Who could prevent them from talking if they 
 were inclined to talk? If they were a long way oft\ 
 why, so much the better ; for what they would then say 
 would do us no harm." 
 
 " A long way off, — and where ? " inquired the widow, 
 looking steadfastly at her son. 
 
 " Let me take them away, — where is no consequence 
 to you." 
 
 98
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 " How will you and they live ? '•' 
 
 " My old master, the locksmith, is a worthy man, and 
 I will tell him as much as he need know, and, perhaps, 
 he will lend me something for the sake of the children ; 
 with that I will go and apprentice them a long way off. 
 We will leave in two days, and you will hear no more 
 of us." 
 
 " No, no ! I prefer their remaining with me. I shall 
 then be perfectly sure of them." 
 
 " Then I will take up my quarters in the hovel on the 
 island until something turns up. I have a way and a 
 will of my own, and you know it." 
 
 " Yes, I know it. Oh, how I wish you were a thou- 
 sand miles away ! Why didn't you remain in your 
 woods ? " 
 
 " I offer to rid you of myself and the children." 
 
 " What ! Would you leave La Louve here, whom you 
 love so much ? " asked the widow, suddenly. 
 
 " That's my affair. I know what I shall do. I have 
 my plans." 
 
 " If I let you take away Amandine and Frangois, will 
 you never again set foot in Paris ? " 
 
 " Before three days have passed, we shall have de- 
 parted, and be as dead to you." 
 
 " I prefer that to having you here, and always dis- 
 trusting you and them. So, since I must give way, take 
 them, and be off as quickly as possible, and never let me 
 see you more ! " 
 
 " Agreed ! " 
 
 " Agreed ! Give me the key of the cellar, that I may 
 let Nicholas out ! " 
 
 " No ; let him sleep his liquor off, and I'll give you 
 the key to-morrow morning." 
 
 " And Calabash ? " 
 
 " Ah, that's another affair ! Let her out when I have 
 gone. I can't bear the sight of her." 
 
 " Go, and may hell confound you ! " 
 
 99
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " That's your farewell, mother ? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " Fortunately your last ! " said Martial. 
 
 " My last ! " responded the widow. 
 
 Her son lighted a candle, then opened the kitchen 
 door, whistled to his dog, who ran in, quite delighted at 
 being admitted, and followed his master to the upper 
 story of the house. 
 
 " Go, — your business is settled ! " muttered the widow, 
 shaking her clenched hand at her son, as he went up the 
 stairs ; " but it is your own act." 
 
 Then, by Calabash's assistance, who brought her a 
 bundle of false keys, the widow unlocked the cellar 
 door where Nicholas was, and set him at liberty. 
 
 iOO
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FBAN9OIS AND AMANDINE. 
 
 FEAN901S and Amandine slept in a room immediately 
 over the kitchen, and at the end of a passage which com- 
 mmiicated with several other apartments that were used 
 as " company rooms " for the guests who frequented the 
 cabaret. After having eaten their frugal supper, in- 
 stead of putting out their lantern, as the widow had 
 ordered them, the two children watched, leaving their 
 door ajar, for their brother Martial's passing on his way 
 to his own chamber. 
 
 Placed on a crippled stool, the lantern shed its dull 
 beams through the transparent horn. "Walls of plaster, 
 with here and there brown deal boards, a flock-bed for 
 Fran9ois, a little old child's bed, much too short, for 
 Amandine, a pile of broken chairs and dismembered 
 benches, mementoes of the turbulent visitors to the 
 cabaret of the Isle du Ravageur, — such was the interior 
 of this dog-hole. 
 
 Amandine, seated at the edge of the bed, was trying 
 bow to dress her head en marmotte, with the stolen silk 
 handkerchief, the gift of her brother Nicholas. Frangois 
 was on his knees, holding up a piece of broken glass to 
 his sister, who, with her head half turned, was employed 
 in spreading out the large rosette which she had made 
 in tying the two ends of the kerchief together. Wonder- 
 struck at this head-dress, FranQois for an instant neg- 
 lected to present the bit of glass in such a way that her 
 face could be reflected in it. 
 
 " Lift the looking-glass higher," said Amandine ; " I 
 
 101
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 can't see myself at all now ! There, that's it, — that'll 
 do ! Hold it so a minute ! Now I've done it ! Well, 
 look ! How have I done my head ? " 
 
 " Oh, capitally, — excellently ! What a handsome 
 rosette ! You'll make me just such a one for my 
 cravat, won't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, directly. But let me walk up and down a 
 little. You can go before me — backwards — holding 
 the glass up, just in that way. There — so ! I can 
 then see myself as I walk." 
 
 Francois then went through this difficult manoeuvre 
 to the great satisfaction of Amandine, who strutted up 
 and down in all her pride and dignity, under the large 
 bow of her head attire. 
 
 Very simple and unsophisticated under any other cir- 
 cumstances, this coquetry became guilt when displayed 
 in reference to the produce of a robbery of which Fran- 
 9ois and Amandine were not ignorant. Another proof 
 of the frightful facility with which children, however 
 well disposed, become corrupted almost imperceptibly 
 when they are continually immersed in a criminal 
 atmosphere. 
 
 Then, the sole mentor of these unfortunate children, 
 their brother Martial, was by no means irreproachable 
 himself, as we have already said. Incapable, it is true, 
 of a theft or a murder, still he led a vagabond and ill- 
 regulated life. Undoubtedly his mind revolted at the 
 crimes of his family. He loved these two children very 
 fondly, and protected them from ill-treatment, endeav- 
 ouring to withdraw them from the pernicious influences 
 of the family ; but not taking his stand on the founda- 
 tions of rigorous and sound morality, his advice was but 
 an ineffective safeguard to these children. They refused 
 to commit certain bad actions, not from honest senti- 
 ments, but in order to obey Martial, whom they loved, 
 and to disobey their mother, whom they dreaded and 
 hated. 
 
 102
 
 FRANgOIS AND AMANDINE. 
 
 As to ideas of right and wrong, they had none, famil- 
 iarised as they were with the infamous examples which 
 they had every day under their eyes ; for, as we have 
 said, this country cabaret, haunted by the refuse of the 
 lowest order, was the theatre of most disgraceful orgies 
 and most disgusting debaucheries ; and Martial, opposed 
 as he was to thefts and murders, appeared perfectly indif- 
 ferent to these infamous saturnalia. 
 
 It may be supposed, therefore, that the instincts of 
 morality in these children were doubtful and precarious, 
 especially those of Francois, who had reached that dan- 
 gerous time of life when the mind pauses, and, oscillating 
 between good and evil, might be in a moment lost or 
 saved. 
 
 " How well you look in that handkerchief, sister ! '* 
 said Francois ; " it is very pretty. When we go to play 
 on the shore by the chalk-burner's lime-kiln you must 
 dress yourself in this manner, to make the children jeal- 
 ous who pelt us with stones and call us little guillo- 
 tines. And I shall put on my nice red cravat, and we 
 will say to them, ' Never mind, you haven't such pretty 
 silk handkerchiefs as we have ! ' " 
 
 " But, I say, Frangois," said Amandine, after a 
 moment's reflection, " if they knew that the handker- 
 chiefs we wear were stolen, they would call us little 
 thieves." 
 
 "Well, and what should we care if they did call us 
 little thieves ? " 
 
 " Why, not at all, if it were not true. But now — " 
 
 " Since Nicholas gave us these handkerchiefs, we 
 didn't steal them ! " 
 
 " No ; but he took them out of a barge ; and Brother 
 Martial says no one ought to steal." 
 
 " But, as Nicholas states, that is no affair of ours." 
 
 " Do you think so, Francois ? " 
 
 « Of course I do." 
 
 103
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Still, it seems to me that I would rather the person 
 who really owns them had given them to us. What do 
 you say, Frangois ? " 
 
 " Oh, it's all one to me ! They were given to us, and 
 so they're ours." 
 
 " Are you sure of that ? " 
 
 " Why, yes — yes ; make yourself easy about that." 
 
 " So much the better, then, for we are not doing what 
 Brother Martial forbids, and we have such nice hand- 
 kerchiefs ! " 
 
 " But, Amandine, if he had known the other day that 
 Calabash had made you take the plaid handkerchief 
 from the peddler's pack whilst his back was turned ? " 
 
 " Oh, Francois, don't talk about it ; I have been so 
 very sorry. But I was really forced to do it, for my 
 sister pinched me until the blood came, and looked at 
 me so — oh, in such a way ! And yet my heart failed 
 me twice, and I thought I never could do it. The peddler 
 didn't find it out ; yet, if they had caught me, Frangois, 
 I should have been sent to prison." 
 
 " But you weren't caught ; so it's just the same as if 
 you had not stolen." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And in prison how unhappy we must be." 
 
 " On the contrary — " 
 
 *' How do you mean on the contrary ?" 
 
 " Why, you know the fat cripple who lodges at Father 
 Micou's, the man who buys all Nicholas's things, and 
 keeps a lodging-house in the Passage de la Brasserie ? " 
 
 "A fat cripple?" 
 
 " Why, yes, who came here the end of last autumn 
 from Father Micou, with a man who had monkeys and 
 two women." 
 
 " Ah, yes, a stout, lame man, who spent such a deal 
 of money." 
 
 " I believe you ; he paid for everybody. Don't you 
 
 104
 
 FRAN90IS AND AMANDINE. 
 
 recollect the rows on the water when I pulled them, and 
 the man with the monkeys brought his organ, that they 
 might have music in the boat ? " 
 
 "Yes; and in the evening the beautiful fireworks 
 they let off, Francois ? " 
 
 "And the fat cripple was not stingy, either. He 
 gave me ten sous for myself. He drank nothing but 
 our best wine, and they had chickens at every meal. 
 He spent full eighty francs." 
 
 " So much as that, Francois ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " 
 
 " How rich he must be ! " 
 
 " Not at all. Wliat he spent was money he had 
 gained in prison, from which he had just come." 
 
 " Gained all that money in prison ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he said he had seven hundred francs beside, 
 and that, when that was all gone, he should try another 
 good ' job ; ' and if he were taken, he didn't care, 
 because he should go back to his jolly ' pals in the 
 Stone Jug,' as he said." 
 
 " Then he wasn't afraid of prison, Fran9ois ? " 
 
 " On the contrary ; he told Calabash that they were 
 a party of friends and merrymakers all together ; and 
 that he had never had a better bed and better food than 
 when he was in prison. Good meat four times a week, 
 fire all the winter, and a lump of money when he left 
 it ; whilst there are fools of honest workmen who are 
 starving with cold and hunger, for want of work." 
 
 "Are you sure he said that, Francois, — the stout 
 lame man ? " 
 
 " I heard him, for I was rowing him in the punt 
 whilst he told his story to Calabash and the two women, 
 who said that it was the same thing in the female 
 prisons they had just left." 
 
 " But then, Francois, it can't be so bad to steal, if 
 people are so well off in prison." 
 
 " Oh, the deuce ! I don't know. Here it is only 
 105
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Brother Martial who says it is wrong to steal ; perhaps 
 he is wrong." 
 
 " Never mind if he is, Francois. "We ought to believe 
 him, for he loves us so much ! " 
 
 « Yes, he loves us ; and, when he is by, there is no 
 fear of our being beaten. If he had been here this 
 evening, our mother would not have thrashed me so. 
 An old beast ! How savage she is ! Oh, how I hate 
 her — hate her ! And how I wish I was grown up, that 
 I might pay her back the thumps she gives us, especially 
 to you, who can't bear them as well as I can." 
 
 " Oh, FrauQois, hold your tongue ; it quite frightens 
 me to hear you say that you would beat mother!" 
 cried the poor little child, weeping, and throwing 
 her arms around her brother's neck, and kissing him 
 affectionately. 
 
 "It's quite true, though," answered Francois, extri- 
 cating himself gently from Amandine. " Why are my 
 mother and Calabash always so savage to us ? " 
 
 " I do not know," replied Amandine, wiping her eyes 
 with the back of her hand. "It is, perhaps, because 
 they sent Brother Ambroise to the galleys, and guillo- 
 tined our father, that they are unjust towards us." 
 
 " Is that our fault ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! But what would you have ? " 
 
 " Ma foil If I am always to have beatings, — always, 
 always, at last I should rather steal, as they do, I should. 
 What do I gain by not being a thief ? " 
 
 " Ah, what would Martial say to that ? " 
 
 « Ah, but for him, I should have said yes a long time 
 ago, for I am tired of being thumped for ever ; why, this 
 evening, my mother was more savage than ever; she 
 was like a fury ! It was pitch dark. She didn't say 
 a word ; and I felt nothing but her clammy hand hold- 
 ing me by the soruff of my neck, whilst with the other 
 she beat me ; and whilst she did so, her eyes seemed to 
 glare in the dark." 
 
 106
 
 FRAN90IS AND AMANDINE. 
 
 " Poor Francois ! for only having said you saw a dead 
 man's bone by the wood-pile." 
 
 " Yes, a foot that was sticking out of the ground," 
 said Francois, shuddering with fright ; " I am quite 
 sure of it." 
 
 " Perhaps there was a burying-ground there once." 
 
 " Perhaps ; but then, why did mother say she'd be 
 the death of me, if I said a word about the bone to our 
 Brother Martial ? I rather think it is some one who 
 has been killed in a quarrel, and that they have buried 
 him there, that no one might know anything about it." 
 
 " You are right ; for don't you remember that such a 
 thing did nearly happen once ? " 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " Don't you remember once when M. Barbillon 
 wounded with a knife that tall man, who is so very 
 thin, that he showed himself for money ? " 
 
 " Oh, the walking skeleton, as they call him ? Yes ; 
 and mother came and separated them ; if she hadn't, I 
 think Barbillon would have killed the tall, thin man. 
 Did you see how Barbillon foamed at the mouth ? and 
 his eyes seemed ready to start from his head. Oh, he 
 does not mind who he cuts and slashes with his knife, 
 — he's such a headstrong, passionate fellow ! " 
 
 " So young and so wicked, Frangois ? " 
 
 " Tortillard is much younger, and he would be quite 
 as wicked as he, if he were strong enough." 
 
 " Oh, yes, he's very, very wicked ! The other day he 
 beat me, because I would not play with him." 
 
 " He beat you, did he ? Then, the first time he 
 comes — " 
 
 " No, no, FrauQois ; it was only in jest." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 " Yes, quite sure." 
 
 "Very well, then, for, if not — But I don't know 
 how he manages, the scamp ! But he always has so 
 much money. He's so lucky ! When he came here 
 
 107
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 with the Chouette, he showed us pieces of gold of 
 twenty francs ; and didn't he look knowing as he said, 
 * Oh, you might have the same, if you were not such 
 little mufPs ! ' " 
 
 "Muffs?" 
 
 " Yes ; in slang that means fools, simpletons." 
 
 " Yes, to be sure." 
 
 " Forty francs in gold ! What a many fine things I 
 could buy with that ! Couldn't you, Amandine ? " 
 
 « That I could." 
 
 " What should you buy ? " 
 
 " Let's see," said the little girl, bending her head, and 
 meditating. " I should first buy Brother Martial a good 
 thick outside coat, that would keep him warm in his 
 boat." 
 
 " But for yourself, — for yourseK." 
 
 " I should like a crucifixion, like those image-sellers 
 had on Sunday, you know, under the church porch at 
 Asnieres." 
 
 " Yes ; and, now I think of it, we must not tell 
 mother or Calabash that we went into a church." 
 
 " To be sure, for she has always forbidden us to go 
 into a church. What a pity! For church is such 
 a nice place inside, isn't it, Fran9ois ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and what beautiful silver candlesticks ! " 
 
 " And the picture of the holy Virgin, how kind she 
 looks!" 
 
 " And did you look at the fine lamps, and the hand- 
 some cloth on the large table at the bottom, when the 
 priest was saying mass with his two friends, dressed like 
 himself, and who gave him water and wine ?" 
 
 " Tell me, FrauQois, do you remember last year, at 
 the Fete-Dieu, when we saw from here the little com- 
 municants, with their white veils, pass over the bridge ? " 
 
 " What nice nosegays they had ! " 
 
 " How they sang in a soft tone, holding the ribands 
 of their banners ! " 
 
 108
 
 FRAN90IS AND AMANDINE. 
 
 " And how the silver lace of their banners shone in 
 the sunshine ! What a deal of money it must have 
 cost!" 
 
 " Oh, how beautiful it was ! "Wasn't it, Francois ? " 
 
 " I believe you ! And the communicants with their 
 bows of white satin on the arm, and their wax candles, 
 with red velvet and gold on the part by which they hold 
 them." 
 
 "And the little boys had their banners, too, hadn't 
 they, Frangois ? Ah, Frangois, how I was thumped 
 that day for asking our mother why we did not go in 
 the procession, like the other children ! " 
 
 " And it was then she forbade us from ever going into 
 a church when we should go into the town, or to Paris ; 
 * Unless it was to rob the poor-box, or the pockets of 
 the people who were hearing mass,' Calabash said, grin- 
 ning, and showing her nasty yellow teeth. Oh, what a 
 bad thing she is ! " 
 
 " Oh, and as for that, they should kill me before 
 I would rob in a church ; and you, too, Frangois ? " 
 
 " There, or anywhere ; what difference does it make, 
 when once one has made up one's mind ? " 
 
 " Why, I don't know ; but I should be so frightened, 
 I could never do it." 
 
 " Because of the priests ? " 
 
 " No ; but because of the portrait of the holy Virgin, 
 who seems so kind and good." 
 
 " What consequence is a portrait ? It won't eat or 
 drink, you silly child ! " 
 
 " That's very true ; but then I really couldn't. It is 
 not my fault." 
 
 " Talking of priests. Amandine, do you remember 
 that day when Nicholas gave me two such hard boxes 
 on the ear, because he saw me make a bow to the 
 curate, who passed on the bank ? I had seen every- 
 body salute him, and so I saluted him ; I didn't think 
 I was doing any wrong." 
 
 109
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Yes ; but then, you know, Brother Martial said, as 
 Nicholas did, that there was no occasion to salute the 
 priests." 
 
 At this moment Francois and Amandine heard foot- 
 steps in the passage. Martial was going to his chamber, 
 without any mistrust, after his conversation with his 
 mother, believing that Nicholas was safely locked up 
 until the next morning. Seeing a ray of light coming 
 from out the closet in which the children slept, Mar- 
 tial came into the room. They both ran to him, and 
 he embraced them affectionately. 
 
 " What ! Not in bed yet, little gossips ? " 
 
 " No, brother, we waited until you came, that we 
 might see you, and wish you good night," said Aman- 
 dine. 
 
 " And then we heard you speaking very loud below, 
 as if there were a quarrel," added FrauQois. 
 
 " Yes," said Martial, " I had some dispute with Nich- 
 olas, but it was nothing. Besides, I am glad to see you 
 awake, as I have some good news for you." 
 
 " For us, brother ? " 
 
 " Should you like to go away from here, and come 
 with me a long way off ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, brother ! " 
 
 " Yes, brother ! " 
 
 " Well, then, in two or three days we shall all three 
 leave the island." 
 
 " Oh, how delightful ! " exclaimed Amandine, clapping 
 her hands with joy. 
 
 " And where shall we go to ?" inquired Francois. 
 
 " You will see, Mr. Inquisitive ; no matter ; but where 
 you will learn a good trade, which will enable you to 
 earn your living, be sure of that." 
 
 " Then I sha'n't go fishing with you any more, 
 brother ? " 
 
 " No, my boy, you will be put apprentice to a carpen- 
 ter or locksmith. You are strong and handy, and witlj 
 
 no
 
 FRANgOIS AND AMANDINE. 
 
 a good heart ; and working hard, at the end of a year 
 you may already have earned something. But you don't 
 seem to like it : why, what ails you now ? " 
 
 "Why, brother, — I — " 
 
 " Come, come ! Speak out." 
 
 " Why, I'd rather not leave you, but stay with you, 
 and fish, and mend your nets, than go and learn a 
 trade." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Why, to be shut up in a workshop all day is so 
 very dull ; and then it must be so tiresome to be an 
 apprentice." 
 
 Martial shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " So, then, you would rather be an idler, a scamp, a 
 vagabond, — eh ? " said he, in a stern voice ; " and then, 
 perhaps, a thief ? " 
 
 "No, brother; but I should like to live with you 
 elsewhere, as we hve here, that's all." 
 
 " Yes, that's it ; eat, drink, sleep, and amuse yourself 
 with fishing, like an independent gentleman, — eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, I should like it." 
 
 " Very likely ; but you must prefer something else. 
 You see, my poor dear lad, that it is quite time I took 
 you away from here; for, without perceiving it, you 
 have become as idle as the rest. My mother was right, 
 — I fear you have vice in you. And you, Amandine, 
 shouldn't you like to learn some business?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, brother ; I should like very much to learn 
 anything rather than stay here. I should dearly like to 
 go with you and Francois." 
 
 " But what have you got on your head, my child ? " 
 inquired Martial, observing Amandine's very fine head- 
 dress. 
 
 " A handkerchief that Nicholas gave me." 
 
 "And he gave me one, too," said Francois, with an 
 air of pride. 
 
 " And where did these handkerchiefs come from ? I 
 
 111
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 should be very much surprised to learn that Nicholas 
 bought them to make you a present of." 
 
 The two children lowered their eyes, and made no 
 reply. After a second, Fran9ois said, with a resolute 
 air, " Nicholas gave them to us. We do not know where 
 they came from, do we, Amandine ? " 
 
 " No, no, brother," replied Amandine, stammering, 
 and turning very red, not daring to look Martial in the 
 face. 
 
 " Don't tell lies," said Martial, harshly. 
 
 " We don't tell lies," replied Francois, doggedly. 
 
 "Amandine, my child, tell the truth," said Martial, 
 mildly. 
 
 " Well, then, to tell the whole truth," replied Aman- 
 dine, timidly, " these fine handkerchiefs came out of a 
 box of things that Nicholas brought in this evening in 
 his boat." 
 
 " And which he had stolen ? " 
 
 " I think so, brother, — out of a barge." 
 
 " So then, Frangois, you lie ? " said Martial. 
 
 The boy bent down his head, but made no reply. 
 
 " Give me this handkerchief, Amandine ; and yours, 
 too, Frangois." 
 
 The little girl took off her head-dress, gave a last look 
 at the large bow, which was not untied, and gave the 
 handkerchief to Martial, repressing a sigh of regret. 
 Francois drew his slowly out of his pocket, and then 
 gave it to his brother, as his sister had done. 
 
 " To-morrow morning," he said, " I will return these 
 handkerchiefs to Nicholas. You ought not to have taken 
 them, children. To profit by a robbery is as if one robbed 
 oneself." 
 
 " It is a pity those handkerchiefs were so pretty ! '* 
 said FrauQois. 
 
 " When you have learned a trade, and earn money by 
 your work, you wdll buy some as good. Go to bed, my 
 dears, — it is very late." 
 
 112
 
 FRANgOIS AND AMANDINE. 
 
 " You are not angry, brother ? " said Amandine, 
 timidly. 
 
 " No, no, my love, it is not your fault. You live with 
 ill-disposed persons, and you do as they do unconsciously. 
 When you are with honest persons, you will do as they 
 do ; and you'll soon be with such, or the devil's in it. 
 So now, good night ! " 
 
 « Good night, brother ! " 
 
 Martial kissed the children. They were now alone. 
 
 "What's the matter with you, Frangois, — you seem 
 very sorrowful ! " said Amandine. 
 
 " Why, brother has taken my nice handkerchief ; and 
 besides, didn't you hear what he said ? " 
 
 « What ? " 
 
 "He means to take us with him, and put us 
 apprentice." 
 
 " And ain't you glad ? " 
 
 "3ia/oz, no!" 
 
 " Would you rather stay here and be beaten every 
 day?" 
 
 " Why, if I am beaten I am not made to work. I am 
 all day in the boat, fishing, or playing, or waiting on the 
 customers, who sometimes give me something, as the stout 
 lame man did. It is much more amusing than to be 
 from morning till night shut up in a workshop working 
 like a dog." 
 
 " But didn't you understand ? Why, brother said that 
 if we remained here longer we should become evil- 
 disposed." 
 
 " Ah ! bah ! That's all one to me, since the other 
 children call us already little thieves, — little guillotines ! 
 And then to work is too tiresome ! " 
 
 " But here they are always beating us, brother ! " 
 
 " They beat us because we listen to Martial more than 
 to any one else." 
 
 " Oh, he is so kind to us ! " 
 
 " Yes, he is kind, — very kind, — I don't say he ain't ; 
 113
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 and I am very fond of him. No one dares to be unkind 
 to us when he is by. He takes us out with him, — 
 that's true ; but that's all ; he never gives us anything." 
 
 " Why, he has nothing. What he gains he gives our 
 mother to pay for his eating, drinking, and lodging." 
 
 " Nicholas has something. You may be sure if we 
 attend to what he and mother say, they would not make 
 our lives so uncomfortable, but give us pretty things, as 
 they did to-day. They would not distrust us, and we 
 should have money like Tortillard." 
 
 " But we must steal for that ; and how that would 
 grieve dear, good Martial ! " 
 
 " Well, so much the worse ! " 
 
 " Oh, Francois ! And then we should be taken up and 
 put into prison." 
 
 " To be in a prison or shut up in a workshop all day is 
 the same thing. Besides, the Gros-Boiteux says they 
 amuse themselves very much in prison," 
 
 " But how sorry Martial would be ; only think of that ! 
 And then it is on our account that he returned here, and 
 remains with us ! For himself only he would not have 
 any difficulty, but could go again and be a poacher in 
 the woods which he is so very fond of." 
 
 " Oh, if he'll take us with him into the woods," said 
 Francois, " that would be better than anything else. I 
 should be with him I am so fond of, and should not 
 work at any business that would tire me." 
 
 The conversation of Francois and Amandine was 
 interrupted. Some one outside double-locked their 
 door. 
 
 " They have fastened us in," said Frangois. 
 
 " Oh, what can it be for, brother ? What are they 
 going to do to us ? " 
 
 " It is Martial, perhaps." 
 
 " Listen, listen, — how his dog barks ! " said Aman- 
 dine, listening. 
 
 After a few minutes, Frangois added : 
 
 114
 
 FRAN9OIS AND AMANDINE. 
 
 « It sounds as if some one were knocking at his door 
 with a hammer. Perhaps they want to force it open ! '* 
 
 " Yes ; but how the dog barks still ! " 
 
 " Listen, Fran9ois ! It is as if they were nailing 
 something. Oh, dear, oh, dear, how frightened I am ! 
 What are they doing to our brother ? And how the dog 
 howls still!" 
 
 " Amandine, I hear nothing now," said Francois, 
 going towards the door. 
 
 The two children held their breath, and listened 
 anxiously. 
 
 "They are coming from my brother's room," said 
 Francois, in a low voice ; " I hear them walking in the 
 passage." 
 
 " Let us throw ourselves on our beds ; mother would 
 kill us if she found us out of bed," said Amandine, 
 terrified. 
 
 " No," said Francois, still listening ; " they have just 
 passed by our door, and are running down the stair- 
 case." 
 
 " Oh, dear, oh, dear, what can it be ? " 
 
 " Ah, now they are opening the kitchen door." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I know the sound." 
 
 " Martial's dog is still howling," said Amandine, 
 listening. Suddenly she exclaimed, "Fran9ois, our 
 brother calls us." 
 
 "Martial?" 
 
 " Yes ; don't you hear him ? Don't you hear him 
 now?" 
 
 And at this moment, in spite of the thickness of the 
 two closed doors, the powerful voice of Martial, who 
 called to the children from his room, reached them. 
 
 " Indeed, we can't go to him ; we are locked in," said 
 Amandine. " They must be doing something wrong to 
 him, as he calls us." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, if I could hinder them," exclaimed 
 
 115
 
 THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 Francois, resolutely, " I would, even if they were to cut 
 me to pieces ! " 
 
 " But our brother does not know that they have 
 double-locked our door, and he will believe that we 
 would not go to his help. Call out to him that we are 
 locked in, Frangois." 
 
 The lad was just going to do as his sister bade him, 
 when a violent blow was struck outside the shutter of 
 the window of the room in which the two children were. 
 
 " They are coming in by the window to kill us ! " 
 cried Amandine, and, in her fright, she threw herself 
 on her bed and hid her head between her hands. 
 
 Fran9ois remained motionless, although he shared his 
 sister's terror. However, after the violent blow we have 
 mentioned, the shutter was not opened, and the most 
 profound silence reigned throughout the house. Martial 
 had ceased calling to the children. 
 
 A little assured, and excited by intense curiosity, 
 Fran9ois ventured to open the window a little way, and 
 tried to look out through the leaves of the blind. 
 
 " Mind, brother ! " said Amandine, in a low voice, 
 and sitting up when she heard Frangois open the 
 shutter. 
 
 " Can you see anything ? " she added. 
 
 " No, the night is too dark." 
 
 " Don't you hear anything ? " 
 
 " No, the wind is too high." 
 
 " Come in, then ; come in." 
 
 " Oh, now I see something ! " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " The light of a lantern, which moves backwards and 
 forwards." 
 
 " Who's carrying it ? " 
 
 " I can only see the light. Ah, she comes nearer, — 
 she is speaking ! " 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " Listen, — listen ! It is Calabash." 
 
 116
 
 FRAN9^IS AND AMANDINE. 
 
 " What does she say ? " 
 
 " She says the ladder must be fixed securely." 
 
 " Oh, it was then in taking away the high ladder that 
 was placed against our shutter that they made that noise 
 just now." 
 
 " I don't hear anything now." 
 
 " What have they done with the ladder ? " 
 
 " I can't see it now." 
 
 " Can you hear anything ? " 
 
 « No." 
 
 " Frangois, perhaps they are going to use it to enter 
 our Brother Martial's room by the window ! " 
 
 " Very likely." 
 
 "If you could open our window a little more you 
 might see." 
 
 " I am afraid." 
 
 « Only a little bit." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! If mother saw us ! " 
 
 " It is so dark, there is no danger." 
 
 Frangois, much against his will, did as his sister 
 requested, and pushing the shutter back, looked 
 out. 
 
 " Well, brother ? " said Amandine, surmounting her 
 fears, and approaching Frangois on tiptoe. 
 
 " By the gleam of the lantern," said he, " I see 
 Calabash, who is holding the foot of the ladder, which 
 is resting against Martial's window." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Nicholas is going up the ladder with his axe in his 
 hand. I see it glitter." 
 
 "Ah, you are not in bed, then, but watching us!" 
 exclaimed the widow, addressing Frangois and his 
 sister from outside. As she was returning to the 
 kitchen she saw the light, which escaped through the 
 open window. 
 
 The unfortunate children had neglected putting out 
 the lantern. 
 
 117
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " I am coming," added the widow, in a terrible voice ; 
 " I am coming to you, you little spies ! " 
 
 Such were the events which passed in the Isle du 
 Ravageur on the evening of the day before that on 
 which Madame S^raphin was to take Fleur-de-Marie 
 thither. 
 
 118
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 A LODGING-HOUSE. 
 
 The Passage de la Brasserie, a dark street, narrow, 
 and but little known, although situated in the centre of 
 Paris, runs at one end into the Rue Traversi^re St. 
 Honord, and at the other into the Cour St. Guillaume. 
 
 Towards the middle of this damp thoroughfare, muddy, 
 dark, and unwholesome, and where the sun but rarely 
 penetrates, there was a furnished house (commonly 
 called a garni, lodging-house, in consequence of the low 
 price of the apartments). On a miserable piece of paper 
 might be read, " Chambers and small rooms furnished." 
 To the right hand, in a dark alley, was the door of a 
 store, not less obscure, in which constantly resided tlie 
 principal tenant of this garni. 
 
 Father Micou was ostensibly a dealer in old metal 
 (" marine stores"), but secretly purchased and received 
 stolen metal, iron, lead, brass, and tin. When we men- 
 tion that Father Micou was connected in business and 
 friendship with the Martial family, we give a tolerable 
 idea of his morality. The tie that binds — the sort of 
 affiliation, the mysterious communion, which connects 
 — the malefactors of Paris, is at once curious and 
 fearful. The common prisons are the great centres 
 whence flow, and to which reflow, incessantly those 
 waves of corruption which gradually gain on the capital, 
 and leave there such pernicious waifs and strays. 
 
 Father Micou was a stout man, about fifty years of 
 age, with a mean and cunning countenance, a mulberry 
 
 119
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 noae, and wine-flushed cheeks. He wore a fur cap and 
 an old green long-skirted coat. Over his small stove, 
 near which he was standing, there was a board fastened 
 to the wall, and bearing a row of figures, to which were 
 affixed the keys of the chambers of the absent lodgers. 
 The panes of glass in the door which opened on to the 
 street were so painted that from the outside no one 
 could see what was going on within. 
 
 The whole of this extensive store was very dark. 
 From the damp walls there hung rusty chains of all 
 sizes ; and the floor was strewed with iron and other 
 metals. Three blows struck at the door in a particular 
 way attracted the attention of the landlord, huckster, 
 receiver. 
 
 " Come in ! " he cried. 
 
 It was Nicholas, the son of the felon's widow. He 
 was very pale, his features looked even more evil than 
 they did on the previous evening, and yet he feigned a 
 kind of overgaiety during the following conversation. 
 (This scene takes place on the day after his quarrel with 
 Martial.) 
 
 " Ah, is it you, my fine fellow ? " said Micou, cordially. 
 
 " Yes, Father Micou, I have come to see you on a 
 trifle of business." 
 
 " Then shut the door, — shut the door." 
 
 " My dog and cart are there outside with the stuff." 
 
 " What do you bring me, double tripe (sheet lead) ? " 
 
 « No, Father Micou." 
 
 " "What is it, scrapings ? but no, you're too downy 
 now, you've left off work. Perhaps it is a bit of hard 
 (iron) ? " 
 
 " No, Daddy Micou, it's some flap (sheet copper). 
 There must be, at least, a hundred and fifty pounds 
 weight, as much as my dog could stagger along with." 
 
 " Go and fetch the flap, and let's weigh it." 
 
 " You must lend a hand, daddy, for I've hurt my 
 arm." 
 
 120
 
 A LODGING-HOUSE. 
 
 And, at the recollection of his contest with his brother 
 Martial, the ruffian's features expressed, at once, the 
 resentment of hatred and savage joy, as if his vengeance 
 were already satisfied. 
 
 " "What's the matter with your arm, my man ? " 
 
 " Nothing, — only a sprain." 
 
 " You must heat an iron in the fire, and plunge it red- 
 hot into the water, then put your arm in the water as 
 hot as you can bear it. It is an iron-dealer's remedy, 
 but none the worse for that." 
 
 " Thank ye, Father Micou." 
 
 " Go and fetch the flap, and I'll come and help you, 
 idle-bones." 
 
 At twice the copper was brought out of the cart, 
 drawn by an enormous dog, and conveyed into the shop. 
 
 " That cart of yours is a good idea," said the wortliy 
 Micou, as he adjusted the wooden frames of an enormous 
 pair of scales that hung from a beam in the ceiling. 
 
 "Yes; when I've anything to bring, I put my dog 
 and cart into the punt, and harness them as we come 
 along. A hackney-coach might, perhaps, tell a tale, but 
 my dog never chatters." 
 
 " And they're all pretty well at home, — eh ? " inqviired 
 the receiver, weighing the copper ; " mother and sister, 
 both pretty bobbish ? " 
 
 " Yes, Father Micou." 
 
 " And the little uns ? " 
 
 " Yes, the little uns, too. And your nephew, Andr^, 
 where is he ? " 
 
 " Don't mention him ; he was out on a spree yesterday. 
 Barbillon and Gros-Boiteux brought him back this morn- 
 ing. He is out for a walk now towards the General 
 Post-office in the Rue St. Jacques Rousseau. And 
 your brother. Martial, is he just such a rum un as ever ? " 
 
 « Ma foi ! I don't know." 
 
 " Don't know ? " 
 
 " No," replied Nicholas, assuming an indifferent air ; 
 121
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " we have seen nothing of him for the last two days. 
 Perhaps he's gone poaching in the woods again ; unless 
 his boat, which was very, very old, has sunk in the river, 
 with him in it." 
 
 " At which you would not be dreadfully affected, you 
 bad lot, for you can't bear your brother, I know." 
 
 " True ; we have strange likes and dislikes. How 
 many pounds of metal d'ye make ? " 
 
 " You're right to a hair, just a hundred and fifty 
 pounds, my lad." 
 
 " And you owe me — " 
 
 " Just thirty francs." 
 
 " Thirty francs ! when copper is twenty sous a pound ? 
 Thirty francs ! " 
 
 " Say thirty-five francs, and there's an end of the 
 matter, or go to the devil with you ! you, and your 
 copper, and your dog, and your cart." 
 
 " But, Father Micou, you are really chiselling me down ; 
 that's not the right thing by no means." 
 
 " If you'll tell me how you came by your copper, I'll 
 give you fifteen sous a pound for it." 
 
 " That's the old strain. You are all alike, a regular 
 lot of cheats. How can you bear to ' do ' your friends in 
 this way ? But that's not all ; if I swap with you for 
 some things, you ought to give me good measure." 
 
 " To a hair's turn. What do you want ? Chains and 
 hooks for your punts ? " 
 
 " No, I want four or five sheets of stout iron, as if to 
 line shutters with." 
 
 " I've just the thing, a quarter of an inch thick ; a 
 pistol-ball wouldn't go through it." 
 
 " Just what I want." 
 
 " What size ? " 
 
 " Why, altogether about seven or eight feet square." 
 
 " Good, and what else ? " 
 
 " Three bars of iron, from three to four feet long, and 
 two inches square." 
 
 122
 
 A LODGING-HOUSE. 
 
 " I have just broken up an iron wicket ; nothing can 
 be better for you. What next ? " 
 
 " Two strong hinges and a latch, so that I can open 
 or shut an opening two feet square when I wish." 
 
 " A trap, you mean ? " 
 
 " No, a valve." 
 
 " I don't understand what you can want with a 
 valve." 
 
 " Never you mind ; I know what I want." 
 
 " That's all right ; you have only to choose ; there's 
 a heap of hinges. What's the next thing ? " 
 
 "That's all." 
 
 " And not much, either." 
 
 " Get it all ready, Father Micou, and I'll take it as 
 I come back ; for I've got some other places to call 
 at." 
 
 " With your cart ? Why, you dog, I saw a bundle 
 underneath. What, some little trifle you have taken 
 from the world's wardrobe ? Ah, you sly rogue ! " 
 
 " Just as you say. Father Micou ; but you don't 
 deal in such things. Don't keep me waiting for the 
 iron goods, for I must be back at the island before 
 noon." 
 
 " I'll be ready. It is only eight, and, if you are not 
 going far, come back in an hour, and you shall find 
 everything prepared, — money and goods. Won't you 
 take a drain?" 
 
 " Thank ye, I won't say no, for I think you owe it 
 me." 
 
 Father Micou took from an old closet a bottle of 
 brandy, a cracked glass, and a cup without a handle, 
 and filled them. 
 
 " Here's to you. Daddy Micou ! " 
 
 " And to you likewise, my boy, and the ladies at 
 home ! " 
 
 "Thank ye. And the lodging-house goes on well, 
 eh?" 
 
 123
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Middling, — middling. I have always some lodgers 
 for whom I am always fearing a visit from the commis- 
 sary ; but they pay in proportion." 
 
 " How d'ye mean ? " 
 
 " Why, are you stupid ? I sometimes lodge as I buy, 
 and don't ask them for their passport, any more than I 
 ask you for your bill of parcels." 
 
 " Good; but to them you let as dear as you have 
 bought cheaply of me." 
 
 " I must look out. I have a cousin who has a hand- 
 some furnished house in the Rue St. Honor^. His 
 wife is a milliner in a large way, and employs, perhaps, 
 twenty needlewomen, either in the house, or having the 
 ■work at home." 
 
 "I say, old boy, I dare say there's some pretty uns 
 among 'em ? " 
 
 " I believe you. There's two or three that I have 
 seen bring home work sometimes, — my eyes, ain't they 
 pretty, though ? One little one in particular, who works 
 at home, and is always a-laughing, and they calls her 
 Rigolette, oh, my pippin, what a pity one ain't twenty 
 years old all over again ! " 
 
 " Halloa, daddy, how you are going it ! " 
 
 " Oh, it's all right, my boy, — all right ! " 
 
 " ' Walker ! ' old boy. And you say your cousin — " 
 
 " Does uncommon well with his house, and, as it Is 
 the same number as that of the little Rigolette — '* 
 
 "What, again?" 
 
 " Oh, it's all right and proper." 
 
 " ' Walker ! ' " 
 
 " He won't have any lodgers but those who have pass- 
 ports and papers ; but if any come who haven't got *em, 
 he sends me those customers." 
 
 " And they pays accordingly ? " 
 
 " In course." 
 
 " But they are all in our line who haven't got their 
 riglar papers ? " 
 
 124
 
 A LODGING-HOUSE. 
 
 "By no manner of means! Why, very lately, my 
 cousin sent me a customer, — devil burn me if I can 
 make him out ! Another drain ? " 
 
 " Just one ; the liquor's good. Here's t'ye again, 
 Daddy Micou ! " 
 
 " Here's to you again, my covey ! I was saying that 
 the other day my cousin sent me a customer whom I 
 can't make out. Imagine a mother and daughter, who 
 looked very queer and uncommon seedy ; they had their 
 whole kit in a pocket-handkerchief. Well, there warn't 
 much to be expected out of this, for they had no papers, 
 and they lodge by the fortnight ; yet, since they've been 
 here, they haven't moved any more than a dormouse. 
 No men come to see them ; and yet they're not bad- 
 looking, if they weren't so thin and pale, particularly 
 the daughter, about sixteen, — with such a pair of black 
 eyes, — oh, such eyes ! " 
 
 " Halloa, dad ! You're off again. What do these 
 women do ? " 
 
 " I tell you I don't know ; they must be respectable, 
 and yet, as they receive letters without any address, it 
 looks queer." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " They sent, this morning, my nephew Andr^ to the 
 Poste-Restante to inquire for a letter addressed to ' Ma- 
 dame X. Z.' The letter was expected from Normandy, 
 from a town called Aubiers. They wrote that down on 
 paper, so that Andr^ might get the letter by giving these 
 particulars. You see, it does not look quite the thing 
 for women to take the name of ' X.' and ' Z.' And yet 
 they never have any male visitors." 
 
 " They won't pay you." 
 
 " Oh, my fine fellow, they don't catch an old bird like 
 me with chaff. They took a room without a fireplace, 
 and I made them pay the twenty francs down for the 
 fortnight. They are, perhaps, ill, for they have not 
 been down for the last two days. It is not indigestion 
 
 125
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 that ails tliem, for I don't think they have cooked 
 anything since they came here." 
 
 " If you had all such customers, Father Micou — '* 
 " Oh, they go and come. If I lodge people without 
 passports, why, I also have different people. I have 
 now two travelling gents, a postman, the leader of the 
 band at the Cafe des Aveugles, and a lady of fortune, — • 
 all most respectable persons, such as save the reputation 
 of a house, if the commissary is inclined to look a little 
 too closely into things ; they are not night-lodgers, but 
 tenants of the broad sunshine." 
 
 " When it comes into your alley. Father Micou." 
 " You're a wag. Another drain, yes, just one more." 
 " Well, it must be my last, for then I must cut. By 
 the way, doesn't Robin, the Gros-Boiteux, lodge here 
 stiU?" 
 
 " Yes, up-stairs, on the same landing as the mother 
 and daughter. He's pretty nearly run through his 
 money he earned in gaol." 
 
 " I say, mind your eye, — he's outlawed." 
 " I know it, but I can't get rid of him. I think he's 
 got something in hand, for little Tortillard came here 
 the other night along with Barbillon. I'm afraid he'll 
 do something to my lodgers, so, when his fortnight is 
 up, I shall bundle him, telling him his room is taken for 
 an ambassador, or the husband of Madame Saint-Ilde- 
 fonse, my independent lady." 
 " An independent lady ? " 
 
 " I believe you ! Three rooms and a cabinet in the 
 front, — nothing less, — newly furnished, to say nothing 
 of an attic for her servant. Eighty francs a month, and 
 paid in advance by her uncle, to whom she gives one of 
 her spare rooms when he comes up from tlie country. 
 But I believe his country-house is about the Rue Vivi- 
 enne, or the Rue St. Honor^." 
 
 " I twig ! She's independent because the old fellow 
 pays." 
 
 126
 
 A LODGING-HOUSE. 
 
 " Hush ! Here's her maid.** 
 
 A middle-aged woman, wearing a white apron of 
 very doubtful cleanliness, entered the dealer's ware- 
 house. 
 
 " What can I do for you, Madame Charles ? " 
 
 " Father Micou, is your nephew within ? " 
 
 " He has gone to the post-office ; but I expect him in 
 immediately." 
 
 " M. Badinot wishes him to take this letter to its 
 address instantly. There's no answer, but it is in great 
 haste." 
 
 " In a quarter of an hour he will be on his way 
 thither, madame." 
 
 " He must make great haste." 
 
 " He shall, be assured." 
 
 The servant went away. 
 
 " Is she the maid of one of your lodgers. Father 
 Micou ? " 
 
 " She is the honne of my independent lady, Madame 
 Saint-Ildcfonse. But M. Badinot is her uncle ; he came 
 from the country yesterday," said the respectable Micou, 
 who was looking at the letter, and then added, reading 
 the address, " Look, now, what grand acquaintances ! 
 Why, I told you they were high folks ; he writes to a 
 viscount." 
 
 " Oh, bah ! " 
 
 " See here, then, ' To Monsieur the Yicomte de Saint- 
 Remy, Rue de Chaillot. In great haste. Private.' I 
 hope, when we lodge independent persons who have 
 uncles who write to viscounts, we may allow some few 
 of our other lodgers higher up in the house to be 
 without passports, eh ? " 
 
 " I believe you. Well, then. Father Micou, we shall 
 soon be back. I shall fasten my dog and cart to your 
 door, and carry what I have; so be ready with the 
 goods and the money, so that I may cut at once." 
 
 " I'll be ready. Four good iron plates, each two feet 
 
 127
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 square, three bars of iron two feet long, and two hingea 
 for your valve. This valve seems very odd to me ; but 
 it's no affair of mine. Is that all ? " 
 
 " Yes, and my money ? " 
 
 " Oh, you shall have your money. But now I look at 
 you in the light — now I get a good view of you — " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I don't know — but you seem as if something was 
 the matter." 
 
 "I do?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! If anything ails me it is that I'm 
 hungry." 
 
 " You're hungry ? Like enough ; but it rather looks 
 as if you wanted to appear very lively, whilst all the 
 while there's something that worries you ; and it must 
 be something, for it ain't a trifle that puts you 
 out." 
 
 " I tell you you're mistaken, Father Micou," said 
 Nicholas, shuddering. 
 
 " Why, you quite tremble ! " 
 
 " It's my arm that pains me." 
 
 " Well, don't forget my prescription, that will cure 
 you." 
 
 " Thank ye, I'll soon be back." And the ruffian went 
 on his way. 
 
 The receiver, after having concealed the lumps of 
 copper behind his counter, occupied himself in collecting 
 the various things which Nicholas had requested, when 
 another individual entered his shop. It was a man 
 about fifty years of age, with a keen, sagacious face, a 
 thick pair of gray whiskers, and gold spectacles. He 
 was extremely well dressed ; the wide sleeves of his 
 brown paletot, with black velvet cuffs, showing his hands 
 covered with thin coloured kid gloves, and his boots 
 bore evidence of having been on the previous evening 
 highly polished. 
 
 128
 
 A LODGING-HOUSE. 
 
 It was M. Badinot, the independent lady's uncle, that 
 Madame Saint-Hdefonse, whose social position formed 
 the pride and security of Pdre Micou. The reader may, 
 perchance, recollect tliat M. Badinot, the former attor- 
 ney, struck off that respectable list, then a Chevalier 
 d'Industrie, and agent in equivocal matters, was the spy 
 of Baron de Graiin, and had given that diplomatist 
 many and very precise particulars as to many person- 
 ages connected with this tale. 
 
 " Madame Charles has just given you a letter to 
 send ? " said M. Badinot, to the dealer in et ceteras. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; my nephew I expect every moment, and 
 he shall go directly." 
 
 " No, give me the letter again, I have changed ray 
 mind. I shall go myself to the Comte de Saint-Remy,'* 
 said M. Badinot, pronouncing this aristocratic name very 
 emphatically, and with much importance. 
 
 " Here's the letter, sir ; have you any other commis- 
 sion ? " 
 
 " No, PSre Micou," said M. Badinot, with a protecting 
 ^ir, " but I have something to scold you about." 
 
 " Me, sir ? " 
 
 " Very much, indeed." 
 
 " About what, sir ? " 
 
 " Why, Madame de Saint-Ildefonse pays very expen- 
 sively for your first floor. My niece is a lodger to whom 
 the greatest respect ought to be paid ; she came highly 
 recommended to your house, and, having a great aver- 
 sion to the noise of carriages, she hoped she should be 
 here as if she were in the country." 
 
 " So she is ; it is quite like a village here. You ought 
 to know, sir, — you who live in the country, — this is a 
 real village." 
 
 " A village ! Very like, indeed ! Why, there is always 
 such an infernal din in the house." 
 
 " Still, it is impossible to find a quieter house. Above 
 the lady, there is the leader of the band at the Caf^ des 
 
 129
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Aveugles, and a gentleman traveller ; over that, another 
 traveller ; over that — " 
 
 " I am not alluding to those persons ; they are very- 
 quiet, and appear very respectable. My niece has no 
 fault to find with them ; but in the fourth, there is a 
 stout lame man, whom Madame de Saint-Ildefonse met 
 yesterday tipsy on the stairs ; he was shrieking like a 
 savage, and she nearly had a fit, she was so much 
 alarmed. If you think that, with such lodgers, your 
 house resembles a village — " 
 
 " Sir, I assure you I only wait the opportunity to turn 
 this stout lame man out-of-doors; he has paid his last 
 fortnight in advance, otherwise I should already have 
 turned him out." 
 
 " You should not have taken in such a lodger." 
 
 " But, except him, I hope madame has nothing to 
 complain of. There is a twopenny postman, who is the 
 cream of honest fellows, and overhead, beside the cham- 
 ber of the stout lame man, a lady and daughter, who do 
 not move any more than dormice." 
 
 " I repeat, Madame de Saint-Ildefonse only complains 
 of this stout lame man, who is the nightmare of the 
 house ; and I warn you that, if you keep such a fellow 
 in your house, you will find all your respectable lodgers 
 leave you." 
 
 " I will send him away, you may be assured. I have 
 no wish to keep him." 
 
 " You will only do what's right, for else your house 
 will be forsaken." 
 
 " Which will not answer my purpose at all ; so, sir, 
 consider the stout lame man as gone, for he has only 
 four more days to stay here." 
 
 " Which is four days too many ; but it is your 
 affair. At the first outbreak, my niece leaves your 
 house." 
 
 " Be assured, sir — " 
 
 " It is all for your own interest, — and look to it, for I 
 
 130
 
 A LODGING-HOUSE. 
 
 am not a man of many words," said M. Badinot, with a 
 patronising air, and he went out. 
 
 Need we say that this female and her young daughter, 
 who lived so lonely, were the two victims of the notary's 
 cupidity ? We will now conduct the reader to the mis- 
 erable retreat in which they lived. 
 
 131
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE VICTIMS OP MISPLACED CONFIDENCE.^ 
 
 Let the reader picture to himself a small chamber on 
 the fourth floor of the wretched house in the Passage de 
 la Brasserie. Scarcely could the faint glimmers of earlj 
 morn force their pale rays through the narrow casements 
 forming the only window to this small apartment ; the 
 three panes of glass that apology for a window contained 
 were cracked and almost the colour of horn, a dingy and 
 torn yellow paper adhered in some places to the walls, 
 while from each corner of the cracked ceiling hung long 
 and thick cobwebs ; and to complete the appearance of 
 wretchedness so evident in this forlorn spot, the flooring 
 was broken away, and, in many places, displayed the 
 beams which supported it, as well as the lath and plas- 
 ter forming the ceiling of the room beneath. A deal 
 table, a chair, an old trunk, without hinges or lock, a 
 truckle-bed, with a wooden headboard, covered by a thin 
 mattress, coarse sheets of unbleached cloth, and an old 
 rug, — such was the entire furniture of this wretched 
 chamber. 
 
 On the chair sat the Baroness de Fermont, and in the 
 bed reposed her daughter, Claire de Fermont. Such were 
 the names of these two victims of the villainy of Jacques 
 Ferrand. Possessing but one bed, the mother and child 
 took it by turns to sleep. Too much uneasiness and too 
 many bitter cares prevented Madame de Fermont from 
 
 1 " The averafre punishment awarded to such as are convicted of hreacli 
 of trust is two months' imprisonment and a tine of tweuty-flve francs." — 
 Art. 406 and 408 of the " Code renal." 
 
 132
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 enjoying the blessing of repose ; but her daughter's 
 young and elastic nature easily yielded to the natural im- 
 pulse which made her willingly seek in short slumbers a 
 temporary respite from the misery by which she was 
 surrounded during her waking hours. At the present 
 moment she was sleeping peacefully. 
 
 Nothing could be imagined more touchingly affecting 
 than the picture of misery imposed by the avarice of the 
 notary on two females hitherto accustomed to every com- 
 fort, and surrounded in their native city by that respect 
 which is ever felt for honourable and honoured families. 
 
 Madame de Fermont was about six and thirty years of 
 age, with a countenance at once expressive of gentleness 
 and intelligence, mingled with an indescribably noble and 
 majestic air. Her features, which had once boasted 
 extreme beauty, were now pale and careworn ; her dark 
 hair was separated on her forehead, and formed two 
 thick, lustrous bandeaux, which, after shading her pallid 
 countenance, were twisted in with her back hair, whose 
 tresses the hand of sorrow had already mingled with 
 gray. Dressed in an old shabby black dress, patched 
 and pieced in various places, Madame de Fermont, her 
 head supported by her hand, was surveying her child 
 with looks of ineffable tenderness. 
 
 Claire was but sixteen years of age, and her gentle and 
 innocent countenance, thin and sorrowful as that of her 
 mother, looked still more pallid as contrasted with the 
 coarse, unbleached linen which covered her bolster, filled 
 only with sawdust. The once brilliant complexion of the 
 poor girl had sickened beneath the privations she en- 
 dured ; and, as she slept, the long, dark lashes which 
 fringed her large and lustrous eyes stood out almost un- 
 naturally upon her sunken cheek ; the once fresh and 
 rosy lips were now dry, cracked, and colourless, yet, half 
 opened as they were, they displayed the faultless regu- 
 larity of her pearly teeth. 
 
 The harsh contact of the rough linen which covered 
 133
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 her bed had caused a temporary redness about the neck, 
 shoulders, and arms of the poor girl, whose fine and 
 delicate skin was marbled and spotted by the friction 
 lootla. of the miserable sheets and rug. A sensation of 
 uneasiness and discomfort seemed to pervade even her 
 slumbers ; for the clearly defined eyebrows, occasionally 
 contracted, as though the sleeper were under the in- 
 fluence of an uneasy dream, and the pained expression 
 observable on the features, foretold the deadly nature of 
 the disease at work within. 
 
 Madame de Fermont had long ceased to find relief in 
 tears, but, like her suffering daughter, she found that 
 weakness, languor, and dejection, which is ever the pre- 
 cursor of severe illness, rapidly and daily increasing ; 
 but, unwilling to alarm Claire, and wishing, if possible, 
 even to conceal the frightful truth from herself, the 
 wretched mother struggled against the first approaches 
 of her malady, while, from a similar feeling of devotion 
 and affection, Claire sought to hide from her parent the 
 extreme suffering she herself experienced. 
 
 To attempt to describe the tortures endured by the 
 tender mother, as, during the greater part of the night, 
 she watched her slumbering child, her thoughts alter- 
 nately dwelling on the past, the present, and the future, 
 would be to paint the sharpest, bitterest, wildest agony 
 that ever crossed the brain of a loving and despairing 
 mother ; to give alternately her reminiscences of bygone 
 happiness, her shuddering dread of impending evil, her 
 fearful anticipations, her bitter regrets, and utter despond- 
 ency, mingled with bursts of frenzied rage against the 
 author of all her sorrows, vain supplications, eager, ear- 
 nest prayers, ending at last fearfully and dreadfully in 
 openly expressed mistrust of the omnipotence and justice 
 of the Great Being who could thus remain insensible to 
 the cry which arose from a mother's breaking heart, 
 to that holy plea whose sound should reach the throne 
 of grace, — " Pity, pity, for my child ! " 
 
 134
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONEIDENCE. 
 
 "How cold she is!" cried the poor mother, lightly 
 touching with her icy hand the equally chill arm of her 
 cKM: "how very, very cold! and scarcely an hour ago 
 ?ust as hot ! Alas, 'tis the cruel fever which has seized 
 upon her ! Happily the dear creature is as yet uncon- 
 Ss of her malady ! Gracious heaven, she is becom- 
 h4 cold as death itself ! What shall I do to bring warmth 
 to her poor frame ? The bed-coverings are so slight . A 
 good thought! I will throw my old shawl over her. 
 But no, no^! I dare not remove it from the door over 
 which i have hung it, lest those men so brutaUy intox^ 
 icated should endeavour, as they did yesterday, to look 
 into the room through the disjointed panels or openings 
 
 in the framework. 4. • 4.^ t m^ if T 
 
 « What a horrible place we have got into ! un, it i 
 had but known by what description of persons it was 
 inhabited before I paid the fortnight m advance ! Cer- 
 tainly, we would not have remamed here. But, alas, i 
 knew il not; and when we have no vouchers for our 
 resDlctability, it is so difficult to obtain furnished lodg- 
 [nT" could ever have thought I should have been 
 at°a loss, -I who quitted Angers in my own carriage, 
 deeming it unfit my daughter should travel by any 
 pubUc Conveyance ? How could I have imagined that 
 I should experience any difficulty in obtammg every 
 requisite testimonial of my honour and honesty? 
 
 Then bursting into a fit of anger she exclaimed, 
 "'Tis too, too hard, that because this ^npnncipled 
 hard-hearted notary chooses to strip us of all our 
 T^o^sessions, I have no means of punishing him 1 les, 
 Tad I money I might sue him legally for h s miscon- 
 duct. Tut would lot that be to bring obloquy and 
 contempt on the memory of my good, my -b e-minded 
 brother ; to have it publicly proclaimed that he con 
 summated his ruin by takmg away ^isoy^e after 
 having squandered my fortune and that of "ly chdd 
 to hear him accused of reducing us to want and wretch- 
 
 135
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 edness ? Oh, never, — never ! Still, however dear and 
 sacred is the memory of a brother, should not the weKare 
 of my child be equally so ? 
 
 "And wherefore, too, should I give rise to useless 
 tales of family misery, unprovided as I am with any 
 proofs against the notary ? Oh, it is, indeed, a cruel, 
 — a most cruel case. Sometimes, too, when irritated, 
 goaded by my reflections almost to madness, I find 
 myself indulging in bitter plaints against my brother, 
 and think his conduct more culpable than even the 
 notary's, as though it were any alleviation of my woes 
 to have two names to execrate instead of one. But 
 quickly do I blush at my own base and unworthy sus- 
 picions of one so good, so honourable, so noble-minded 
 as my poor brother ! This infamous notary knows not 
 all the fearful consequences of his dishonesty. He 
 fancies he has but taken from us our worldly goods, 
 while he has plunged a dagger in the hearts of two 
 innocent, unoffending victims, condemned by his villainy 
 to die by inches. Alas, I dare not breathe into the ear 
 of my poor child the full extent of my fears, lest her 
 young mind should be unable to support the blow! 
 
 " But I am ill, — very, very ill ; a burning fever is in 
 my veins; and 'tis only with the greatest energy and 
 resolution I contrive to resist its approaches. But too 
 certainly do I feel aware tliat the germs of a possibly 
 mortal disease are in me. I am aware of its gaining 
 ground hourly. My throat is parched, my head burns 
 and throbs with racking pains. These symptoms are 
 even more dangerous than I am willing to own even to 
 myself. Merciful God ! If I were to be ill, — seriously, 
 fatally ill, — if I should die! But no, no!" almost 
 shrieked Madame Ferment, with wild excitement ; " I 
 cannot, — I will not die ! To leave Claire at sixteen 
 years of age, alone, and without resource, in the midst 
 of Paris! Impossible! Oh, no, I am not ill; I have 
 mistaken the effects of sorrow, cold, and want of rest, 
 
 136
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 for the precursory symptoms of illness. Any person 
 similarly placed would have experienced the same. It 
 is nothing, nothing worth noticing. There must be no 
 weakness on my part. 'Tis by yielding to such dismal 
 anticipations that one becomes really attacked by the 
 very malady we dread. And besides, I have not time 
 to be ill. Oh, no ! On the contrary, I must immediately 
 exert myself to find employment for Claire and myself, 
 since the wretch who gave us the prints to colour has 
 dared to — " 
 
 After a short silence, Madame de Fermont, leaving 
 her last sentence unfinished, indignantly added : 
 
 " Horrible idea ! To ask the shame of my child in 
 return for the work he doles out to us, and to harshly 
 withdraw it because I will not suffer my poor Claire to 
 go to his house unaccompanied, and work there during 
 the evening alone with him ! Possibly I may succeed 
 in obtaining work elsewhere, either in plain or orna- 
 mental needlework. Yet it is so very difficult when we 
 are known to no one ; and very recently I tried in vain. 
 Persons are afraid of entrusting their materials to those 
 who live in such wretched lodgings as ours. And yet I 
 dare not venture upon others more creditable ; for what 
 would become of us were the small sum we possess once 
 exhausted ? What could we do ? We should be utterly 
 penniless ; as destitute as the veriest beggar that ever 
 walked the earth. 
 
 " And then to think I once was among the richest and 
 wealthiest ! Oh, let me not think of what has been ; 
 such considerations serve but to increase the already 
 excited state of my brain. It will madden me to recol- 
 lect the past ; and I am wrong — oh, very wrong — thus 
 to dwell on ideas that sadden and depress instead of 
 raising and invigorating my enfeebled mind. Had I 
 gone on thus weakly indulging regrets, I might, indeed, 
 have fallen ill, — for I am by no means so at present. 
 No, no," continued the unfortunate parent, placing her 
 
 137
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 fingers upon tlie wrist of her left hand, " my fever has 
 left me, — my pulse beats tranquilly." 
 
 Alas ! the quick, irregular, and hurried pulsation 
 perceptible beneath the parched yet icy skin allowed 
 not of such flattering hopes ; and, after pausing in deep 
 and heartfelt wretchedness for a short space, the un- 
 happy Madame de Fermont thus continued : 
 
 " Wherefore, O God of Mercies, thus visit with thine 
 anger two wretched and helpless creatures, utterly un- 
 conscious of having merited thy displeasure ? What 
 has been the crime that has thus drawn down such 
 heavy punishments upon our heads ? Was not my child 
 a model of innocent piety, as her father was of honour ? 
 Have I not ever scrupulously fulfilled my duties both as 
 wife and mother ? Why, then, permit us to become the 
 victims of a vile, ignoble wretch, — my sweet, my inno- 
 cent child more especially ? Oh, when I remember that, 
 but for the nefarious conduct of this notary, the rising 
 dawn of my daughter's existence would have been clear 
 and unclouded, I can scarcely restrain my tears. But 
 for his base treachery we should now be in our own 
 home, without further care or sorrow than such as arose 
 from the painful and unhappy circumstances attending 
 the death of my poor brother. In two or three years' 
 time I should have begun to think of marrying my sweet 
 Claire, that is, if I could have found any one worthy of 
 so good, so pure-minded, and so lovely a creature as 
 herself. Who would not have rejoiced in obtaining such 
 a bride ? And further, after having merely reserved to 
 myself a trifling annuity, sufficient to have enabled me 
 to live somewhere in the neighbourhood, I intended, on 
 her marriage, to bestow on her the whole of my remain- 
 ing possessions, amounting to at least one hundred 
 thousand crowns ; for I should have been enabled to 
 lay by something. And, when a lovely and beautiful 
 young creature, like my Claire, gifted with all the 
 advantages of a superior education, can, in addition, 
 
 138
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 boast of a dowry of more than one hundred thousand 
 
 crowns — ' , ,... ^ , 
 
 Then, as she again returned to the reahties of her 
 present position, altogether overcome by the pamful con- 
 trast, Madame de Fermont exclaimed, almost frantically: 
 "Still, it is not to be supposed that, because the 
 notary so wills it, I shall sit tamely by and see my only 
 and beloved child reduced to the most abject misery, 
 entitled as she is to a life of the most unalloyed felicity. 
 If I can obtain no redress from the laws of my country, 
 I will not permit the infamous conduct of this man to 
 escape unpunished. For if I am driven to desperation 
 if I find no means of extricating my daughter and myselt 
 from the deplorable condition to which the villainy ot 
 this man has brought us, I cannot answer for myselt, 
 or what I may do. I may be driven by madness to 
 retaliate on this man, even by taking his lite. And 
 what if I did, after all I have endured, after all the 
 scalding tears he has caused me to shed, who could 
 blame me ? At least I should be secure of the pity and 
 sympathy of all mothers who loved their children as i 
 do my Claire. Yes; but, then, what would be her 
 position, — left alone, friendless, unexperienced, and 
 destitute? Oh, no, no, that is my principal dread; 
 therefore do I fear to die. ., . -4. 
 
 " And for that same reason dare I not harm the traitor 
 who has wrought our ruin. What would become of her 
 at sixteen? — pure and spotless as an angel, tis true. 
 But then she is so surpassingly lovely ; and want, desola- 
 tion, cold, and misery are fearful things to oppose alone 
 and unaided. How fearful a conflict might be presented 
 to one of her tender years, and into how terrible an 
 abyss might she not fall? Oh, want, — fatal word ! As 
 I trace it, a crowd of sickening images rise before me, 
 and distract my senses. Destitution, dreadful as u is 
 to all, is still more formidable to those who have lived 
 surrounded not only with every comfort, but even luxury.
 
 THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 One thing I cannot pardon myself for, and that is that, 
 in the face of all these overwhelming trials, I have not 
 yet been able to subdue my unfortunate pride ; and I 
 feel persuaded that nothing but the sight of my child, 
 actually perishing before my eyes for want of bread, 
 could induce me to beg. How weak, how selfish and 
 cowardly ! Still — " 
 
 Then, as her thoughts wandered to the source of all 
 her present sufferings and anguish, she mournfully 
 continued : 
 
 " The notary has reduced me to a state of beggary ; I 
 must, therefore, yield to the stern necessity of my situa- 
 tion. There must be an end of all delicacy as well as 
 scruples. They might have been well enough in bygone 
 days ; but my duty is now to stretch forth my hand to 
 solicit charitable aid for both my daughter and myself. 
 And if I fail in procuring work, I must make up my 
 mind to implore the charity of my fellow creatures, 
 since the roguery of the notary has left me no alterna- 
 tive. Doubtless in that, as in other trades, there is an 
 art, an expertness to be acquired, and which experience 
 alone can bestow. Never mind," continued she, with a 
 sort of feverish wildness, " one must learn one's craft, 
 and only practice can make perfect. Surely mine must 
 be a tale to move even the most unfeeling. I have to 
 tell of misfortunes alike severe and unmerited, — of an 
 angelic child, but sixteen years of age, exposed to every 
 evil of life. But then it requires a practised hand to set 
 forth all these qualifications, so as best to excite sym- 
 pathy and compassion. No matter; I shall manage it, 
 I feel quite sure. And, after all," exclaimed the half 
 distracted woman, with a gloomy smile, " what have I 
 so much to complain of ? Fortune is perishable and 
 precarious ; and the notary will, at least, if he has taken 
 my money, have compelled me to adopt a trade." 
 
 For several minutes Madame de Fermont remained 
 absorbed in her reflections, then resumed more calmly : 
 
 140
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 " I have frequently thought of inquiring for some situ- 
 ation. "What I seem to covet is just such a place as 
 a female has here who is servant to a lady living on 
 the first floor. Had I that situation I might probably 
 receive wages sufficient to maintain Claire ; and I might 
 even, through the intervention of the mistress I served, 
 be enabled to obtain occupation for my daughter, who 
 then would remain here. Neither should I be obliged to 
 quit her. Oh, what joy, could it be so arranged ! But 
 no, no, that would be happiness too great for me to 
 expect ; it would seem like a dream. And then, again, 
 if I obtained the place, the poor woman now occupying 
 it must be turned away. Possibly she is as poor and 
 destitute as ourselves. Well, what if she be ? No 
 scruple has arisen to save us from being stripped of our 
 all, and my child's preservation outweighs all fastidious 
 notions of delicacy in my breast. The only difficulty 
 consists in obtaining an introduction to the lady on 
 the first floor, and contriving to dispossess tlie servant 
 of a place which would be to me the very perfection of 
 ease and comfort." 
 
 Several loud and hasty knocks at the door startled 
 Madame de Fermont, and made her daughter spring up 
 with a sudden cry. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, dear mother," asked poor Claire, 
 trembling with fear, " what is the matter ? " And then, 
 without giving her agitated parent time to recover her- 
 self, the terrified girl threw her arms around her mother's 
 neck, as if she sought for safety in that fond, maternal 
 bosom, while Madame de Fermont, pressing her child 
 almost convulsively to her breast, gazed with terror at 
 the door. 
 
 " Mamma, mamma," again moaned Claire, " what was 
 that noise that awoke me ? And why do you seem so 
 much alarmed ?" 
 
 " I know not, my child, what it was. But calm your- 
 self, there is nothing to fear ; some one merely knocked 
 
 141
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 at the door, — possibly to bring us a letter from the 
 post-office." 
 
 At this moment the worm-eaten door shook and 
 rattled beneath the blows dealt against it by some 
 powerful fist. 
 
 " Who is there ? " inquired Madame de Fermont, in a 
 trembling tone. 
 
 A harsh, coarse, and vulgar voice replied, " Holloa, 
 there ! What, are you so deaf there's no making you 
 hear ? Holloa, I say, open your door ; and let's have 
 a look at you. Hip, hip, holloa ! Come, sharp's the 
 word; I'm in a hurry." 
 
 " I know you not," exclaimed Madame de Fermont, 
 striving to command herself sufficiently to speak with a 
 steady voice ; " what is it you seek here ? " 
 
 " Not know me ? Why, I'm your opposite neighbour 
 and fellow lodger, Robin. I want a light for my pipe. 
 Come, cut about. Whoop, holloa ! Don't go to sleep 
 again, or I must come in and wake you." 
 
 " Merciful heavens ! " whispered the mother to her 
 daughter, " 'tis that lame man, who is nearly always 
 intoxicated." 
 
 " Now, then, are you going to give me a light ? 
 Because, I tell you fairly, one 1 will have if I knock 
 your rickety old door to pieces." 
 
 " I have no light to give you." 
 
 " Oh, bother and nonsense ! If you have no candle 
 burning you must have the means of lighting one. 
 Nobody is without a few lucifer matches, be they ever 
 so poor. Do you or do you not choose to give me a 
 light?" 
 
 " I beg of you to go away." 
 
 " You don't choose to open your door, then ? Once, 
 — twice, — mind, I will have it." 
 
 " I request you to quit my door inmaediately, or I will 
 call for assistance." 
 
 " Once, — twice, — thrice, — you will not ? Well, 
 
 142
 
 YICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 then, here goes ! Now I'll smash your old timbers 
 into morsels too small for you to pick up. Hu I — 
 hu ! — hallo ! Well done ! Bravo ! " 
 
 And suiting the action to the word, the ruffian 
 assailed the door so furiously that he quickly drove 
 it in, the miserable lock with which it was furnished 
 having speedily broken to pieces. 
 
 The two women shrieked loudly; Madame de Fer- 
 mont, in spite of her weakness, rushed forward to meet 
 the ruffian at the moment when he was entering the 
 room, and stopped him. 
 
 " Sir, this is most shameful ; you must not enter 
 here," exclaimed the unhappy mother, keeping the door 
 closed as well as she could. " I will call for help." 
 And she shuddered at the sight of this man, with his 
 hideous and drunken countenance. 
 
 "What's all this? What's all this?" said he. 
 " Oughtn't neighbours to be obliging ? You ought 
 to have opened ; I shouldn't have broken anything." 
 
 Then with the stupid obstinacy of intoxication, he 
 added, reeling on his tottering legs : 
 
 "I wanted to come in, and I will come in; and I 
 won't go out until I've lighted my pipe." 
 
 " I have neither fire nor matches. In heaven's name, 
 sir, do go away." 
 
 " That's not true. You tell me that I may not see 
 the little girl who's in bed. Yesterday you stopped up 
 all the holes in the door. She's a pretty chick, and I 
 should like to see her. So mind, or I shall hurt you if 
 you don't let me enter quietly. I tell you I will see the 
 little girl in her bed, and I will light my pipe, or I'll 
 smash everything before me, and you into the bargain." 
 
 " Help, help, help ! " exclaimed Madame de Fermont, 
 who felt the door yielding before the broad shoulders of 
 the Gros-Boiteux. 
 
 Alarmed by her cries, the man retreated a step ; and 
 clenching his fist at Madame de Fermont, he said : 
 
 143
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " You shall pay me for this, mind. I will come back 
 to-night and wring your tongue out, and then you can't 
 squall out." 
 
 And the Gros-Boiteux, as he was called at the Isle du 
 Ravageur, went down the staircase, uttering horrible 
 threats. 
 
 Madame de Fermont, fearing that he might return, 
 and seeing that the lock was broken, dragged the table 
 across the room, in order to barricade it. Claire had 
 been so alarmed, so agitated, at this horrible scene, that 
 she had fallen on her bed almost senseless, and overcome 
 by a nervous attack. Her mother, forgetting her own 
 fears, ran to her, embraced her, gave her a little water 
 to drink, and by her caresses and attentions revived her. 
 When she saw her gradually recovering she said to 
 her: 
 
 " Calm yourself ; don't be alarmed, my dearest child, 
 this wicked man has gone." Then the unfortunate 
 mother exclaimed, in a tone of indescribable indignation 
 and grief, " And it is that notary who is the first cause 
 of all our sufferings." 
 
 Claire looked about her with as much astonishment as 
 fear. 
 
 " Take courage, my child," said Madame de Fermont, 
 embracing her tenderly ; " the wretch has gone." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, if he should come back again ! You 
 see, though you cried so loud for help, no one came. 
 Oh, pray let us leave this house, or I shall die with 
 fear ! " 
 
 " How you tremble ; you are quite in a fever." 
 
 " No, no," said the young girl, to reassure her mother, 
 " it is nothing — only fright, — and that will soon pass 
 away. And you, — how do you feel ? Give me your 
 hands. Oh, how they burn ! It is, indeed, you who are 
 suffering ; and you try to conceal it from me ! " 
 
 " Don't think so ; I feel better than I did. It is only 
 the fright that man caused me which makes me so. I 
 
 144
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 was sleeping soundly in my chair, and only awoke when 
 you did." 
 
 "Yet, mamma, your poor eyes look so red and 
 inflamed ! " 
 
 " Why, you see, my dear, one does not sleep so 
 refreshingly in a chair." 
 
 " And you really do no!", suffer ? " 
 
 " No, no, I assure you. And you ? " 
 
 "Nor I either. I only tremble with fear. Pray, 
 mamma, let us leave this house ! " 
 
 " And where shall we go to ? You know what trouble 
 we had to find this miserable chamber ; for, unfortunately, 
 we have no papers, — and, besides, we have paid a fort- 
 night in advance. They will not return our money ; and 
 we have so very, very little left, that we must take all 
 possible care of it." 
 
 " Perhaps M. de Saint-Remy will answer you in a day 
 or two." 
 
 " I cannot hope for that. It is so long since I wrote 
 to him." 
 
 " He cannot have received your letter. Why did not 
 you write to him again ? From here to Angers is not 
 so far, and we should soon have his answer." 
 
 " My poor child, you know how much that has cost 
 me already ! " 
 
 " But there's no risk ; and he is so good in spite of 
 his roughness. Wasn't he one of the oldest friends of 
 my father ? And then he is a relation of ours." 
 
 " But he is poor himself, — his fortune is very small. 
 Perhaps he does not reply to us that he may avoid the 
 pain of a refusal." 
 
 " But he may not have received your letter, mamma ! " 
 
 " And if he has received it, my dear, — one of two 
 things, either he is himself in too painful a position to 
 come to our aid, or he feels no interest in us. What, 
 then, is the use of exposing ourselves to a refusal or 
 humiliation ? " 
 
 145
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Come, come, courage, mamma ; we have still a hope 
 left. Perhaps this very morning will bring us a kind 
 answer." 
 
 " From M. d'Orbigny ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the letter of which you had made the rough 
 copy was so simple and touching. It showed our miser- 
 able condition so naturally that he will have pity on us. 
 Really, I don't know why, but something tells me you 
 are wrong to despair of him." 
 
 " He has so little motive for taking any interest in us. 
 It is true he formerly knew your father, and I have often 
 heard my poor brother speak of M. d'Orbigny as a man 
 with whom he was on good terms before the latter left 
 Paris to retire into the country with his young 
 wife." 
 
 " It is that which makes me hope. He has a young 
 wife, and she will be compassionate. And then in the 
 country one can do so much good. He will take you, I 
 should think, as a housekeeper, and I could work in the 
 needle-room. Then M. d'Orbigny is very rich, and in a 
 great house there is always so much to do." 
 
 "Yes; but we have so little claim on his kind 
 interest ! " 
 
 " We are so unfortunate ! " 
 
 " It is true that is a claim in the eyes of charitably 
 disposed persons." 
 
 " Let us hope that M. d'Orbigny and his wife are so." 
 
 " Then if we do not have any or an unfavorable 
 answer from him, I will overcome my false shame, and 
 write to the Duchesse de Lucenay." 
 
 " The lady of whom M. de Saint-Remy has spoken so 
 often, and whose kindness and generosity he so much 
 praised ? " 
 
 "The same, — daughter of the Prince de Noirmont. 
 He knew her when she was very young, and treated her 
 almost always as if she were his own child, for he was 
 on terms of the closest intimacy with the prince. Madame 
 
 146
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 de Lucenay must have many acquaintances, and, no doubt, 
 could easily find situations for us." 
 
 " No doubt, mamma. But I understand your deli- 
 cacy ; you do not know her, whilst, at least, my father 
 and my uncle both knew a little of M. d'Orbigny." 
 
 " Well, but in case Madame de Lucenay cannot do 
 anything for us, I have still another resource." 
 
 "• What is that, mamma ? " 
 
 " A very poor one, — a very weak hope, perhaps. 
 But why should I not try it? M. de Saint-Remy's 
 son is — " 
 
 "Has M. de Saint-Remy a son?" exclaimed Claire, 
 interrupting her mother with great astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, he has a son." 
 
 " Yet he never spoke of him when he used to come to 
 Angers." 
 
 " True, and, for reasons which you cannot under- 
 stand, M. de Saint-Remy, having quitted Paris fifteen 
 years ago, has not seen his son since that period." 
 
 " Fifteen years without seeing his father ! Is that 
 possible ? " 
 
 " Alas, yes ! As you see, the son of M. de Saint-Remy, 
 being very much sought after in society, and very rich — " 
 
 " Very rich, whilst his father is poor?" 
 
 " All young M. de Saint-Remy' s wealth came from his 
 mother." 
 
 " What of that, — how could he leave his father ? " 
 
 " His father would not accept anything from him." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " That is a question to which I cannot reply, my dear 
 child ; but I have heard it said by my poor brother that 
 this young man was reputed vastly generous. Young 
 and generous, he ought to be good. Learning from me 
 that my husband had been his father's intimate friend, 
 perhaps he will interest himself in trying to find us 
 work or employment. He has such high and extensive 
 connections, that this would be no trouble to him." 
 
 117
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " And then, perhaps, too, we could learn from him if 
 H. de Saint-Remy, his father, had not quitted Angers 
 before you wrote to him : that would account for his 
 silence." 
 
 " I think, my dear, that M. de Saint-Remy has not 
 kept up any connection with — Still, we cannot but try." 
 
 " Unless M. d'Orbigny replies to you favourably, and 
 I repeat, I don't know why, but I have hopes, in spite of 
 myself." 
 
 " It is now many days, my dear, since I wrote to him, 
 telling him all the causes of our misfortunes, and yet to 
 this time we have no reply, — none. A letter put in the 
 post before four o'clock in the evening reaches Aubiers 
 next morning, and thus we might have had his answer 
 five days ago." 
 
 " Perhaps, before he replies, he is considering in what 
 way he can best be useful to us." 
 
 " May Heaven hear thee, my child ! " 
 
 " It appears to me plain enough, mamma, if he could 
 not do anything for us, he could have written at once, 
 and said so." 
 
 " Unless he will do nothing." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, is that possible ? to refuse to answer 
 us, and leave us in hope for four days — eight days, 
 perhaps ; for when one is miserable we always hope." 
 
 " Alas, my child, there is sometimes so much indiffer- 
 ence for the miseries persons have never known ! " 
 
 " But your letter — " 
 
 " My letter cannot give him any idea of our actual 
 disquietude, our constant sufferings ; my letter will not 
 depict to him our unhappy life, our constant humiliations, 
 our existence in this horrid house, — the fright we have 
 but this instant experienced. My letter will not describe 
 the horrible future which is in store for us, if — But, 
 my love, do not let us talk of that. You tremble, — you 
 are cold." 
 
 " No, mamma, don't mind me ; but tell me, suppose 
 
 148
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 all fails us, the little money we have in the box is spent, 
 — is it possible that, in a city as rich as Paris, we shall 
 both die of hunger and misery — for want of work, and 
 because a wicked man has taken from you all you had 
 in the world ? " 
 
 " Oh, be silent, my unfortunate child ! " 
 
 " But really, mamma, is it possible ? " 
 
 « Alas ! " 
 
 " But God, who knows all, who can do all, will he 
 abandon us, who have never offended him ?" 
 
 " I entreat you, my dearest girl, do not give way to 
 these distressing ideas. I would prefer seeing you hope, 
 without great reason, either. Come, come, comfort me 
 rather with your consoling ideas ; I am but too apt to be 
 discouraged, as you well know." 
 
 " Yes, yes, let us hope, that is best. No doubt the 
 porter's nephew will return to-day from the Poste-Restante 
 with a letter. Another errand to pay out of your little 
 stock, and through my fault. If I had not been so weak 
 yesterday and to-day we should have gone to the post- 
 office ourselves, as we did the day before yesterday ; but 
 you will not leave me here alone and go yourself." 
 
 " How could I, my dear ? Only think, just now, 
 that horrid man who burst open the door ! Suppose you 
 had been alone ? " 
 
 " Oh, mamma, pray don't talk of it ; it quite frightens 
 me only to think of it." 
 
 At this moment some one knocked suddenly at the 
 door. 
 
 " Heaven, it is he again ! " exclaimed Madame de 
 Fermont, still under her first fears ; and she pushed the 
 table against the door with all her strength. Her fears 
 ceased when she heard the voice of Father Micou : 
 
 " Madame, my nephew, Andr^, has come from the 
 Poste-Restante. He has brought a letter with an ' X ' 
 and a ' Z.' It comes a long way ; there are eight sous 
 for postage, and commission makes twenty sous." 
 
 149
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Mamma, a letter from the country, — we are saved I 
 It is from M. de Saint-Remy or M. d'Orbigny. Poor 
 mother! You will not suffer any more; you will no 
 longer be uneasy about me, you will be so happy ! God 
 is just ! God is good ! " exclaimed the young girl, and a 
 ray of hope lighted up her mild and lovely face. 
 
 " Oh, sir, thank you ; give it to me quickly ! " said 
 Madame de Fermont, moving the table as well as she 
 could, and half opening the door. 
 
 " Twenty sous," said the man, giving her the anxiously 
 desired letter. 
 
 " I will pay you, sir." 
 
 " Oh, madame, there's no hurry, I am going up higher ; 
 in ten minutes I shall be down again, and can call for the 
 money as I pass." 
 
 " The letter is from Normandy, with the postmark 
 of ' Les Aubiers.' It is from Madame d'Orbigny ! " 
 exclaimed Madame de Fermont, examining the address, 
 " To Madame X. Z., Foste-Restante, a Paris." 
 
 " Well, mamma, am I right ? Oh, how my heart 
 beats ! " 
 
 " Our good or bad fate is in it," said Madame de Fer- 
 mont; and twice her trembling hand was extended to 
 break the seal ; she had not courage. 
 
 How can we describe the terrible agony to which they 
 are a prey who, like Madame de Fermont, expect a letter 
 which brings them either hope or despair ? The burn- 
 ing, fevered excitement of the player whose last pieces 
 of gold are hazarded on a card, and who, breathless, with 
 inflamed eye, awaits for a decisive cast which brings his 
 ruin or his fortune, — this emotion, violent as it is, may 
 perhaps give some idea of the painful anguish of which 
 we speak. In a second the soul is elevated to the most 
 radiant hope or relapses into the most mortal discourage- 
 ment. According as he hopes to be aided, or fears to be 
 refused, the unhappy wretch suffers in turn emotions of 
 a most contrary nature, — unutterable feelings of happi- 
 
 150
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 ness and gratitude to the generous heart which pities 
 his miserable condition — bitter and intense resentment 
 against selfish indifference ! 
 
 When it is a question of deserving sufferers, those 
 who give often would perhaps give always, and those 
 who always refuse would perhaps give frequently, if they 
 knew or saw that the hope of benevolent aid or the fear 
 of a haughty refusal — that their decision, indeed — can 
 €xcite all that is distressing or encouraging in the hearts 
 of their petitioners. 
 
 " What weakness ! " said Madame de Fermont, with a 
 deep sigh, seating herself by her daughter ; " once again, 
 my poor Claire, our destiny is in this envelope ; I burn 
 with anxiety to know its contents, and yet I dare not 
 read it. If it be a refusal, alas, it will be soon 
 enough ! " 
 
 " And if it be a promise of assistance, then, mamma — 
 If this poor little letter contain consoling words, which 
 shall assure us for the future, by promising us a humble 
 employment in the establishment of M. d'Orbigny, every 
 moment lost is a moment of happiness lost, — is it 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes, my love ; but on the other hand — " 
 
 " No, mamma, you are mistaken ; I told you that M. 
 d'Orbigny had only delayed so long that he might men- 
 tion something certain to you. Let me see the letter, 
 mamma. I am sure I can guess if it is good or bad by 
 the writing. And I am sure," said Claire, looking at 
 the letter, " that it is a kind and generous hand, accus- 
 tomed to execute benevolence towards those who suffer." 
 
 " I entreat you, Claire, not to give way to vain hopes ; 
 for, if you do, I shall not have the courage to open the 
 letter." 
 
 " My dear mother, without opening it, I can tell 
 you almost word for word what it contains. Listen: 
 *■ Madame, — Your fate and that of your daughter are 
 so worthy of interest, that I beg you will come to me, in 
 
 151
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 case you should like to undertake the superintendence of 
 my house.' " 
 
 " Pray, my dearest, I beseech you, do not give way to 
 vain hopes ; the disappointment would be terrible ! " said 
 Madame de Fermont, taking the letter. 
 
 " Come, dear mamma," said Claire, smiling, and 
 excited by one of those feelings of certainty so natural 
 to her age, " give me the letter ; I have courage to 
 read it!" 
 
 " No," said Madame de Fermont, " I will read it! It 
 is from the Comtesse d'Orbigny." 
 
 " So much the better," replied Claire. 
 
 " We shall see." And Madame de Fermont read as 
 follows in a trembling voice : 
 
 "'Madame: — M. the Comte d'Orbigny, who has been a 
 great invalid for some time, could not reply to you during my 
 absence — '" 
 
 " You see, mamma, it was no one's fault." 
 " Listen, listen ! 
 
 " ' On arriving from Paris this morning, I hasten to write to 
 you, madame, after having discussed your letter with M. d'Or- 
 bigny. He recollects but very indistinctly the intimacy you 
 allude to as having subsisted between him and your brother. 
 As to the name of your husband, madame, it is not unknown to 
 M. d'Orbigny ; but he cannot recall to mind under what circum- 
 stances he has heard it. The spoliation of which you so unhesi- 
 tatingly accuse M. Jacques Ferrand, whom we have the happiness 
 to call our solicitor, is, in the eyes of M. d'Orbigny, a cruel cal- 
 umny, whose effects you have by no means calculated upon. My 
 husband, as well as myself, madame, know and admire the extreme 
 probity of the respectable and pious individual whom you so 
 blindly assail ; and I am compelled to tell you, madame, that M. 
 d'Orbigny, whilst he regrets the painful situation in which you 
 are placed, and the real cause of which it is not his business to 
 find out, feels it impossible to afford you the assistance requested. 
 Accept, madame, with the expression of M. d'Orbigny's regrets, 
 my best compliments. 
 
 " ' Comtesse d'Orbigny.' " 
 152
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 The mother and daughter looked at each other per- 
 fectly stupefied, and incapable of uttering a word. Father 
 Micou rapped at the door, and said : 
 
 " Madame, may I come in for the postage and com- 
 mission ? It's twenty sous." 
 
 " Ah, true, such good news is worth a sum on which 
 we exist for two days," said Madame de Fermont, with 
 a bitter smile, laying the letter down on her daughter's 
 bed, and going towards an old trunk without a lock, to 
 which she stooped down and opened. " We are robbed ! " 
 exclaimed the unhappy woman, with alarm. " Nothing 
 — not a sou left ! " she added, in a mournful voice ; 
 and, overwhelmed, she supported herself on the trunk. 
 
 " What do you say, mamma, — the bag with the money 
 in it ? " 
 
 But Madame de Fermont, rising suddenly, opened the 
 room door, and, addressing the receiver, who was on 
 the landing-place : 
 
 " Sir," she said, whilst her eyes sparkled, and her 
 cheeks were flushed with indignation and alarm, " I had 
 a bag of silver in this trunk ; it was stolen from me, no 
 doubt, the day before yesterday, when I went out for an 
 hour with my daughter. The money must be restored, 
 I tell you, — you are responsible for it ! " 
 
 " You've been robbed ! That's false, I know. My 
 house is respectable," said the fellow, in an insolent and 
 brutal tone ; " you only say that in order not to pay me 
 my postage and commission." 
 
 " I tell you, sir, that this money was all I possessed in 
 the world ; it has been stolen from me, and I must have 
 it found and restored, or I will lodge an information. 
 Oh, I will conceal nothing — I will respect nothing — 
 I tell you ! " 
 
 " Very fine, indeed ! You who have got no papers. Go 
 and lay your information, — go at once. Why don't 
 you ? I defy you, I do ! " 
 
 The wretched woman was thunderstruck. She could 
 
 153
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 not go out and leave her daughter alone, confined to her 
 bed as she was by the fright the Gros-Boiteux had occa- 
 sioned her in the morning, and particularly after the 
 threats with which the receiver of stolen goods had 
 menaced her. He added : 
 
 " This is a fudge ! You'd as much a bag of silver there 
 as a bag of gold. Will you pay me for the letter, — will 
 you or won't you ? Well, it's just the same to me. 
 When you go by my door, I'll snatch off your old black 
 shawl from your shoulders. It's a precious shabby one ; 
 but I daresay I can make twenty sous out of it." 
 
 " Oh, sir," exclaimed Madame de Ferment, bursting 
 into tears, " I beseech you have pity upon us ! This 
 small sum is all we possess, my daughter and I, and, 
 that stolen, we have nothing left — nothing — I say 
 nothing, but — to die of starvation ! " 
 
 " What can I do ? If it's true that you have been 
 robbed, and of silver, too (which appears to me very un- 
 likely), why, the silver has been melted long since, rely 
 on it." 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! " 
 
 " The chap who did the trick was not so soft, rely on 
 it, as to mark the pieces, and keep 'em here, to lead to 
 his own detection. Supposing it's any one in the house, 
 which I don't believe (for, as I was a-saying this morn- 
 ing to the uncle of the lady on the first floor, this is 
 really a village), if any one has robbed you, it is a pity. 
 You may lay a hundred informations, but you won't re- 
 cover a centime. You won't do any good by that, I tell 
 you, and you may believe me. Well, but I say — " ex- 
 claimed the receiver, stopping short, and seeing Madame 
 de Ferment stagger. " What's the matter ? How pale 
 you are ! Mademoiselle, your mother's taken ill ! " 
 added Micou, just advancing in time to catch the un- 
 happy mother, who, overcome by this last shock, felt 
 her senses forsake her, — the forced energy which had 
 supported her so long failed before this fresh blow. 
 
 154
 
 VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 
 
 " Mother, dear, oh, what ails you ? " exclaimed 
 Claire, still in her bed. 
 
 The receiver, still vigorous in spite of his fifty years, 
 seized with a momentary feeling of pity, took Madame 
 de Fermont in his arms, pushed the door open with his 
 knee, and, entering the chamber, said : 
 
 " Your pardon, mademoiselle, for entering whilst you 
 are in bed, but I was obliged to bring in your mother ; 
 she has fainted, but it won't last long." 
 
 On seeing the man enter, Claire shrieked loudly, and 
 the unhappy girl hid herself as well as she could under 
 the bedclothes. The huckster seated Madame de Fer- 
 mont in a chair beside the bed, and then went out, leav- 
 ing the door ajar, for the Gros-Boiteux had broken the 
 lock. 
 
 One hour after this last shock, the violent malady 
 which had so long hung over and threatened Madame de 
 Fermont had developed itself. A prey to a burning 
 fever and to fearful delirium, the unhappy woman was 
 placed beside her daughter, who, horror-struck, aghast, 
 alone, and almost as ill as her mother, had neither money 
 nor recourse, and was in an agony of fear every moment 
 lest the ruffian who lodged on the same floor should 
 enter the apartment. 
 
 155
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE RUE DE CHAILLOT. 
 
 We will precede M. Badinot by some hours, as in haste 
 he proceeded from the Passage de la Brasserie to the 
 Vicomte de Saint-Remy. The latter, as we have said, 
 lived in the Rue de Chaillot, and occupied a delightful 
 small house, built between the court and the gajeden in 
 this quarter, so solitary, although so close to the Champs 
 Elys^es, the most fashionable promenade in Paris. 
 
 It is useless to enumerate the advantages which M. de 
 Saint-Remy, who was decidedly a man a bonnes fortuneSy 
 derived from the position of a residence so sagaciously 
 selected. We will only say that a gentleman (or a lady) 
 could enter very privately by a small door in the large 
 garden which opened into a back lane absolutely deserted, 
 communicating from the Rue Marboeuf to the Rue de 
 Chaillot. By wonderful chance, one of the finest nur- 
 sery-grounds in Paris having also in this quiet passage a 
 way out that was little frequented, the mysterious visi- 
 tors of M. de Saint-Remy, in case of a surprise or sud- 
 den rencounter, were armed with a most plausible and 
 bucolical excuse for their visit to the lonely alley : they 
 were there (they might say if they pleased) to choose 
 some rare flowers from the celebrated gardener who was 
 so renowned for the beauty of his conservatories. The 
 visitors need only thus tell half falsehoods ; for the vi- 
 comte, plentifully imbued with all the tastes of most 
 costly luxuries, had a delightful greenhouse, which ex- 
 tended along the side of the alley we have alluded to. 
 
 156
 
 THE RUE DE CHAILLOT. 
 
 The small private door opened on this delightful winter 
 garden, which terminated in a boudoir (forgive the su- 
 perannuated expression), which was on the ground floor 
 of the house. 
 
 "We may say, therefore, without metaphor, that a 
 female who passed this dangerous threshold, to enter 
 M. de Saint-Remy's house, ran to her ruin through a 
 flowery path ; for, in the winter particularly, this lonely 
 alley was bordered with real bushes of bright and per- 
 fumed flowers. Madame de Lucenay, jealous as a woman 
 deeply in love always is, had demanded the key of this 
 small door. 
 
 If we dwell somewhat on the general aspect of this 
 dwelling, it is that it reflected (if we may be allowed 
 the expression) one of those degrading existences which 
 from day to day become happily more rare, but which 
 it may be as well to note down as one of the peculiarities 
 of the epoch. 
 
 The interior of M. de Saint-Remy's house presented 
 (viewed in this light) a curious appearance, or rather 
 the house was separated into two distinct zones, — the 
 ground floor, where he received his female visitors ; the 
 first story, where he received his gambling companions 
 or his dinner or hunting associates ; in a word, what he 
 called his friends. Thus on the ground floor was a bed- 
 chamber, which was nothing but gold, mirrors, flowers, 
 satin, and lace ; then a small music-room, in which was 
 a harp and piano (M. de Saint-Remy was an excellent 
 musician) ; a cabinet of pictures ; and then the boudoir, 
 which communicated with the conservatory ; a dining- 
 room for two persons, who were served and passed away 
 the dishes and plates by a turning window ; a bath-room, 
 a model of luxury and Oriental refinement; and, close 
 at hand, a small library, a portion of which was arranged 
 after the catalogue of that which La Mettrie had collected 
 for Frederic the Great. Such was this apartment. 
 
 It would be unavailing to say that all these rooms, 
 
 157
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 furnished with exquisite taste, and with a Sardanapalian 
 luxury, had as ornaments Watteaus little known ; Bouchers 
 never engraved ; wanton subjectti, formerly purchased at 
 enormous prices. There were, besides, groups modelled 
 in terra-cotta, by Clodien, and here and there, on plinths 
 of jasper or antique breccia, some rare copies, in white 
 marble, of the most jovial and lovely bacchanals of the 
 Secret Museum of Naples. 
 
 Add to this, in summer there were in perspective the 
 green recesses of a well-planted garden, lonely, replete 
 with flowers and birds, watered by a small and sparkling 
 fountain, which, before it spread itself on the verdant 
 turf, fell from a black and shaggy rock, scintillated like a 
 strip of silver gauze, and dashed into a clear basin like 
 mother-of-pearl, where beautiful white swans wantoned 
 with grace and freedom. 
 
 Then, when the mild and serene night came on, what 
 shade, what perfume, what silence, was there in those 
 odorous clumps, whose thick foliage served as a dais for 
 the rustic scats formed of reeds and Indian mats. 
 
 During the winter, on the contrary, except the glass 
 door which opened to the hothouse, all was kept close 
 shut. The transparent silk of the blinds, the net lace of 
 the curtains, made the daylight still more mysterious. 
 On all the pieces of furniture large tufts of exotic plants 
 seemed to put forth their large flowers, resplendent with 
 gold and enamel. 
 
 In order to do the honours of this temple, which 
 seemed raised to antique Love, or the denuded divini- 
 ties of Greece, behold a man, young, handsome, elegant, 
 and distinguished, — by turns witty and tender, romantic 
 or libertine ; now jesting and gay to folly, now full of 
 charm and grace ; an excellent musician, gifted with 
 one of those impassioned, vibrating voices which women 
 cannot hear without experiencing a deep impression, 
 almost physical, — in fact, a man essentially made for 
 love, — such was the vicomte. In Athens, no doubt, h© 
 
 158
 
 THE RUE DE CHAILLOT. 
 
 ■would have been admired, exalted, deified, as was Alci- 
 biades ; in our days, and at the period of which we write, 
 the vicomte was nothing more than a base forger, a con- 
 temptible swindler. 
 
 The first story of M. de Saint-Remy's house was 
 exceedingly masculine in its whole appearance. It was 
 there he received his many friends, all of whom were of 
 the very highest society. There was nothing effeminate, 
 nothing coquettish. The furniture was plain, but elegant, 
 the ornaments being first-rate weapons of all sorts, pic- 
 tures of race-horses, who had won for the vicomte a 
 great number of magnificent gold and silver vases, 
 which were placed on the tables and sideboards. 
 
 The smoking-room and play-room were closed by a 
 cheerful dining-room, where eight persons (the number 
 to which the guests were rigidly confined when there 
 was a first-class dinner) had often appreciated the 
 excellence of the cook, and the no less high merit of 
 the wine of the vicomte, before they faced him at some 
 high game of whist for five or six hundred louis, or shook 
 the noisy dice-box at infernal hazard or roulette. 
 
 These two widely opposite shades of M. de Saint-Remy 
 disclosed, the reader will follow us into the regions below, 
 to the very comfortable apartment of Edwards Patterson, 
 the master of the horse of M. de Saint-Remy, who had 
 invited M. Boyer to breakfast. A very pretty English 
 maid-servant having withdrawn after she had brought 
 in the silver teapot, these two worthies remained alone. 
 
 Edwards was about forty years of age, and never 
 did more skilful or stouter coachman make a seat 
 groan under his most imposing rotundity ; never did 
 powdered wig enclose a more rubicund visage ; and 
 never did a more knowing and competent driver hold 
 in his four fingers and thumb the reins of a' four-in-hand. 
 As good a judge of a horse as Tattersal (and in his 
 youth he had been as good a trainer as the old and 
 celebrated Chiffney), Edwards had been to the vicomte 
 
 159
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 a most excellent coachman, and a man perfectly capable 
 of superintending the training of race-horses on which 
 he had betted heavily. 
 
 When he did not assume his sumptuous brown and 
 silver livery on the emblazoned hammercloth of his box, 
 Edwards very much resembled an honest English farmer ; 
 and it is under this aspect that we shall present him to 
 the reader, adding, at the same time, that beneath this 
 round and red visage there lurked all the pitiless and 
 devilish cunning of the horse-dealer. 
 
 M. Boyer, his guest, the confidential servant of the 
 vicomte, was a tall, thin man, with gray, smooth hair, 
 bald forehead, cuiming glance, with a countenance calm, 
 discreet, and reserved. He expressed himself in some- 
 what choice phraseology, with polite, easy manners ; he 
 was tolerably well informed, his political opinions being 
 legitimist, and he could take his part as first violin in an 
 amateur quartette. From time to time, and with the 
 best air in the world, he took a pinch of snuff from a 
 gold snuff-box, set around with fine pearls, after which 
 he negligently shook with the back of his hand (as white 
 and carefully attended to as his master's) the particles 
 of snuff from the frill of his fine Holland shirt. 
 
 " Do you know, my dear Edwards," said Boyer, " that 
 your maid, Betty, really does your meals in a very fair 
 manner! Ma foil now and then one gets tired of high 
 living." 
 
 "The fact is that Betty is a very good girl," said 
 Edwards, who spoke very good French. " I shall take 
 her with me into my establishment, if I make up my 
 mind to set up in housekeeping ; and on this point, since 
 we are alone, my dear Boyer, let us talk of business 
 matters which you know as well as I do." 
 
 " Why, yes, tolerably," said Boyer, modestly taking a 
 pinch of snuff, " one learns them so naturally, when they 
 are the affairs of others that occupy us." 
 
 " I want your advice on a very important point, and 
 
 160
 
 THE RUE DE CHAILLOT. 
 
 that's the reason I have begged you to come and take a 
 cup of tea with me." 
 
 " I'm at your service, my dear Edwards." 
 
 " You know that, besides the race-horses, I had an 
 agreement with M. le Vicomte to the complete providing 
 of his stable, horses, and men, that is to say, eight horses 
 and five or six grooms and boys, for twenty-four thousand 
 francs (nine thousand guineas) a year, including my 
 wages." 
 
 "That was moderate enough." 
 
 " For four years M. le Vicomte paid me very regu- 
 larly ; but about the middle of last year he said to me, 
 
 * Edwards, I owe you about twenty-four thousand francs. 
 What value, at the lowest, do you set on my horses and 
 carriages ? ' ' Monsieur le Vicomte, the eight horses 
 ought to fetch three thousand francs (120Z.) each, one 
 with another, and that would make (and it's true, Boyer, 
 for the pair of phaeton horses cost five hundred guineas) 
 exactly twenty-four thousand francs for the horses. As 
 to the carriages, there are four, let us say, for twelve 
 thousand francs ; that, added to the twenty-four thousand 
 francs for the horses, makes thirty-six thousand francs.* 
 
 * Well,' replied the vicomte, ' buy the whole of me at 
 that price, on condition that for the twelve thousand 
 francs which you will owe me, paid as it were in advance, 
 you shall keep and place at my disposal horses, servants, 
 and carriages for six months.' " 
 
 " And you very wisely acceded to the proposal, Ed- 
 wards ? It was a golden gain to you." 
 
 " No doubt. In another fortnight the six months will 
 liave expired, and I become proprietor of the horses and 
 carriages." 
 
 " Nothing plainer. The agreement was drawn up by 
 M, Badinot, the vicomte's man of business, what do you 
 want with my advice ? " 
 
 " What should I do ? To sell the horses and carriages 
 in consequence of M. le Vicomte's departure ? All 
 
 161
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 would sell well, as he is known as one of the first judges 
 in Paris ; or ought I to set uj) as a horse-dealer with my 
 stud, which would make a capital beginning ? What 
 is your opinion — your advice ? " 
 
 " I advise you to do what I shall do myself." 
 
 " In what way ? " 
 
 " I am in the same position as yourself." 
 
 « You ? " 
 
 " M. le Yicomte detests details. When I entered in 
 his service I had, by savings and inheritance, sixty thou- 
 sand francs (2,400^.). I paid the expenses of the house 
 as you did of the stables ; and every year M. le Yicomte 
 paid me without examining my account. At nearly the 
 same time as yourself I found myself out of pocket 
 about twenty thousand francs on my own account, and, 
 to the tradespeople, sixty thousand francs. Then M. le 
 Yicomte made me the same proposition as to yourself, 
 in order to reimburse me. I was to sell the furniture 
 of the house, including the plate, which is very hand- 
 some, very fine paintings, etc., the whole estimated 
 at a hundred and forty thousand francs (5,600Z.). There 
 were eighty thousand francs to pay, and there remained 
 sixty thousand francs which I was to disburse until they 
 were quite exhausted, in the expenses of the table, the 
 servants' wages, etc., and in nothing else. These were 
 the terms of the agreement." 
 
 " Because on that outlay you have a profit." 
 
 "As a matter of course; for I made all the agree- 
 ments with the tradespeople, whom I shall not pay until 
 after the sale," said Boyer, taking a huge pinch of snuff ; 
 " so that at the end of this month — " 
 
 " The furniture is yours, as the horses and carriages 
 are mine." 
 
 " Precisely so. M. le Yicomte has gained by this, by 
 living for the last few months as he likes to live, en 
 grand seigneur^ — and that in the very teeth of his 
 creditors ; for furniture, plate, horses, carriages, which. 
 
 162
 
 THE RUE DE CHAILLOT. 
 
 had all been paid for ready money when he came of 
 age, have now become the property of yourself and 
 myself." 
 
 " And so M. le Yicomte is really ruined ? " 
 
 " In five years." 
 
 " And M. le Vicomte inherited — " 
 
 " Only a miserable million (40,000Z.), ready money," 
 said M. Boyer, with a disdainful air, and taking a pinch 
 of snuff. " Add to this two hundred thousand francs 
 of debts (8,000Z.), about — that's pretty well! It was, 
 therefore, to tell you, my dear Edwards, that I had an 
 intention of letting this house, so admirably furnished as 
 it is, to some English family, linen, glass, china, silver, 
 conservatory. Some of your country-people would pay 
 a good rent for it ? " 
 
 " Unquestionably. Why don't you do so ? " 
 
 " Why, there's considerable risk, and so I make up 
 my mind to sell the whole at once. M. le Vicomte is 
 also known as a connoisseur in first-class furniture and 
 objects of art, so that anything that he has selected 
 will always fetch double its value, and I am safe to 
 realise a large sum. Do as I do, Edwards, and realise 
 — realise. Don't risk your profits in speculation. You, 
 first coachman of M. le Vicomte de Saint-Remy, — why, 
 there'll be a competition for you. And yesterday I just 
 heard of a minor who has recently been emancipated, a 
 cousin of Madame la Duchesse de Lucenay, the young 
 Due de Montbrison, who has just arrived from Italy 
 with his tutor, and is forming his establishment. Two 
 hundred and fifty thousand livres of income (10,000Z.) 
 from land, my dear Edwards, two hundred and fifty 
 thousand livres a year, — just entering into life, — 
 twenty years of age only, — with all the illusions of 
 simple confidence, and all the desires of expenditure, — 
 prodigal as a prince. I know the steward ; and I tell 
 you, in confidence, he has all but concluded with me as 
 first valet de chamhre. He patronises me, — the fool ! " 
 
 163
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 And M. Boyer shrugged his shoulders, whilst he inhaled 
 another large pinch of snufY. 
 
 " You hope to get rid of him ? " 
 
 ^^ Parbleu, he is a jackanapes, — an ass! He places 
 me there as if he ought nut to have any fears of me. 
 Before two months I shall be in his place." 
 
 " Two hundred and fifty thousand livres a year in 
 land ! " replied Edwards, reliecting ; " and a yomig man ! 
 It is a good house ? " 
 
 " I tell you there is everything to make a man com- 
 fortable. I will speak to my protector for you," said 
 M. Boyer, with irony. "Take the place; it is a fortune 
 which has roots to it, and one may hold on by it for a 
 long time. It is not like the unfortunate million of 
 M. le Vicomte, a snowball, and nothing else, — a ray 
 of a Parisian sun, and that's all. I soon saw that I 
 should only be a bird of passage here. It's a pity, for 
 the establishment did us credit ; and, to the last moment, 
 I will serve M. le Vicomte with the respect and esteem 
 due to him." 
 
 "ilia foi, my dear Boyer, I thank you, and accept 
 your proposition. And, now I think of it, suppose I 
 were to propose the stud of ]\I. le Vicomte to this young 
 duke ! It is all ready, and known and admired all over 
 Paris." 
 
 " True, you may make a profitable affair of it." 
 
 " And you, why don't you propose to him this house 
 so admirably fitted up in every way ? What could he 
 find better ? " 
 
 " Bravo ! Edwards, you are a man of sense decidedly ; 
 you have suggested a most excellent idea. We must 
 ask the vicomte ; he is such a good master that he will 
 not refuse to speak for us to the young duke. He may 
 say that, as he is going on the legation of Gerolstein, to 
 which he is attached, he wishes to get rid of his whole 
 establishment. Let us see. One hundred and sixty 
 thousand francs for the house furnished, twenty thou- 
 
 164
 
 THE RUE DE CHAILLOT. 
 
 sand francs for plate and pictures, fifty thousand francs 
 for stable and carriages, that makes two hundred and 
 thirty thousand francs ; and it is a bargain for a young 
 man who wishes to be set up at once in the first 
 style." 
 
 " And the horses ! " 
 
 " And the capital table ! Gallefroi, his cook, will 
 leave a hundred times better off than when he came 
 here first. M. le Vicomte has given him capital instruc- 
 tion, — has regularly refined him ! " 
 
 " They say, too, that M. le Vicomte is such a capital 
 player ? " 
 
 " Admirable ! Gaining large sums with even more 
 indifference than he loses them ! And yet I never saw 
 any one lose with better taste ! " 
 
 " And the women, Boyer, — the women ! Ah, you 
 could tell a tale ! You have the sole entrSe to the 
 apartments of the ground floor — " 
 
 " I have my secrets as you have yours, my dear 
 fellow." 
 
 "Mine?" 
 
 "When M. le Vicomte ran his horses, had you not 
 your confidences ? I will not attack the honesty of the 
 jockeys of your opponents ; but there were reports — " 
 
 " Hush, my dear Boyer, a gentleman never compro- 
 mises the reputation of a jockey who is against him, 
 and has the weakness to listen — " 
 
 "Then a gallant never compromises the reputation 
 of a woman who has been kind to him. So, I say, let's 
 keep our secrets, or, rather, the secrets of M. le Vicomte, 
 my dear Edwards." 
 
 " Ah, good ! What will he do now ? " 
 
 " He is going to Germany in a good travelling car- 
 riage, with seven or eight thousand francs, which he 
 knows when to lay his hand upon. Oh, I have no fears 
 for the vicomte ! He is one of those personages who 
 always fall on their feet, as they say." 
 
 165
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " And he has no future expectancies ? " 
 
 " None ; for his father has nothing but just enough to 
 live upon." 
 
 "His father?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " M. le Vicomte's father is not dead ?" 
 
 " He was not dead five or six months ago when M. le 
 Vicomte wrote to him for some family papers." 
 
 " But we never see him here ? " 
 
 " For reasons good. For fifteen years he has resided 
 in the country at Angers." 
 
 " But M. le Vicomte never visits him ? " 
 
 " His father ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Never — never ! " 
 
 " Have they quarrelled, then ? " 
 
 " What I am going to tell you is no secret, for I have 
 it from the old man of business of M. the Prince de 
 Noirmont." 
 
 "Father of Madame de Lucenay?" said Edwards, 
 with a knowing glance at Boyer, who, appearing not to 
 understand him, replied coolly : 
 
 " Madame la Duchesse de Lucenay is the daughter 
 of M. the Prince de Noirmont. The father of M. le 
 Vicomte was bosom friend of the prince. Madame la 
 Duchesse was then very young, and M. de Saint-Remy, 
 senior, who was very fond of her, treated her as if she 
 were his own child. I learnt these details from Simon, 
 the prince's man of business ; and I may speak unhesi- 
 tatingly, for the adventure I am about to narrate to you 
 was, at the time, the talk of all Paris. In spite of his 
 sixty years, the father of M. le Vicomte is a man of 
 iron disposition, with the courage of a lion, of probity 
 which I call almost fabulous. He had scarcely any 
 property of his own, and had married the vicomte's 
 mother for love. She was a young person of good 
 fortune, possessing about a million of francs, at the 
 
 16G
 
 THE RUE DE CHAILLOT. 
 
 melting of which we have had the honour to be present." 
 And M. Boyer bowed. Edwards imitated him. 
 
 " The marriage was a very happy one, until the 
 moment when the father of M. le Vicomte found — 
 accidentally, as they say — some letters, which proved 
 that, during one of his absences three or four years 
 after his marriage, his wife had had an attachment for 
 a certain Polish count." 
 
 " That often happens to these Poles. When I was 
 at the Marquis de Senneval's, the marquise, a regular 
 she-devil — " 
 
 " My dear Edwards," interrupted M. Boyer, " you 
 should learn the alliances of our great families before 
 you speak, or you will sadly blunder." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Madame la Marquise de Senneval is sister of M. le 
 Due de Montbrison, into whose establishment you wish 
 to enter." 
 
 " Ah, the devil ! " 
 
 " Judge of the effect if you had spoken thus of her 
 before tattling people ! You would not have remained 
 in the house twenty-four hours." 
 
 " True, Boyer ; I must endeavour to ' get up ' my 
 peerage." 
 
 " I resume. The father of M. le Yicomte discovered, 
 after twelve or fifteen years of a marriage very happy 
 until then, that he had this Polish count to complain of. 
 Fortunately, or unfortunately, M. le Vicomte was born 
 nine months after his father, or rather M. le Comte de 
 Saint-Remy, had returned from this unpropitious journey, 
 so that he could not be certain, in spite of the greatest 
 probabilities, whether or not M. le Vicomte could fairly 
 charge him with paternity. However, the comte sepa- 
 rated instantly from his wife, would not touch a stiver 
 of the fortune she had brought him, and returned into 
 the country with about eighty thousand francs which he 
 possessed of his own. But you have yet to learn the 
 
 167
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 rancour of this diabolical character. Although the out- 
 rage had been perpetrated fifteen years when he detected 
 it, the father of M. le Vicomte, accompanied by M. de 
 Fermont, one of his relatives, sought out this Polonese 
 seducer, and found him at Venice, after having sought 
 for him during eighteen months in every city in Europe." 
 
 " What determination ! " 
 
 " A demon's rancour, I say, my dear Edwards ! At 
 Venice there was a ferocious duel, in which the Pole 
 was killed. All passed off honourably ; but they tell 
 me that, w^hen the father of M. le Vicomte saw the 
 Pole fall at his feet mortally wounded, he exhibited such 
 ferocious joy that his relative, M. de Fermont, was 
 obliged to take him away from the place of combat; 
 the comte wishing, as he declared, to see his enemy die 
 before his eyes." 
 
 " What a man ! What a man ! " 
 
 " The comte returned to Paris, saw his wife, told her 
 he had killed the Pole, and went back into the country. 
 Since that time he never saw her or her son, and resided 
 at Angers, where he lived, as they say, like a regular old 
 wolf, with what was left of his eighty thousand francs, 
 which had been sweated down not a little, as you may 
 suppose, by his chase after the Pole. At Angers he saw 
 no one, unless it were the wife and daughter of his 
 relative, M. de Fermont, who has been dead some years 
 now. Besides, it was an unfortunate family, for the 
 brother of Madame de Fermont blew his brains out 
 some months ago." 
 
 " And the mother of M. le Vicomte ? " 
 
 " He lost her a long time ago ; that's the reason that, 
 when he attained his majority, M. le Vicomte came into 
 his mother's fortune. So, you see, my dear Edwards, 
 that, as to inheritance, the vicomte has nothing, or 
 almost less than nothing, to expect from his father." 
 
 " Who, moreover, detests him." 
 
 " He never would see him after the discovery in ques- 
 
 168
 
 THE RUE DE CHAILLOT. 
 
 tion, being fully persuaded, no doubt, that he is the son 
 of the Pole." 
 
 The conversation of these two personages was inter- 
 rupted by a gigantic footman, elaborately powdered, 
 although it was scarcely eleven o'clock. 
 
 " M. Boyer, M. le Vicomte has rung his bell twice," 
 said the giant. 
 
 Boyer appeared immensely distressed at having appar- 
 ently been inattentive to his duty, rose hastily, and fol- 
 lowed the footman with as much haste and respect as 
 if he had not been himself, in his proper person, the 
 proprietor of his master's house. 
 
 169
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE COMTE DE SAINT - REMY. 
 
 It was about two hours after Boyer had left Edwards 
 to go to M. de Saint-Remy, when the father of the latter 
 knocked at the door of the house in the Rue de Chaillot. 
 
 M. de Saint-Remy, senior, was a tall man, still active 
 and vigorous in spite of his age. The extreme darkness 
 of his complexion contrasted singularly with the pecul- 
 iar whiteness of his beard and hair ; his thick eyebrows 
 still remained black, and half covered his piercing eyes 
 deeply sunk in his head. Although from a kind of mis- 
 anthropic feeling he wore clothes which were extremely 
 shabby, yet there was in his entire appearance something 
 so calm and dignified as to inspire general respect. 
 
 The door of his son's house opened, and he went in. 
 
 A porter in dress livery of brown and silver, with his 
 hair carefully powdered, and dressed in silk stockings, 
 appeared on the threshold of an elegant lodge, which 
 resembled the smoky cave of the Pipelets as much as 
 does the tub of a stocking-darner the splendid shop of a 
 fashionable dressmaker. 
 
 " M. de Saint-Remy ? " said the comte, in an abrupt 
 tone. 
 
 The porter, instead of replying, scrutinised with imper- 
 tinent curiosity the white beard, the threadbare frock coat, 
 and the napless hat of the unknown, who held a stout 
 cane in his hand. 
 
 " M. de Saint-Remy ? " again said the comte, impa- 
 tiently, and much irritated at the insolent demeanour of 
 the porter. 
 
 170
 
 THE COMTE DE SAINT -REMY. 
 
 " M. le Vicomte is not at home." 
 
 So saying, the co-mate of M. Pipelet opened the door, 
 and, with a significant gesture, invited the unknown to 
 retire. 
 
 " I will wait for him," said the comte, and he moved 
 forward. 
 
 " Holloa! Come, I say, my friend, that's not the way 
 people enter other people's houses ! " exclaimed the 
 porter, running after the comte, and taking him by 
 the arm. 
 
 " What, fellow ! " replied the old man, with a threat- 
 ening air, and lifting his cane, " dare you to lay your 
 hands on me ? " 
 
 " I dare do more than that if you do not be off 
 quickly. I tell you the vicomte is not within ; so now 
 go away, will you ? " 
 
 At this moment Boyer, attracted by the sound of 
 contending voices, appeared on the steps which led 
 to the house. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this noise ? " he inquired. 
 
 " M. Boyer, it is this man, who will go into the house, 
 although I have told him that M. le Vicomte is not 
 within." 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! " said the comte. And then 
 addressing Boyer, who had come towards them, " I 
 wish to see my son. He is out, and therefore I will 
 wait for him." 
 
 We have already said that Boyer was neither ignorant 
 of the existence nor the misanthropy of his master's 
 father ; and being, moreover, a physiognomist, he did 
 not for a moment doubt the comte's identity, but, bowing 
 respectfully, replied : 
 
 " If M. le Comte will follow me, I will conduct him — " 
 
 " Very well ! " said M. de Saint-Remy, who followed 
 Boyer, to the extreme amazement of the porter. 
 
 Preceded by the valet de chamhre, the comte reached 
 the first story, and followed his guide across the small 
 
 171
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 sitting-room of Florestan de Saint-Remy (we shall in 
 future call the viscount by his baptismal name to dis- 
 tinguish him more easily from his father) until they 
 reached a small antechamber communicating with the 
 sitting-room, and sitting immediately over the boudoir 
 on the ground floor. 
 
 " M. le Vicomte was obliged to go out this morning," 
 said Boyer. " If M. le Comte will be so kind as to wait 
 a little for him, he will not be long before he comes in." 
 And the valet de chamhre quitted the apartment. 
 
 Left alone, the count looked about him with entire 
 indifference ; but suddenly he started, his face became 
 animated, his cheeks grew purple, and anger agitated 
 his features. His eyes had lighted on the portrait of 
 his wife, the mother of Florestan de Saint-Remy ! He 
 folded his arms across his breast, bowed his head, as if 
 to escape this sight, and strode rapidly up and down the 
 room. 
 
 " This is strange ! " he said. " That woman is dead — 
 I killed her lover — and yet my wound is as deep, as 
 sensitive, as the first day I received it; my thirst of 
 vengeance is not yet quenched ; my savage misanthropy, 
 which has all but entirely isolated me from the world, 
 has left me alone, and in constant contemplation of the 
 thought of my injury. Yes ; for the death of the accom- 
 plice of this infamy has avenged the outrage, but not 
 effaced its memory from my remembrance. Oh, yes ! I 
 feel that what renders my hatred inextinguishable is the 
 thought that, for fifteen years, I was a dupe ; that for 
 fifteen years I treated with respect and esteem a wretched 
 woman who had infamously betrayed me ; that I have 
 loved her son — the son of crime — as if he had indeed 
 been my own child ; for the aversion with which Flores- 
 tan now inspires me proves but too clearly that he is the 
 offspring of adultery ! And yet I have not the absolute 
 conviction of his illegitimacy : it is just possible that he 
 is still my child ! And sometimes that thought is agony 
 
 172
 
 THE COMTE DE SAINT -REMY. 
 
 to me ! If he were indeed my son ! Then mj abandon- 
 ment of him, the coldness I have always testified towards 
 him, my constant refusals to see him, are unpardonable. 
 But, after all, he is rich, young, happy ; and of what use 
 should I be to him ? Yes ; but then, perchance, his ten- 
 derness might have soothed the bitter anguish which his 
 mother has caused me ! " 
 
 After a moment of deep reflection the comte shrugged 
 his shoulders and continued : 
 
 " Still these foolish suppositions, weak as useless, which 
 revive all my suffering I Let me be a man, and overcome 
 the absurd and painful emotion which I experience when 
 I think that I am again about to see him whom, for ten 
 years, I have loved with the most mad idolatry, — whom 
 I have loved as my son ; he — he — the son of the man 
 whose blood I saw flow with such intense joy ! And they 
 would not let me be present at his last agony, — at his 
 death ! Ah, they know not what it was to have been 
 stricken as deeply as I was ! Then, too, to think that 
 my name — always honoured and respected — should 
 have been so often mentioned with scoff and derision, as 
 is always mentioned that of a wronged husband ! To 
 think that my name — a name of which I had always 
 been so proud — should now belong to a man whose 
 father's heart I could have plucked out! Ah, I only 
 wonder I do not go mad when I think of it ! " 
 
 M. de Saint-Remy continued walking up and down in 
 great agitation, and mechanically lifted up the curtain 
 which separated the apartment in which he was from 
 Florestan's private sitting-room, and advanced several 
 strides into that chamber. 
 
 He had disappeared for the moment, when a small 
 door hidden in the hangings of the wall opened softly, 
 and Madame de Lucenay, wrapped in a large green cash- 
 mere shawl, having a very plain black velvet bonnet on, 
 entered the salon, which the comte had but that instant 
 quitted. 
 
 178
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 It is necessary to offer some explanation of this unex- 
 pected visit. 
 
 Florcstan de Saint-Remy on the previous evening made 
 an appointment with the duchess for the next morning. 
 She having, as we have said, a key of the little gate in 
 the narrow lane, had, as usual, entered by the conserva- 
 tory, relying on finding Florcstan on the ground floor 
 boudoir ; but, not finding him there, she believed (as had 
 before occurred) that the vicomte was engaged in his 
 cabinet. 
 
 A secret staircase led from the boudoir to the story 
 above. Madame de Lucenay went up without hesitation, 
 supposing that M. de Saint-Remy had given orders, as 
 usual, to be denied to everybody. Unluckily, a threaten- 
 ing call from M. Badinot had compelled Florcstan to go 
 out hastily, and he had forgotten his rendezvous with 
 Madame de Lucenay. She, not seeing any person, was 
 about to enter the cabinet, when the curtain was thrown 
 on one side, and the duchess found herself confronted 
 with Florestan's father. 
 
 She could not repress a shriek. 
 
 " Clotilde ! " exclaimed the comte, greatly astonished. 
 
 Intimately acquainted with the Prince de Xoirmont, 
 father of Madame de Lucenay, M. de Saint-Remy had 
 known her from her childhood, and, during her girlhood, 
 calling her, as he now did, by her baptismal name. The 
 duchess, motionless with surprise, continued gazing on 
 the old man with his white beard and mean attire, whose 
 features she could not recall to mind. 
 
 " You, Clotilde ! " repeated the comte, in an accent 
 of painful reproach ; " you here, in my son's house ! " 
 
 These last words confirmed the vague reminiscence 
 of Madame de Lucenay, who then recognised Florestan's 
 father, and said : 
 
 " M. de Saint-Remy ? " 
 
 The position was so plain and declaratory that the 
 duchess, whose peculiar and resolute character is known 
 
 174
 
 THE COMTE DE SAINT -REMY. 
 
 to the reader, disdained to have recourse to false- 
 hood, in order to account for her appearance there ; and, 
 relying on the really paternal affection which the comte 
 had always testified for her, she said to him, with that 
 air at once graceful, cordial, and decided, which was so 
 peculiarly her own : " 
 
 " Come, now, do not scold ; you are my old, very old 
 friend. Recollect you called me your dear little Clotilde 
 at least twenty years ago." 
 
 " Yes, 1 called you so then ; but — " 
 
 " I know beforehand all you would say : you know my 
 motto, * What is, is what will be.' " 
 
 « Oh, Clotilde!" 
 
 " Spare your reproaches, and let me rather express 
 my extreme delight at seeing you again : your presence 
 reminds me of so many things, — my poor dear father, 
 in the first place, and then — heigho ! my ' sweet fifteen ! ' 
 Oh, how delightful it is to be fifteen ! " 
 
 " It is because your father was my friend that — " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the duchess, interrupting M. de Saint- 
 Remy, " he was so very fond of you ! You remember he 
 always called you the man with the green ribands, and 
 you always told him, ' You spoil Clotilde ; mind, I tell 
 you so ; ' and he replied, whilst he kissed me, ' I really 
 do believe I spoil her, and I must make all haste and 
 double my spoiling, for very soon the world will deprive 
 me of her to spoil her in their turn.' Dear father ! What 
 a friend I lost ! " and a tear started to the lovely eyes 
 of Madame de Lucenay ; then, extending her hand to 
 M. de Saint-Remy, she said, in a faltering voice, " But 
 indeed, in truth, I am happy, very happy, to see you 
 again, you call up such precious remembrances, — 
 memories so dear to my heart ! " 
 
 The comte, although he had long been acquainted 
 with her original and decisive disposition, was really 
 amazed at the ease with which Clotilde reconciled her- 
 self to her exceedingly delicate position, which was no 
 
 175
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 other than to meet her lover's father in her lover's 
 house. 
 
 " If you have been in Paris for any time," continued 
 Madame do Lucenay, " it is very naujL^hty of you not to 
 have come and seen me before this ; for we should have 
 had such long talks over the past ; for you must know 
 that I have reached an age when there is an exces- 
 sive pleasure in saying to old friends, * Don't you 
 remember ! ' " 
 
 Assuredly the duchess could not have discoursed with 
 more confirmed tranquillity if she were receiving a 
 morning visit at the Hotel de Lucenay. M. de Saint- 
 Rcmy could not prevent himself from saying with 
 severity : 
 
 " Instead of talking of the past, it would be more fit- 
 ting to discourse of the present. My son is expected 
 every instant, and — " 
 
 " No," said Clotilde, interrupting him, " I have the 
 key of the little door of the conservatory, and his arrival 
 is always announced by a ring of the bell when he 
 returns by the principal entrance ; and at that sound I 
 shall disappear as mysteriously as I arrived, and will 
 leave you to all your j)leasure, at again seeing Florcstan. 
 "What a delightful surprise you will give him ! For it is 
 so long since you forsook him. Really, now I think of 
 it, it is I who have to reproach you." 
 
 " Me ? Reproach me ? " 
 
 " Assuredly. What guide, what aid had he, when he 
 entered on the world.? whilst there are a thousand 
 things for which a father's counsels are indispensable. 
 So, really and truly, it is very wrong of you — " 
 
 Here Madame de Lucenay, yielding to the whimsi- 
 cality of her character, could not help laughing most 
 heartily, and saying to the comte : 
 
 " It must be owned that our position is at least an odd 
 one, and that it is very funny that it should be I who 
 am sermonising you." 
 
 176
 
 THE COMTE DE SAINT -REMY. 
 
 " Why, it does seem very strange to me, I assure you; 
 but I deserve neither your sermons nor your praises. I 
 have come to my son's house, but not for my son's sake. 
 At his age, he has not, or has no longer, any need of my 
 advice." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " You ought to know the reason for which I hold 
 the world, and Paris, especially, in such horror," said 
 the comte, with a painful and distressing expression ; 
 " and you may therefore believe that nothing but cir- 
 cumstances of the utmost importance could have induced 
 me to leave Angers and have come hither — to this 
 house. But I have been forced to overcome my repug- 
 nance, and have recourse to everybody who could aid or 
 help me in a search which is most interesting to me." 
 
 " Oh, then," said Madame de Lucenay, with affec- 
 tionate eagerness, " I beg you will make use of me ; 
 dispose of me in any way in which I can be useful to 
 you. Do you want any interest ? Because De Lucenay 
 must have some degree of influence ; for, the days when 
 I go to dine with my great-aunt, De Montbrison, he enter- 
 tains the deputies ; and men don't do that without some 
 motives ; and the trouble ought to be recompensed by 
 some contingent advantages, such as a certain amount of 
 influence over persons, who, in their turn, have a great 
 deal of interest. So, I repeat, if we can assist you, rely 
 on us. Then there is my cousin, the young Duke de 
 Montbrison, who, being a peer himself, is connected with 
 all the young peers. If he can do anything, why, I am 
 sure you have but to command him. In a word, dispose 
 of me and mine. You know whether or not I deserve 
 the title of a warm and devoted friend ! " 
 
 " I know it well, and do not refuse your aid, al- 
 though — " 
 
 " Come, my dear Alcestis, we know how the world 
 wags, and let us act as if we did. Whether we are here 
 or elsewhere, it is of little consequence, I imagine, as to 
 
 177
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 the affair which interests you, and which now interests 
 me very much because it is yours. Let us then talk of 
 it, and tell me all I request of you." 
 
 So saying, the duchess approached the fireplace, leaned 
 on the mantelpiece, and placed on the fender one of the 
 prettiest feet in the world, which were, at the moment, 
 somewhat chilled. With perfect tact Madame de Lucenay 
 seized the opportunity of saying no more about the 
 vicomte, and of engaging M. de Saint-Remy to talk of a 
 subject to which he attached such great importance. 
 Clotilde's conduct would have been very different in 
 the presence of his mother, and to her she would have 
 avowed with pleasure and pride how long he had been 
 so dear to, so beloved by, her. 
 
 In spite of his strictness and surliness, M. de Saint- 
 Remy yielded to the influence of the cavalier and cordial 
 demeanour of this lady, whom he had seen and loved 
 when a child, and he almost forgot that he was talking 
 to the mistress of his son. Besides, how could he resist 
 the contagion of example, while the subject of a position 
 which was inexpressibly embarrassing did not seem dis- 
 turbed, or even think she ought to be disturbed, by 
 the difficulty of the situation in which she unexpectedly 
 found herself ? 
 
 " Perhaps you do not know, Clotilde," said the comte, 
 " that I have been living at Angers for a very long 
 time ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know it." 
 
 " In spite of the solitude I sought, I had selected that 
 city because one of my relations lived there, — M. do 
 Fermont, — who, after the heavy blow that had smitten 
 me, behaved to me like a brother. After having accom- 
 panied me to almost every city in Europe, where I hoped 
 to meet with the man I desired to slay, he served me for 
 second in the duel — " 
 
 " Yes, that terrible duel ; my father told me all con- 
 
 178
 
 THE COMTE DE SAINT -REMY. 
 
 cerning it!" answered the duchess, in a sad tone of 
 voice. " But, fortunately, Florestan is ignorant of that 
 duel, as well as the cause that led to it." 
 
 " I wished to let him still respect his mother," replied 
 the comte, stifling a sigh. He then continued : " Some 
 years afterwards, M. de Fermont died at Angers in my 
 arms, leaving a daughter and a wife, whom, in spite of 
 my misanthropy, I was obliged to love, because nothing 
 in the world could be more pure, more noble, than these 
 two excellent creatures. I lived alone in a remote 
 quarter of the city ; but when my fits of black melan- 
 choly gave me some respite, I went to Madame de 
 Fermont to talk with her and her daughter of him we 
 had both lost. As whilst he was alive, so still I came 
 to soothe and calm myself in that gentle friendship in 
 whose bosom I had henceforth concentrated all my 
 affections. The brother of Madame de Fermont dwelt 
 in Paris, and managed all his sister's affairs after her 
 husband's decease. He had placed about a hundred 
 thousand crowns (12,000?.), which was all the widow's 
 fortune, with a notary. 
 
 " After some time another and fearful shock affected 
 Madame de Fermont. Her brother, M. de Renneville, 
 killed himself about eight months ago. I did all in my 
 power to comfort her. Her first sorrow somewhat 
 abated, she went to Paris to arrange her affairs. After 
 some time I learned that, by her orders, they were sell- 
 ing off the furniture she had in her small abode at 
 Angers, and that the money was applied to the payment 
 of a few little debts she had left there. This disturbed 
 me, and, on inquiry, I learned that this unhappy lady 
 and her daughter were in dire distress, — the victims, 
 no doubt, of a bankruptcy. If Madame de Fermont 
 could, in such straits, rely on any one, it was on me, 
 and yet I never received any information or application 
 from her. It was when I lost this acquaintance that 
 was so delightful to me that I felt all its value. You 
 
 179
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 cannot imagine my suffering and mj uneasiness after 
 the departure of Madame de Fcrmont and her daughter. 
 Their father — husband — had been a brother to me, 
 and I was resolved, therefore, to find them again, to 
 learn how it was they had not addressed me in their 
 ruin, poor as I was ; and tlierefore I set out, leaving at 
 Angers a person who, if anything was learned, would 
 inform me instantly of the news." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Yesterday a letter from Angers reached me, — they 
 know nothing. When I reached Paris 1 began my 
 researches. I went first to the old servant of Madame 
 de Fcrmont's brother ; then they told me she lived on 
 the Quai of the Canal St. Martin." 
 
 "Well, that address — " 
 
 " Had been theirs ; but they had moved, and where 
 to was not known. Unfortunately, up to the present 
 time, my researches have been useless. After a thou- 
 sand vain attempts before I utterly desj)aired, 1 resolved 
 to come here. Perhaps Madame de Fermont, who, from 
 some inexplicable motive, has not asked from me aid or 
 assistance, may have had recourse to my son as to the 
 son of her husband's best friend. No doubt this hope 
 has but very slight foundation ; but I will not neglect 
 any chance that may enable me to discover the poor 
 woman and her child." 
 
 The Duchess de Lucenay, who had been listening to 
 the comte with the utmost attention, said, suddenly : 
 
 " Really it would be very singular if these should be 
 the same persons in whom Madame d'Harville takes so 
 much interest." 
 
 " What persons ? " inquired the comte. 
 
 " The widow of whom you speak is still young, is she 
 not ? — her face very striking ? " 
 
 " Yes, but how do you know ? " 
 
 " Her daughter, as lovely as an angel, and about six- 
 teen at most ? " 
 
 180
 
 THE COMTE DE SAINT -REMY. 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " And her name is Claire ? " 
 
 " Oh, for mercy's sake, say, where are they ? ** 
 
 " Alas ! I know not." 
 
 " You know not ? " 
 
 " I will tell you all I know. A lady of my acquaint- 
 ance, Madame d'Harville, came to me to inquire whether 
 or not I knew a widow lady whose daughter was named 
 Claire, and whose brother had committed suicide. Ma- 
 dame d'Harville inquired of me because she had seen 
 these words, ' Write to Madame de Luccnay,' written at 
 the bottom of a rough sketch of a letter which this 
 unfortunate lady was writing to some stranger of whom 
 she was asking assistance." 
 
 " She wished to write to you ; and wherefore to you ? " 
 
 " 1 cannot solve your question." 
 
 " But she knew you, it would seem," said M. de Saint- 
 Remy, struck with a sudden idea. 
 
 " What mean you ? " 
 
 " She had heard me speak of your father a hundred 
 times, as well as of you and your generous and excellent 
 heart. In her misfortune, it occurred to her to address 
 you." 
 
 " That really does explain this." 
 
 " And Madame d'Harville — tell me, how did she get 
 this sketch of a letter into her possession ? " 
 
 " That I do not know ; all I can say is, that, with- 
 out knowing whither this poor mother and child had 
 gone for refuge, she was, I believe, on the trace of 
 them." 
 
 " Then I rely on you, Clotilde, to introduce me to 
 Madame d'Harville. I must see her this very day." 
 
 " Impossible ! Her husband has just been the victim 
 of a most afflicting accident : a pistol which he did not 
 know to be loaded went off in his hands, and he was 
 killed on the spot." 
 
 " How horrible ! " 
 
 181
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " The marquise went instantly to pass the first months 
 of her mourning with her father in Normandy." 
 
 " Clotilde, I beseech you, write to her to-day ; ask her 
 for all the information in her power, and, as she takes 
 an intcreyt in these poor women, say she cannot find a 
 warmer auxiliary than myself ; that my only desire is to 
 find the widow of my friend, and share with her and her 
 daughter the little I possess. They are now all my 
 family." 
 
 " Ever the same, always generous and devoted ! Rely 
 on me. I will write to-day to Madame d'Harville. 
 Where shall I address my answer?" 
 
 " To Asnieres Poste-Restantey 
 
 " How odd ! Why do you live there, and not in 
 Paris?" 
 
 " I detest Paris, because of the recollections it excites 
 in me ! " said M. de Saint-Remy, with a gloomy air. 
 " My old physician. Doctor Griffon, with whom I have 
 kept up a correspondence, has a small house on the 
 banks of the Seine, near Asnieres, which he does not 
 occupy in the winter ; he offered it to me ; it is almost 
 close to Paris, and there I could be undisturbed, and 
 find the solitude I desire. So I accepted it." 
 
 " I will then write to you at Asnieres, and I can give 
 you some information which may be useful to you, and 
 which I had from Madame d'Harville. Madame de Fer- 
 mont's ruin has been occasioned by the roguery of the 
 notary in whose hands all your deceased relative's for- 
 tune was deposited. The notary denied that the money 
 was ever placed in his hands." 
 
 " The scoundrel ! And his name ? " 
 
 " M. Jacques Ferrand," replied the duchess, without 
 being able to conceal her inclination to laugh. 
 
 " How strange you are, Clotilde ! " said the comte, 
 surprised and annoyed ; " nothing can be more serious, 
 more sad than this, and yet you laugh." 
 
 In fact, Madame de Lucenay, at the recollection of the 
 
 182
 
 THE COMTE DE SAINT -REMY. ' 
 
 amorous declaration of the notary, had been unable to 
 repress her hilarity. 
 
 " Pardon me, my dear sir," she replied, " but this 
 notary is such a singular being, and they tell such odd 
 stories about him ; but, in truth, if his reputation as an 
 honest man is not more deserved than his reputation as 
 a religious man (and I declare that is hypocrisy) he is a 
 great wretch." 
 
 " And he lives — " 
 
 « Rue du Sentier." 
 
 " I will call upon him. What you tell me confirms 
 certain other suspicions." 
 
 " What suspicions ? " 
 
 " From certain information as to the death of the brother 
 of my poor friend, I should be almost tempted to believe 
 that that unhappy man, instead of committing suicide, 
 had been the "vactim of assassination." 
 
 " And what can make you suppose that ? " 
 
 " Several reasons, which would be too long to detail to 
 you now. I will leave you. Do not forget the promises 
 of service which you have made me in your own and 
 your husband's name." 
 
 " What, will you go without seeing Florestan ? " 
 
 " You may suppose how painful this interview would 
 be to me. I would brave it only in the hope of finding 
 some information as to Madame de Fermont, being un- 
 willing to neglect anything to discover her. Now, then, 
 adieu ! " 
 
 " Ah, you are pitiless ! " 
 
 " Do you not know ? " 
 
 " I know that your son was never in greater need of 
 your advice." 
 
 " What, is he not rich — happy ? " 
 
 " Yes, but he is ignorant of mankind. Blindly ex- 
 travagant, because he is generous and confiding in every- 
 thing, and everywhere and always free and noble, I fear 
 people take advantage of his liberality. If you but 
 
 183
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 "knew the nobleness of his heart ! I have never dared 
 to preach to him on the subject of his expenditure and 
 want of care : in the first place, because I am as incon- 
 siderate as himself, and next, in the second place, for 
 other reasons ; whilst you, on the contrary — " 
 
 Madame de Lucenay could not finish. The voice of 
 Florestan de Saint-Remy was heard. He entered hastily 
 into the cabinet next to the room in which they were, 
 and, after having shut the door suddenly, he said, in a 
 broken voice, to some one who accompanied him : 
 
 " But it is impossible." 
 
 " I tell you again," replied the clear and sharp voice 
 of M. Badinot, " I tell you again that, if not, why, in four 
 hours you will be api)rehcn(led ; for, if he has not the 
 cash forthwith, our man will lodge his complaint with 
 the king's attorney-general ; and you know the result of 
 a forgery like this, — the galleys, the galleys, my poor 
 dear vicomte ! " 
 
 184
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 It is impossible to paint the look which Madame de 
 Lucenay and the father of Florestan exchanged at these 
 terrible words, — " The galleys, the galleys, my poor dear 
 vicomte ! " The comte became deadly pale, and leant 
 on the back of an armchair, whilst his knees seemed to 
 sink beneath him. His venerable and respected name, — 
 his name dishonoured by the man whom he accused of 
 being the fruit of adultery ! 
 
 The first feeling over, the contracted features of the 
 old man, a threatening gesture which he made as he 
 advanced towards the adjoining apartment, betrayed a 
 resolution so alarming that Madame de Lucenay seized 
 his hand, and said, in an accent of the most perfect 
 conviction : 
 
 " He is innocent ; I will swear it. Listen in silence." 
 
 The comte paused. He wished to believe what the 
 duchess said to him, and she was entirely persuaded of 
 Florestan's untarnished honour. To obtain fresh sacri- 
 fices from this woman, so blindly generous, — sacrifices 
 which alone could save him from arrest, — and the prose- 
 cution of Jacques Ferrand, the vicomte had affirmed to 
 Madame de Lucenay that, duped by a scoundrel from 
 whom he had taken a forged bill in exchange, he ran the 
 risk of being considered as the forger's accomplice, as 
 having himself put this bill into circulation. Madame de 
 Lucenay knew that the vicomte was imprudent, extrav- 
 agant, reckless ; but she never for an instant supposed 
 
 185
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 him capable, not only of a base or an infamous action, 
 but even of tbe sligbtcst indiscretion. Twice lending liim 
 considerable sums under very trying circumstances, she 
 had wished to render liim a friendly service, the vicomte 
 expressly accepting these loans under the condition that 
 he should return them ; for there were persons, he said, 
 who owed him double that amount ; and his style of 
 living made it seem probable. 
 
 Besides, Madame de Lucenay, yielding to the impulse 
 of her natural kindness, had only thought of liow she 
 could be useful to Florestan, without ever reflecting as to 
 whether or not he would ever return the sums thus 
 advanced. lie said so, and she did not doubt him ; for, 
 otherwise, would he have accepted such large amounts ? 
 When, then, she thus answered for Florestan's honour, 
 entreating the old comte to listen to his son's conversa- 
 tion, the duchess thought that it was a question of the 
 breach of honour of which the vicomte had declared 
 himself the victim, and that he must stand forth com- 
 pletely exonerated in the eyes of his father. 
 
 " Again I declare," continued Florestan, in a troubled 
 voice, " this Petit-Jean is a scamp ; he assured me that 
 he had no other bills in his hands but those which I re- 
 ceived from him yesterday and three days previously. I 
 believed this one was still in circulation, and only due 
 three months hence, in London, at the house of Adams 
 and Company." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the sarcastic voice of Badinot, " I 
 know, my dear vicomte, that you had managed the affair 
 very cleverly, so that your forgeries would not be de- 
 tected until you were a long way off ; but you tried to 
 ' do ' those who were more cunning than yourself." 
 
 " And you dare to say that to me, now, rogue as you 
 are," exclaimed Florestan, furious with anger, " w^hcn 
 was it not you yourself who brought me into contact 
 with the person who negotiated these bills ? " 
 
 " Now, my dear aristocrat," replied Badinot, coolly, 
 
 186
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 " be cool ! You very skilfully counterfeit commercial 
 signatures ; but, although they are so adroitly done, that 
 is no reason why you should treat your friends with dis- 
 agreeable familiarity ; and, if you give way to unseemly 
 fits of temper, I shall leave you, and then you may 
 arrange this matter by yourself." 
 
 " And do you think it possible for a man to be calm 
 in such a position as that in which I find myself ? If 
 what you say be true, if this charge be to-day preferred 
 at the office of the attorney-general, I am lost ! " 
 
 " It is really as I tell you, unless you have again re- 
 course to your charming, blue-eyed Providence." 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 " Then make up your mind to the worst. It is a pity ; 
 it was the last bill ; and for five and twenty thousand 
 miserable francs (1,000Z.) to go and take the air at 
 Toulon is awkward, absurd, foolish I How could a 
 clever fellow like you allow yourself to be thus taken 
 aback ? " 
 
 " What can I do ? What can I do ? Nothing here 
 is my own, and I have not twenty louis in the world 
 left." 
 
 « Your friends ? " 
 
 " Why, I am in debt to every one who could lend me. 
 Do you think else that I am such a fool as to have waited 
 until to-day before I applied to them ? " 
 
 " True ; but, come, let us discuss the matter quietly ; 
 that is the best way of arriving at a reasonable conclu- 
 sion. Just now, I wish to explain to you how you had 
 been met by a party more clever than yourself, but you 
 did not attend to me." 
 
 " Well, tell me now, if that will do any good." 
 
 "Let us recapitulate. You said to me two months 
 since, ' I have bills on different banking-houses, at long 
 dates, for a hundred and thirteen thousand francs 
 (4,520Z.), and, my dear Badinot, I wish you to find 
 me the means of cashing them.' " 
 
 187
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 « Well, and then — " 
 
 " Listen : I asked you to let me see these bills ; a 
 certain something made me suspect that they were 
 forged, although so admirably done. I did not suspect, 
 it is true, that you were so expert in caligraphy ; but, 
 employing myself in looking after your fortune when 
 you had no longer any fortune to look after, I found 
 you were completely done up ! I had arranged the deed 
 by which your horses, your carriages, and the furniture 
 of this house became the property of Boyer and Edwards. 
 Thus, then, there was no wonder at my astonishment 
 when I found you in possession of commercial securities 
 to such a considerable amount, eh ? " 
 
 " Never mind your astonishment, but come to the 
 point." 
 
 " I am close upon it. I have enough experience or 
 timidity not to be very anxious to mix myself up with 
 affairs of this nature ; I therefore advised you to consult 
 a third party, who, no less clear-sighted than myself, 
 suspected the trick you desired to play him." 
 
 " Impossible ! He would not have discounted the 
 bills if he had believed them forged." 
 
 " How much money down did you get for these 
 hundred and thirteen thousand francs ? " 
 
 " Twenty-five thousand francs in ready money, and 
 the rest in small debts to collect." 
 
 " And how much of these small debts did you 
 collect?" 
 
 " Nothing, as you very well know ; they were ficti- 
 tious ; but still he risked twenty-five thousand francs." 
 
 " How green you are, my dear vicomte ! Having my 
 commission of a hundred louis to receive of you if the 
 affair came off, I took very good care not to say a word 
 to No. 3 as to the real state of your affairs. Thus he 
 believed you entirely at your ease, and he, moreover, 
 knew how you were adored by a certain great lady, 
 immensely rich, who would not allow you to be left in 
 
 188
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 any difficulties, and thus he was quite sure of recovering 
 at least as much as he advanced. He ran a risk, cer- 
 tainly, of losing something, but he also ran a chance 
 of gaining very considerably ; and his calculation^ was 
 correct, for, the other day, you counted out to him a 
 hundred thousand francs, good and sound, in order to 
 retire the bill for fifty-eight thousand francs; and, 
 yesterday, thirty thousand francs for the second; for 
 that he contented himself, it is true, with the actual 
 amount. How you raised these thirty thousand francs 
 yesterday, devil fetch me, if I can guess ! But you are 
 a wonderful fellow! You see, now, that, to wind up 
 the account, if Petit-Jean forces you to pay the last bill 
 of twenty-five thousand francs, he will have received 
 from you a hundred and fifty-five thousand francs for 
 the twenty-five thousand which he originally handed to 
 you. So I was quite right when I said that you had 
 met with a person even more clever than yourself." 
 
 "But why did he say that this last bill which he 
 presents to-day was negotiated?" 
 
 " That you might not take the alarm, he told you also 
 that, except that of fifty-eight thousand francs, the others 
 were in circulation ; the first being paid, yesterday comes 
 the second, and to-day the third." 
 « Scoundrel ! " 
 
 "Listen: every one for himself; but let us talk 
 coolly. This must prove to you that Petit-Jean (and, 
 between ourselves, I should not be astonished to find 
 out that, in spite of his sanctity, Jacques Ferrand went 
 snacks in the speculation), this must prove, I say, that 
 Petit-Jean, led on by your first payments, speculates on 
 this last bill, as he has speculated on the others, quite 
 certain that your friends will not allow you to be handed 
 over to a court of assizes. It is for you to see whether 
 or not these friendships are yet drained dry, or if there 
 are yet a few more drops to be squeezed out ; for if, in 
 three hours, the twenty-five thousand francs are not 
 
 189
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 forthcoming, noble vicomte, you will be in the ' Stone 
 Jug.' " 
 
 " Which you keep saying to me — " 
 
 " In order that you may thoroughly comprehend me, 
 and agree, perhaps, to try and draw another feather 
 from the wing of this generous duchess." 
 
 " I repeat, it is useless to think of such a thing. Any 
 hope of finding twenty-five thousand francs in three 
 hours, after the sacrifices she has already made, would 
 be madness to expect." 
 
 " To please you, happy mortal, impossibilities would 
 be attempted ! " 
 
 "Oh, she has already tried impossibilities; for it was 
 one to borrow a hundred thousand francs from her hus- 
 band, and to succeed ; but such phenomena are not ex- 
 pected twice in a lifetime. Now, my dear Badinot, up 
 to this time you have had no cause to complain of me. 
 I have always been generous. Try and obtain some 
 delay from this wretch, Petit-Jean. You know very 
 well I always find a way of recompensing those who 
 serve me ; and when once this last affair is got over 
 I will try again, and you shall be satisfied." 
 
 " Petit-Jean is as inflexible as you are unreasonable." 
 
 "I!" 
 
 " Try once more to interest your generous friend in 
 your sad fate. Devil take it ! Why not tell her plump 
 all about it ; not, as you have already, that you have 
 been the dupe of forgers, but that you are a forger 
 yourself ? " 
 
 " I will never make to her any such confession ; it 
 would be to shame myself for no advantage." 
 
 " Do you prefer, then, that she should learn the fact 
 to-morrow by the Gazette des Tribunaux." 
 
 " I have three hours before me, and can fly." 
 
 " Where can you go without money ? But look at 
 the other side of the matter. This last forged bill 
 retired, you will be again in a splendid position; you 
 
 190
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 will only have a few debts. Come, promise me that 
 you will again speak to your duchess. You are such 
 a fellow for the women I You know how to make your- 
 self interesting in spite of your errors ; and, let the 
 worst come to the worst, they will like you a little the 
 worse, or not at all ; but they will extricate you from 
 your mess. Come, come, see your lovely and loving 
 friend once more. I will run to Petit-Jean, and I feel 
 sure I shall get a respite of an hour or two." 
 
 " Hell ! Must I, then, drink the draught of shame to 
 the very dregs ? " 
 
 " Come, come, good luck ; be tender, passionate, 
 charming. I will run to Petit-Jean ; you will find me 
 there until three o'clock ; later than that will be use- 
 less ; the attorney-general's office closes at four o'clock." 
 And M. Badinot left the apartment. 
 
 When the door was closed, they heard Florestan 
 exclaim in accents of the deepest despair: "ilZb/i 
 Dieu! 3Ion Dieuf Mo7i Dieu!^^ 
 
 During this conversation, which unveiled to the 
 comte the infamy of his son, and to Madame de 
 Lncenay the infamy of the man she had so blindly 
 loved, both had remained motionless, scarcely breath- 
 ing, beneath this fearful disclosure. It would be im- 
 possible to depict the mute eloquence of the agonising 
 scene which took place between this young lady and the 
 comte when he had no longer any possible doubt as to 
 Florestan's crime. Extending his arms to the room in 
 which his son was, the old man smiled with bitterest sar- 
 casm, casting an overwhelming look on Madame de Luce- 
 nay, which seemed to say, " And this is the man for whom 
 you have braved all shame, — made every sacrifice ! This 
 is he whom you have reproached me for abandoning ? " 
 
 The duchess understood the reproach, and, bowing 
 her head, she felt all the weight of her shame. The 
 lesson was terrible. By degrees, however, a haughty 
 indignation succeeded to the cruel anxiety which had 
 
 191
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 contracted the features of Madame de Lucenay. The 
 inexcusable faults of this lady were at least palliat d by 
 the sincerity and disinterestedness of her love, by the 
 boldness of her devotion and the boundlessness of her 
 generosity, by the frankness of her character, and by 
 her inexorable aversion from all that was contemptible 
 and base. 
 
 Still too young, too handsome, too reeherchS, to feel 
 the humiliation of having been merely made a tool of, 
 when once the feeling of love was suddenly crushed 
 within her, this haughty and decided woman felt no 
 longer hatred or anger, but instantaneously, and without 
 any transition, a deadly disgust, an icy disdain, at once 
 destroyed all that affection hitherto so strong. She was 
 no longer the mistress, unworthily deceived by her lover, 
 but the lady of high blood and rank detecting a man of 
 her circle to be a swindler and a forger, and driving him 
 forth. Supposing that there were even some extenuating 
 circumstances for the ignominy of Florestan, Madame de 
 Lucenay would not have admitted them ; for, in her esti- 
 mation, the man who crossed certain bounds of honour, 
 whether from vice, weakness, or persuasion, no longer 
 had an existence in her eyes, honourable demeanour 
 being with her a question of existence or non-existence. 
 The only painful feeling which the duchess experienced 
 was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected 
 revelation produced on her old friend, the comte. 
 
 For some moments he seemed neither to see nor hear ; 
 his eyes were fixed, his head bowed, his arms hanging 
 by his side, his face livid as death ; whilst from time to 
 time a convulsive sigh heaved his breast. With such a 
 man, as resolute as energetic, such a condition was more 
 alarming than the most violent transports of anger. Ma- 
 dame de Lucenay regarded him with great uneasiness. 
 
 " Courage, my dear friend," she said to him, in a low 
 voice, " for you, — for me, — for this man, — I know 
 what remains for me to do." 
 
 192
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 The old man looked steadfastly at her, and then, as 
 if aroused from his stupor by a violent internal commo- 
 tion, he raised his head, his features assumed a menac- 
 ing appearance, and, forgetting that his son could hear 
 him, he exclaimed : 
 
 "And I, too, for you, — for me, — and for this man, 
 — I know what remains for me to do." 
 
 " Who is there ? " inquired Florestan, surprised. 
 ^ Madame de Lucenay, fearing to find herself in the 
 Ticomte's presence, disappeared by the little door, and 
 descended the secret staircase. Florestan having again 
 asked who was there, and receiving no reply, entered 
 the salon. He found the comte there alone. The old 
 man's long beard had so greatly altered him, and he 
 was so miserably clad, that his son, who had not seen 
 him for several years, not recognising him at the 
 moment, advanced towards him with a menacing air. 
 
 " What are you doing there ? Who are you ? " 
 
 " The husband of that woman ! " replied the comte, 
 pointing to the picture of Madame de Saint-Remy. 
 
 "My father!" exclaimed Florestan, recoiling in 
 alarm, as he recalled the features of the comte, so 
 long forgotten. 
 
 Standing erect, with threatening air, angry look, his 
 forehead scarlet, the comte looked down upon his son, 
 who, with his head bent down, dared not raise his eyes 
 towards him. Still, M. de Saint-Remy, for some motive, 
 made a violent effort to remain calm, and conceal his 
 real feelings and resentment. 
 
 "My father!" said Florestan, half choked. "You 
 ■were there ? " 
 
 " I was there." 
 
 "You heard, then?" 
 
 " All ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " cried the vicomte, in agony, and hiding his 
 face in his hands. 
 
 There was a minute's silence. Florestan, at first as 
 
 193
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 much astonished as annoyed at the unexpected appear- 
 ance of his father, began to reflect upon what advantage 
 he could derive from this incident. 
 
 " All is not lost," he said to himself ; " my father's 
 presence is a stroke of fate. He knows all ; he will not 
 have his name dishonoured. He is not rich, but he 
 must possess more than twenty-five thousand francs. 
 A little skill, and I may leave my duchess at peace, 
 and be saved ! " Then, giving to his handsome features 
 an expression of grief and dejection, moistening his eye 
 with the tears of repentance, assuming his most touching 
 tone of voice, he exclaimed, clasping his hands with a 
 gesture of despair : 
 
 " Ah, father, I am indeed wretched ! After so many 
 years, — to see you — at such a moment ! I must appear 
 to you most culpable ; but deign to listen to me ! I 
 beseech you, allow me, not to justify myself, but to 
 explain to you my conduct ! Will you, my father ? " 
 
 M. de Saint-Remy made no reply ; his features 
 remained rigid ; but, seating himself, his chin leaning 
 on the palm of his hand, he contemplated the vicomte in 
 silence. Had Florestan known the motives which filled 
 the mind of his father with fury and vengeance, alarmed 
 by the apparent composure of the comte, he would not, 
 doubtless, have tried to dupe him. But, ignorant of the 
 suspicions respecting the legitimacy of his birth, and of 
 his mother's lapse of virtue, he had no doubt of the suc- 
 cess of his deceit, thinking his father, who was very 
 proud of his name, was capable of making any sacrifice 
 rather than allow it to be dishonoured. 
 
 " My father," resumed Florestan, timidly, " allow me 
 to endeavour, not to exculpate myself, but to tell you by 
 what a series of involuntary temptations I have done, in 
 spite of myself, — such — an infamous action." 
 
 The vicomte took his father's silence for tacit consent, 
 and continued: 
 
 " When I had the misfortune to lose my mother — my 
 
 194
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 poor mother ! — I was alone, without advice or support. 
 Master of a considerable fortune, used to luxury from 
 my cradle, it became to me a necessity. Ignorant how 
 difficult it is to earn money, I was immeasurably prodi- 
 gal. Unfortunately, my expenses, foolish as they were, 
 were remarkable for their elegance. By my taste, I 
 eclipsed men ten times richer than myself. This first 
 success intoxicated me, and I became a man of extrava- 
 gance, as one becomes a man of arms, or a statesman. 
 Yes, I liked luxury, not from vulgar ostentation, but I 
 liked it as a painter loves his art. Like every artist, 
 I was jealous of my work, and my work was to me lux- 
 ury. I sacrificed everything to its perfection. I wished 
 to have it beautiful and complete in everything, from my 
 stable to my drawing-room, from my coat to my house. 
 I wished my life to be the emblem of taste and elegance. 
 In fact, as an artist, I sought the applause of the mob 
 and the admiration of the ^lite. This success is rare, 
 but I acquired it." 
 
 As he spake, Florestan's features gradually lost their 
 hypocritical assumption, and his eyes kindled with enthu- 
 siasm. He looked in his father's face, and, thinking it 
 was somewhat softened, continued : 
 
 " Oracle and regulator of the world, my praise or 
 blame were law : I was quoted, copied, boasted of, 
 admired, and that by the best circle in Paris, which 
 is to say in Europe — in the world. The women partici- 
 pated in the general enthusiasm, and the loveliest con- 
 tended for the pleasure of being invited to certain fetes 
 which I gave, and everywhere wonder was expressed at 
 the incomparable elegance and taste displayed at these 
 fetes, which millionaires could not equal. In fine, I was 
 the monarch of fashion. This word will tell you all, my 
 father, if you comprehend it." 
 
 "I do comprehend it, and I am sure that at the 
 galleys you will invent some refined elegance in your 
 fashion of wearing your chain that will become the mode 
 
 195
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 in your gang, and will be called a la Saint-Remy," said 
 the old man, with cutting irony, adding, " and Saint- 
 Remy, — that is my name ! " And again he was silent. 
 
 Florestan had need of all his self-control to conceal 
 the wound which this bitter sarcasm inflicted. He 
 continued in a more humble tone : 
 
 " Alas ! Father, it is not from pride that I revive the 
 recollection of my success, for, I repeat to you, it is that 
 success which has undone me. Sought, envied, and flat- 
 tered, not by interested parasites, but by persons much 
 superior in position to myself, I no longer calculated my 
 fortune must be expended in a few years ; that I did not 
 heed. Could I renounce this favourite, dazzling life, in 
 which pleasures succeeded pleasures, every kind of intoxi- 
 cation to every kind of enchantment ? Ah, if you knew, 
 father, what it is to be hailed as the hero of the day, 
 to hear the murmur which greets your entrance into the 
 salon, to hear the women say, ' That is he ! There he 
 is ! ' — oh, if you knew — " 
 
 " I know," said the old man, without moving from his 
 attitude, — "I know. Yes, the other day, in a public 
 place, there was a crowd ; suddenly a murmur was 
 heard, like that which greets you when you enter some 
 place ; then the women's eyes were all turned eagerly 
 on a very handsome young man, just as they are turned 
 towards you, and they pointed him out to one another, 
 saying, ' That's he ! There he is ! ' just as if they were 
 directing attention to you." 
 
 " And this man, my father ? " 
 
 " Was a forger they were conveying to gaol." 
 
 " Ah ! '* exclaimed Florestan, with concentrated rage. 
 Then affecting the deepest affliction, he added, " My 
 father, you are pitiless, — what shall I then say to you ? 
 I do not seek to deny my errors, I only desire to explain 
 to you the fatal infatuation which has caused them. 
 "Well, then, even if you should overwhelm me still with 
 your bitterest sarcasms, I will endeavour to go through 
 
 196
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 with this confession, — I will endeavour to make you 
 comprehend this feverish excitement which has destroyed 
 me, because then, perchance, you may pity me, — yes, for 
 there is pity for a madman, and I was mad ! Shutting 
 my eyes, I abandoned myself to the dazzling whirl into 
 which I was drawn, and drew with me the most charm- 
 ing women, the most delightful men. How could I check 
 myself ? As easily say to the poet who exhausts him- 
 self, and whose genius preys upon his health, ' Pause in 
 the midst of the inspiration which urges you ! ' No ! 
 He could not — I could not, abdicate the royalty which 
 1 exercised, and return shamed, ruined, and mocked at, 
 into the unknown mob, giving this triumph to those who 
 envied me, and whom, until then, I had defied, controlled, 
 overpowered ! No ! No ! I could not, voluntarily, at 
 least. 
 
 " Then came the fatal day, when, for the first time, 
 money failed me. I was surprised as much as if such a 
 moment never could have arrived. Yet I had still my 
 horses, my carriages, the furniture of this house. When 
 my debts were paid there would, perhaps, still remain to 
 me about sixty thousand francs. What could I do in 
 such misery ? It was then, father, that I made my first 
 step in the path of disgrace ; until this time I was hon- 
 ourable, — I had only spent what belonged to me, but 
 then I began to incur debts which I had no chance of 
 paying. I sold all I had to two of my domestics in order 
 to pay my debt to them, and to be enabled to continue 
 for six months longer, in spite of my creditors, to enjoy 
 the luxury which intoxicated me. 
 
 " To supply my play debts and extravagant outlay I first 
 borrowed of the Jews, then, to pay the Jews, of my 
 friends, then, to pay my friends, of my mistresses. 
 These resources exhausted, there was another period of 
 my life ; from an honest man I became a gambler, but, 
 as yet, I was not criminal — I still hesitated — I desired 
 to take a violent resolution. I had proved in several 
 
 197
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 duels that I did not fear death. I determined to kill 
 myself!" 
 
 " Ah 1 Bah ! Really ? " said the comte, with fierce 
 irony. 
 
 " You do not believe mo, father ? " 
 
 *' It was too soon or too late ! " replied the old man, 
 still unmoved, and in the same attitude. 
 
 Florestan, believing that he had moved his father by 
 speaking to him of his project for committing suicide, 
 thought it necessary to increase the effect by a covp de 
 tMdtre. He opened a drawer, took from it a small 
 bottle of greenish glass, and said to the comte, deposit- 
 ing it on the table : 
 
 " An Italian quack sold me this poison." 
 
 " And was this poison for yourself ? " said the old 
 man, still having his chin in the palm of his hand. 
 
 Florestan understood the force of ' the remark, his 
 features expressed real indignation ; for this time he 
 spoke the truth. One day he took it into his head to kill 
 himself, — an ephemeral fancy ! Persons of his stamp 
 are usually too cowardly to make up their minds calmly, 
 and without witnesses, to the death which they face as a 
 point of honour in a duel. He therefore exclaimed, with 
 an accent of truth : 
 
 " I have fallen very low, but not so low as that. It 
 was for myself that I reserved this poison." 
 
 " And then were afraid of it ? " asked the comte, with- 
 out changing his posture. 
 
 *' I confess I recoiled before this trying extremity, — 
 nothing was yet desperate. The persons to whom I owed 
 money were rich and could wait. At my age, and with 
 my connections, I hoped for a moment, if not to repair 
 my fortunes, at least to acquire for myself an honourable 
 position, an independence which would have supplied my 
 present situation. Many of my friends, perhaps less 
 qualified than myself, had made rapid progress in diplo- 
 macy. I had ambition. I had but to make it known, 
 
 198
 
 the comte, deposit- 
 
 of ' the reii 
 
 yns of his srainp
 
 mm, 
 
 m:(-.
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 and I was attached to the legation to Gerolstem. IJn- 
 fortunately, a few days after this nomination, a gaming 
 debt, contracted with a man who detested me, placed me 
 in a cruel dilemma. I had exhausted my last resources. 
 A fatal idea flashed across my mind. Believing that I 
 was assured of impunity, I committed an infamous action. 
 You see, my father, I conceal nothing from you. I avow 
 the ignominy of my conduct, — I do not seek to extenuate 
 anything. Two alternatives are now before me, and I am 
 equally inclined to either. The one is to kill myself, and 
 leave your name dishonoured ; for if I do not pay this 
 very day the twenty-five thousand francs, the accusation 
 is made, and all is made public, and, dead or alive, I am 
 disgraced. The second is to throw myself into your arms, 
 father, to say to you, < Save your son, — save your name 
 from infamy ; ' and I swear to you to depart for Africa 
 to-morrow, and die a soldier's death, or return to you 
 completely restored in reputation. What I say to you, 
 father, is true, — in face of the extremity which over- 
 whelms me, I have no other resource. Decide : shall I 
 die covered with shame, or, thanks to you, live to repair 
 my fault? These are not the threats of a young man. 
 I am twenty-five ; I bear your name, and I have sufficient 
 courage either to kill myself, or to become a soldier ; for 
 1 will not go to the galleys." 
 
 The comte rose from his seat, saying : 
 " I do not desire to have my name dishonoured." 
 " Oh, my father ! " exclaimed the vicomte, with 
 warmth, and was about to embrace his father, when 
 the old man, repressing his enthusiasm, said : 
 
 "You are expected until three o'clock at the man's 
 house who has the forged bill ? " 
 
 " Yes, father, and it is now two o'clock." 
 " Let us go into your cabinet ; give me writing ma- 
 terials." 
 
 " They are here, father." 
 
 The comte sat down and wrote, with a firm hand : 
 
 199
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " I undertake to pay this evening, at ten o'clock, the twenty- 
 five thousand francs which my son owes. 
 
 " COMTE DE SaINT-ReMY." 
 
 " Your creditor merely wants his money ; my guaran- 
 tee will obtain a further delay. Let him go to M. 
 Dupont, the banker, at No. 7 in the Rue Richelieu, and 
 he will assure him of the validity of this promise." 
 
 " Oh, my father ! How can I ever — " 
 
 " Expect me this evening ; at ten o'clock I will bring 
 the money. Let your creditor be here." 
 
 " Yes, father, and the day after I will set out for 
 Africa. You shall see that I am not ungrateful ! Then, 
 perhaps, when I am again restored to honour you will 
 accept my thanks ? " 
 
 "You owe me nothing. I have said that my name 
 shall not be dishonoured again ; nor shall it be," said 
 M. de Saint-Remy, in reply, taking up his cane, and 
 moving towards the door. 
 
 "My father, at least shake hands with me!" said 
 Florestan. 
 
 "Here this evening at ten o'clock," said the comte, 
 refusing his hand. 
 
 " Saved ! " exclaimed Florestan, joyously, — " saved ! " 
 Then he continued, after a moment's reflection : " Saved 
 — almost — no matter — it is always so. Perhaps this 
 evening I shall tell him of the other thing. He is in the 
 vein, and will not allow a first sacrifice to become use- 
 less for lack of a second. Yet why should I tell him ? 
 Who will ever know it ? Yet, if nothing should be dis- 
 covered, I shall keep the money he will give me to pay 
 this last debt. I had some work to move him. The 
 bitterness of his sarcasms made me suspicious of his good 
 resolution ; but my threat of suicide, the fear of seeing 
 his name dishonoured, decided him. That was the way 
 to hit him. No doubt he is not so poor as he appears to 
 be. But his arrival was indeed a godsend. Now, then, 
 for the man of law ! " 
 
 200
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 He rang the bell, and M. Boyer appeared. 
 
 "How was it that you did not inform me that my 
 father was here ? Really, this is most negligent." 
 
 " Twice I endeavoured to address your lordship when 
 you came in by the garden gate with M. Badinot, but 
 your lordship made me a sign with your hand not to 
 interrupt you. I did not venture to insist. I should be 
 very much grieved if your lordship should impute negli- 
 gence to me." 
 
 " Very well. Desire Edwards to harness Orion or 
 Ploughboy in the cabriolet immediately." 
 
 M. Boyer made a respectful bow. As he was about 
 to quit the room, some one knocked. He looked at the 
 vicomte with an inquiring air. 
 
 " Come in ! " said Florestan. 
 
 A second valet de chambre appeared, bearing in his 
 hand a small silver-gilt waiter. M. Boyer took hold 
 of the waiter with a kind of jealous haste, and pre- 
 sented it to the vicomte, who took from it a thick packet, 
 sealed with black wax. 
 
 The two servants withdrew discreetly. 
 
 Florestan broke open the envelope. It contained 
 twenty-five thousand francs in treasury bills, but not a 
 word of writing. 
 
 " Decidedly," he exclaimed, in a joyful tone, " the day 
 is propitious ! Saved this time, and at this moment 
 completely saved ! I will run to the jeweller ; and yet," 
 he added, "perhaps — no — let us wait — he cannot 
 have any suspicion of me. Twenty-five thousand francs 
 is a pleasant sum to have by one ! Pardieu ! I was a 
 fool ever to doubt the luck of my star ; at the moment 
 when it seemed most obscure, has it not burst forth 
 more brilliant than ever ? But where does this money 
 come from ? The writing of the address is unknown to 
 me. Let me examine the seal, — the cipher. Yes, yes, 
 I cannot mistake ; an N and an L, — it is Clotilde ! 
 How could she know? And not a word, — that's 
 
 201
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 strange! How very opportune, though! Ah, mon 
 Dieuf now I remember. I had an appointment with 
 her this morning. That Badinot's threats drove it out 
 of my head. I forgot Clotilde. After having waited for 
 me down-stairs, no doubt she went away ; and this is, 
 unquestionably, a delicate way of making me understand 
 that she fears I may forget her through some pecuniary 
 embarrassment. Yes, it is an indirect reproach that I 
 have not applied to her as usual. Good Clotilde ! Al- 
 ways the same, — generous as a queen ! What a pity I 
 was ever driven to ask her, — her still so handsome ! 
 I sometimes regret it, but I only did it in a direful 
 extremity, and on sheer compulsion." 
 
 " Your lordship's cabriolet is at the door," said M. 
 Boyer, on entering the room. 
 
 " Who brought this letter ? " Florestan inquired. 
 
 " I do not know, my lord." 
 
 " Well, I will ask below. But tell me, was there no 
 one in the ground floor ? " asked the vicomte, looking 
 significantly at Boyer. 
 
 " There is no one there now, my lord." 
 
 " I was not mistaken," thought Florestan ; " Clotilde 
 waited for me, and is now gone." 
 
 "If your lordship would have the goodness to grant 
 me two minutes," said Boyer. 
 
 " Speak, but be quick ! " 
 
 " Edwards and myself have learnt that the Due de 
 Montbrison is desirous of forming an establishment. If 
 your lordship would but just be so kind to propose your 
 own ready furnished, with the stable in first-rate order, 
 it would be a most admirable opportunity for Edwards 
 and myself to get the whole off our hands, and, perhaps, 
 for your lordship a good reason for disposing of them." 
 
 " Pardieu ! Boyer, you are right. As for me, I should 
 prefer such an arrangement. I will see Montbrison, and 
 speak to him. What are your terms ? " 
 
 " Your lordship will easily understand that we are 
 202
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 desirous of profiting as much as possible by your gen- 
 erosity." 
 
 " And turn your bargain to the best advantage ? Noth- 
 ing can be plainer ! Let us see, — what's the price ? " 
 
 " The whole, two hundred and sixty thousand francs 
 (10,400Z.), my lord." 
 
 " And you and Edwards will thus clear — " 
 "About forty thousand francs (1,600^.), my lord." 
 " A very nice sum ! But so much the better, for, 
 after all, I am very much satisfied with you, and, if I 
 had to make my will, I should have bequeathed that 
 sum to you and Edwards." 
 
 And the vicomte went out, first to call on his creditor, 
 then on Madame de Lucenay, whom he did not suspect 
 of having been present at his conversation with Badinot. 
 
 203
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 The H6tel de Lucenay was one of those royal resi- 
 dences of the Faubourg St. Germain, which the space 
 employed, and, as it were, lost, make so vast. A 
 modern house might, with ease, be contained in the 
 limits devoted to the staircase of one of these palaces, 
 and a whole quarter might be built in the extent they 
 occupy. 
 
 About nine o'clock in the evening of this day the two 
 vast folding-doors of this hOtcl opened on the arrival of 
 a magnificent chariot, which, after having taken a dash- 
 ing turn in the spacious courtyard, stopped before the 
 large covered flight of steps which led to the first ante- 
 chamber. Whilst the hoofs of two powerful and high- 
 couraged horses sounded on the echoing pavement, a 
 gigantic footman opened the door, emblazoned with 
 armorial bearings, and a young man alighted grace- 
 fully from this brilliant carriage, and no less gracefully 
 walked up the five or six steps of the entrance. This 
 young man was the Vicomte de Saint-Remy. 
 
 On leaving his creditor, who, satisfied with the under- 
 taking of Florestan's father, had granted the required 
 delay, and was to come and receive his money at ten 
 o'clock in the Rue de Chaillot, M. de Saint-Remy had 
 gone to Madame de Lucenay 's, to thank her for the 
 fresh service she had rendered him, and, not having 
 seen the duchess during the morning, he came trium- 
 phant, certain of finding her in prima sera, the hour 
 which she constantly reserved for him. 
 
 2Ui
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 By the attention of the footmen in the antechamber, 
 who hastened to open the glass door as soon as thej 
 saw Florestan's carriage, by the profoundly respectful 
 air with which the rest of the livery all rose as the 
 vicomte passed by. and by certain, yet almost impercep- 
 tible touches, it was evident that here was the second, 
 or, rather, the real master of the house. 
 
 When the Due de Lucenay returned home, with his 
 umbrella in his hand and his feet protected by clumsy 
 goloshes (he hated going out in a carriage in the day- 
 time), the same domestic evolutions were gone through 
 with similar respect; still, in the eyes of a keen ob- 
 server, there was a vast difference between the reception 
 accorded to the husband and that reserved for the lover. 
 
 A corresponding attention displayed itself in the foot- 
 man's waiting-room when Florestan entered it, and one 
 of the valets instantly arose to announce him to Madame 
 de Lucenay. 
 
 The vicomte had never been more joyous, never felt 
 himself more at his ease, more confident of himself, 
 more assured of conquest. The victory he had obtained 
 over his father in the morning, the fresh proof of attach- 
 ment on the part of Madame de Lucenay, the joy at 
 having escaped, as it were, by a miracle, from a terrible 
 situation, his renewed confidence in his star, gave his 
 handsome features an expression of boldness and good 
 humour which rendered it still more captivating. 
 
 In fact, he had never felt himself more himself. And 
 he was right. Never had his slender and graceful figure 
 displayed a finer carriage, never had his look been more 
 elevated, never had his pride been more deliciously 
 tickled by the thought, "The great lady — the mis- 
 tress of this palace is mine — is at my feet ! This very 
 morning she waited for me in my own house ! " 
 
 Florestan had given way to these excessively vain- 
 glorious reflections as he traversed three or four apart- 
 ments, which led to a small room in which the duchess 
 
 205
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 usually sat. A last look at himself in a glass which ho 
 passed completed the excellent opinion which Florestan 
 had of himself. The valet de chamhre opened the fold- 
 ing-doors of the salon, and announced, " Monsieur the 
 Vicomte de Saint-Remy ! " 
 
 It is impossible to paint the astonishment and indig- 
 nation of the duchess. She believed the comte had not 
 concealed from his son that she also had overheard all. 
 
 We have already said that, on discovering Florestan's 
 infamy, Madame de Lucenay's love, suddenly quenched, 
 had changed into the most frigid disdain. We have also 
 said that, in the midst of her errors, her frailties, Ma- 
 dame de Lucenay had preserved pure and intact her 
 feelings of rectitude, honour, and chivalric frankness, 
 whose strength and requirements were excessively strong. 
 She possessed the better qualities of her faults, the 
 virtues of her vices. 
 
 Treating love as cavalierly as a man treats it, she 
 pushed as far, nay, further, than a man, devotion, gen- 
 erosity, courage, and, above all, intense horror of all 
 baseness. Madame de Lucenay, being about to go to 
 a party in the evening, was, although without her 
 diamonds, dressed with her accustomed taste and mag- 
 nificence ; and her splendid costume, the rouge she wore 
 without attempt at concealment, like a court lady, up to 
 her eyelids, her beauty, which was especially brilliant at 
 candle-light, her figure of a goddess walking in the 
 clouds, rendered still more striking that noble air which 
 no one displayed to greater advantage than she did, and 
 which she carried, if requisite, to a height of insolence 
 that was overwhelming. 
 
 We know the haughty and resolute disposition of the 
 duchess, and we may imagine her physiognomy, her 
 look, when the vicomte, advancing towards her, con- 
 ceited, smiling, confident, said, in a tone of love : 
 
 " Dearest Clotilde, how good you are ! How you — " 
 
 The vicomte could not finish. The duchess was 
 
 206
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 seated, and had not risen ; but her gesture, her glance, 
 betokened contempt, at once so calm and crushing that 
 Florestan stopped short. He could not utter another 
 word, nor advance another step. He had never before 
 seen Madame de Lucenay under this aspect. He could 
 not believe that it was the same woman, whom he had 
 always found gentle, tender, and passionately submis- 
 sive ; for nothing is more humble, more timid, than a 
 determined woman in the presence of the man whom 
 she loves and who controls her. 
 
 His first surprise past, Florestan was ashamed of his 
 weakness ; his habitual audacity resumed its ascendency, 
 and, making a step towards Madame de Lucenay in order 
 to take her hand, he said, in his most insinuating tone : 
 
 " Clotilde, what ails you ? I never saw you look so 
 lovely, and yet — " 
 
 " Really, this is too impudent ! " exclaimed the 
 duchess, recoiling with such disgust and hauteur that 
 Florestan was again overcome with surprise. 
 
 Resuming some assurance, he said to her : 
 
 " Will you, at least, Clotilde, tell me the cause of this 
 change, sudden, singular as it is ? What have I done ? 
 How have I offended ?" 
 
 Without making any reply, Madame de Lucenay 
 looked at him, as is vulgarly said, from head to foot, 
 with so insulting an expression that Florestan felt red 
 with the anger which displayed itself upon his brow, and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " I am aware, madame, that it is thus you habitually 
 break off. Is it a rupture that you now desire ? " 
 
 " The question is singular ! " said Madame de Lucenay, 
 with a sarcastic laugh. " Learn, sir, that when a lackey 
 robs me, I do not break with him, I turn him away." 
 
 " Madame ! " 
 
 " Oh, a truce to this ! " said the duchess, in a stern 
 and peremptory tone. " Your presence disgusts me ! 
 Why are you here ? Have you not had your money ? " 
 
 207
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " It is true, then, as I guessed, the twenty-five thousand 
 francs — " 
 
 " Your last forgery is withdrawn, is it not ? The 
 honour of your family's name is saved, — that is well, 
 -go!" 
 
 " Ah ! believe me — " 
 
 " I very much regret that money, for it might have 
 succoured so many honest families ; but it was neces- 
 sary to think of the shame to your father and to 
 myself." 
 
 " So then, Clotilde, you know all ? Ah, then, now 
 nothing is left me but to die ! " exclaimed Florestan, 
 in a most pathetic and despairing tone. 
 
 A burst of derisive laughter from the duchess hailed 
 this tragic exclamation, and she added, between two fits 
 of fresh hilarity : 
 
 " I could never have believed infamy could appear so 
 ridiculous ! " 
 
 " Madame ! " cried Florestan, his features contracted 
 with rage. 
 
 The two folding-doors opened with a loud noise, and 
 M. le Due de Montbrison was announced. 
 
 In spite of his self-command, Florestan could scarcely 
 repress the violence of his resentment, which any man 
 more observing than the duke must certainly have 
 perceived. 
 
 M. de Montbrison was scarcely eighteen years of age. 
 Let our readers imagine a most engaging countenance, 
 like that of a young girl, white and red, whose vermilion 
 lips and downy chin were slightly shaded by a nascent 
 beard. Let them add to this large brown eyes, as yet 
 timid, but which in time would gleam like a falcon's, a 
 figure as graceful as that of the duchess herself, and 
 then, perhaps, they may have some idea of this young 
 duke, the Cherubino as complete in idea as ever countess 
 or waiting-maid decked in a woman's cap, after having 
 remarked the ivory whiteness of his neck. 
 
 208
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 The vicomte had the weakness or the audacity to 
 remain. 
 
 "How kind of you, Conrad, to think of me this 
 evening!" said Madame de Lucenay, in a most affec- 
 tionate voice, and extending her hand to the young 
 duke, who was about to shake hands with his cousin, 
 but Clotilde raised her hand a little, and said to him 
 gaily : 
 
 " Kiss it, cousin, — you have your gloves on." 
 
 " Pardon me, my dear cousin," said the young man, 
 as he applied his lips to the naked and charming hand 
 that was offered to him. 
 
 " What are you going to do this evening, Conrad ? " 
 inquired Madame de Lucenay, without seeming to take 
 the slightest notice in the world of Florestan. 
 
 " Nothing, cousin ; when I leave you, I shall go to the 
 club." 
 
 " Indeed you shall not ; you shall accompany us, M. de 
 Lucenay and me, to Madame de Senneval's ; she gives a 
 party, and has frequently asked me to introduce you to 
 her." 
 
 " I shall be but too happy." 
 
 " Then, too, I must tell you frankly that I don't like 
 to see you begin so early with your habits and tastes for 
 clubs. You are possessed of everything necessary in 
 order to be everywhere welcomed, and even sought after, 
 in the world, and you ought, therefore, to mix with it as 
 much as possible." 
 
 " Yes, you are right, cousin." 
 
 " And as I am on the footing of a grandmother with 
 you, my dear Conrad, I am determined to exact a great 
 deal from you. You are emancipated, it is true, but I 
 believe you will want a guardian for a long time to come, 
 and you must, therefore, consider me in that light." 
 
 " Most joyfully, happily, cousin ! " said the young duke, 
 emphatically. 
 
 It is impossible to describe the mute rage of Florestan, 
 
 209
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 who was standing up, and leaning with his elbow on the 
 mantelpiece. Neither the duke nor Clotilde paid the 
 slightest attention to him. Knowing the rapidity with 
 which Madame de Lucenay decided, he imagined she was 
 pushing her boldness and contempt so far as to com- 
 mence at once, and in his presence, a regular flirtation, 
 with the Due de Montbrison. 
 
 It was not so. The duchess felt for her cousin 
 nothing beyond a truly maternal affection, having 
 almost seen him born. But the young duke was so 
 handsome, and seemed so happy at the agreeable 
 reception of his cousin, that the jealousy, or, rather, 
 pride of Florestan was aroused. His heart writhed 
 beneath the cruel wounds of envy, excited by Conrad 
 de Montbrison, who, rich and handsome, was beginning 
 so splendidly that life of pleasures, enjoyments, and 
 fetes, from which he, ruined, undone, despised, dis- 
 honoured, was expelled. 
 
 M. de Saint-Remy was brave with that bravery of the 
 head, if we may so call it, which will urge a man, by 
 anger or by vanity, to face a duel. But, vitiated and 
 corrupted, he had not the courage of the heart which 
 triumphs over bad inclinations, or which, at least, gives 
 the energy which enables a man to escape infamy by a 
 voluntary death. Furious at the bitter contempt of the 
 duchess, believing he saw a successor in the young duke, 
 M. de Saint-Remy resolved to confront Madame de 
 Lucenay with all insolence, and, if need were, to seek a 
 quarrel with Conrad. 
 
 The duchess, irritated at Florestan's audacity, did not 
 look towards him, and M. de Montbrison, in his anxious 
 attention to his cousin, forgetting something of his high 
 breeding, had not saluted or spoken a word to the 
 vicomte, with whom he was acquainted. The latter, 
 advancing to Conrad, whose back was towards him, 
 touched his arm lightly, and said, in a dry and ironical 
 tone: 
 
 210
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 " Good evening, sir ; a thousand pardons for not 
 having observed you before." 
 
 M. de Montbrison, perceiving that he had really failed 
 in politeness, turned around instantly, and said cordially 
 to the vicomte : 
 
 " Really, sir, I am ashamed ; but I hope that my 
 cousin, who caused my forgetfulness, will be my ex- 
 cuse, and — " 
 
 " Conrad," interposed the duchess, immeasurably 
 annoyed at Florestan's impudence, persisting as he 
 did in remaining, as it were, to brave her, — " Conrad, 
 tha.t will do ; make no apologies ; it is not worth while.'* 
 
 M. de Montbrison, believing that his cousin was 
 reproaching him in joke for being somewhat too 
 formal, said, in a gay tone, to the vicomte, who was 
 livid with rage : 
 
 " I will not say more, sir, since my cousin forbids me. 
 You see her guardianship has begun." 
 
 " And will not stop when it begins, my dear sir, be 
 assured of that. Thus, with this notice (which Madame 
 la Duchesse will hasten to fulfil, I have no doubt) — with 
 this notice, I say, I have it in my mind to make you a 
 proposal." 
 
 " To me, sir ? " said Conrad, beginning to take offence 
 at the sardonic tone of Florestan. 
 
 " To you yourself. I leave in a few days for the 
 legation to Gerolstein, to which I am attached. I wish, 
 therefore, to get my house, completely furnished, and my 
 stable, entirely arranged, off my hands ; and you might 
 find it a suitable arrangement ; " and the vicomte inso- 
 lently emphasised his last words, looking Madame de 
 Lucenay full in the face. " It would be very piquant, 
 would it not, Madame la Duchesse ? " 
 
 " I do not understand you, sir," said M. de Montbrison, 
 more and more astonished. 
 
 " I will tell you, Conrad, why you cannot accept the 
 offer that is made you," said Clotilde. 
 
 211
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 "And why, Madame la Duchesse, cannot the duke 
 accept my offer ? " 
 
 " My dear Conrad, what is offered you for sale is 
 already sold to others. So, you understand, you would 
 have the inconvenience of being robbed just as if you 
 were in a wood." 
 
 Florestan bit his lips with rage. 
 
 " Take care, madame ! " he cried. 
 
 « What, threats ! and here, sir?" exclaimed Conrad. 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! Conrad, pay no attention," said 
 Madame de Lucenay, taking a lozenge from a sweet- 
 meat box with the utmost composure ; " a man of 
 honour ought not and cannot have any future com- 
 munication with that person. If he likes, I will tell 
 you why." 
 
 A tremendous explosion would no doubt have 
 occurred, when the two folding-doors again opened, 
 and the Due de Lucenay entered, noisily, violently, 
 hurriedly, as was " his usual custom in the after- 
 noon," as well as the forenoon. 
 
 " Ah, my dear ! What, dressed already ? " said he to 
 his wife. " Why, how surprising ! Quite astonishing ! 
 Good evening, Saint-Remy ; good evening, Conrad. 
 Ah, you see the most miserable of men ; that is to 
 say, I neither sleep nor eat, but am completely ' done 
 up.' Can't reconcile myself to it. Poor D'Harville, 
 what an event ! " And M. de Lucenay threw himself 
 back in a sort of small sofa with two backs, and, cross- 
 ing his left knee over his right, took his foot in his 
 hand, whilst he continued to utter the most distressing 
 exclamations. 
 
 The excitement of Conrad and Florestan had 
 time to calm down, without being perceived by M. de 
 Lucenay, who was the least clear-sighted man in the 
 world. 
 
 Madame de Lucenay, not from embarrassment, for 
 she was never embarrassed, as we know, but because 
 
 212
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 Florestan's presence was as disgusting as it was insup. 
 portable, said to the duke : 
 
 "We are ready to go as soon as you please. I am 
 going to introduce Conrad to Madame de Senneval." 
 
 " No, no, no ! " cried the duke, letting go his foot to 
 seize one of the cushions, on which he struck violently 
 with his two fists, to the great alarm of Clotilde, who, 
 at the sudden cries of her husband, started from her 
 chair. 
 
 "Monsieur, what ails you?" she inquired; "you 
 frighten me exceedingly." 
 
 " No," replied the duke, thrusting the cushion from 
 him, rising suddenly, and walking up and down with 
 rapid strides and gesticulations, " I cannot get over the 
 idea of the death of poor dear D'Harville ; can you, 
 Saint-Remy?" 
 
 " Indeed, it was a frightful event ! " said the vicomte, 
 who, with hatred and rage in his heart, kept his eye on 
 M. de Montbrison ; but this latter, after the last words 
 of his cousin, turned away from a man so deeply 
 degraded, not from want of feeling, but from pride. 
 
 "For goodness' sake, my lord," said the duchess to 
 her husband, " do not regret the loss of M. d'Harville in 
 so noisy and really so singular a manner. Ring, if you 
 please for my carriage." 
 
 " Yes, it is really true," said M. de Lucenay, seizing 
 the bell-rope, " really true that, three days ago, he was 
 full of life and health, and, to-day, what remains of 
 him? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!" 
 
 These three last exclamations were accompanied by 
 three such violent pulls that the bell-rope, which the 
 duke held in his hand whilst he was gesticulating, broke 
 away from the upper spring, fell on a candelabra filled 
 with lighted wax candles, knocked two of them out of 
 the sconces, one of which, falling on the mantelpiece, 
 broke a lovely little cup of old Sevres china ; whilst the 
 other, falling on the ground, rolled on a fur hearth rug, 
 
 213
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 which took flame, but was soon extinguished under 
 Conrad's foot. 
 
 At the same moment, two valets de chamhre^ sum- 
 moned by the furious ringing, entered hastily, and found 
 M. de Lucenay with the bell-rope in his hand, the 
 duchess laughing heartily at this ridiculous fall of the 
 wax lights, and M. de Montbrison sharing her mirth. 
 M. de Saint-Remy alone did not laugh. M. de Lucenay, 
 quite accustomed to such accidents, preserved his usual 
 seriousness, and, throwing the bell-rope to one of the 
 men, said : 
 
 " The duchess's carriage." 
 
 Clotilde, having somewhat recovered her composure, 
 said : 
 
 " Really, my lord, there is no man in the world but 
 yourself capable of exciting laughter at so lamentable an 
 event." 
 
 " Lamentable ! Say fearful. Why, now, only yester- 
 day, I was recollecting how many persons in my own 
 family I would rather should have died than poor 
 D'Harville. First, there's my nephew, D'Emberval, 
 who stutters so annoyingly ; then there's your Aunt 
 M^rinville, who is always talking about her nerves 
 and her headache, and who always gobbles up every 
 day, whilst she is waiting for dinner, a mess of broth 
 like a porter's wife. Are you very fond of your Aunt 
 M6rinville ? " 
 
 " Really, my lord, have you lost your wits ?" said the 
 duchess, shrugging her shoulders. 
 
 " It's true enough, though," continued the duke ; 
 " one would give twenty indifferent persons for one 
 friend ; eh, Saint-Remy ? " 
 
 " Unquestionably." 
 
 " It is the old story of the tailor over again. Do you 
 know it, Conrad, — the story of the tailor ? " 
 
 " No, cousin." 
 
 " You will understand the allegory at once. A tailor 
 
 214
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 was going to be hanged ; he was the only tailor in the 
 village. What were the inhabitants to do ? They said 
 to the judge, ' Please your judgeship, we have only one 
 tailor, and we have three shoemakers ; if it is all the 
 same to you, please to hang one of the three shoemakers 
 in the place of the tailor, for two shoemakers are 
 enough.' Do you understand the allegory, Conrad ? " 
 " Yes, cousin." 
 " And you, Saint-Remy ? " 
 " Quite." 
 
 " Her grace's carriage ! " said one of the servants. 
 " But, I say, why haven't you put on your diamonds?" 
 asked M. de Lucenay, abruptly ; " with that dress they 
 would look remarkably well." 
 Saint-Remy shuddered. 
 
 " For the one poor time we are going out together," 
 continued the duke, " you might have done us the hon- 
 our to wear your diamonds. The duchess's diamonds 
 are particularly fine. Did you ever see them, Saint- 
 Remy ? " 
 
 " Yes, he knows them well enough ! " said Clotilde ; 
 and then she added, " Your arm, Conrad." 
 
 M. de Lucenay followed the duchess with Saint-Remy, 
 who could scarcely repress his anger. 
 
 " Aren't you coming with us to the Sennevals, Saint- 
 Remy ? " inquired M. de Lucenay. 
 " No, impossible," he replied, briefly. 
 " By the way, Saint-Remy, there's Madame de Senne- 
 val, too, — what, do I say one ? There's two — whom I 
 would willingly sacrifice, for her husband is also on 
 my list." 
 
 "What list?" 
 
 " That of the people whom I should not have cared to 
 see die, provided D'Harville had been left to us." 
 
 At the moment when they were in the anteroom, and 
 M. de Montbrison was helping the duchess on with her 
 mantle, M. de Lucenay, addressing his cousin, said to him : 
 
 215
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Since you are coming with us, Conrad, desire your 
 carriage to follow ours ; unless you will decide on com- 
 ing, Saint-Remy, and then you shall take me, and I will 
 tell you another story quite as good as that of the 
 tailor." 
 
 "Thank you," said Saint-Remy, dryly, "I cannot 
 accompany you." 
 
 " Well, then, good night, my dear fellow. Have you 
 and my wife quarrelled, for she is getting into her 
 carriage without saying a word to you ? " 
 
 And at this moment, the duchess's berline having 
 drawn up at the steps, she entered it. 
 
 "Now, cousin," said Conrad, waiting for M. de 
 Lucenay with an air of deference. 
 
 " Get in ! Get in ! " said the duke, who had stopped 
 a moment, and, from the door, was contemplating the 
 elegant equipage of the vicomte. "Are those your 
 grays, Saint-Remy ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And your jolly-looking Edwards ! He's what I call 
 a right sort of coachman. How well he has his horses 
 in hand ! To do justice, there is no one who, like Saint- 
 Remy, does things in such devilish high style ! " 
 
 " My dear fellow, Madame de Lucenay and your 
 cousin are waiting for you," said M. de Saint-Remy, 
 with bitterness. 
 
 " Pardieu I and that's true. What a forgetful rascal 
 I am! Au revoivy Saint-Remy. Ah, I forgot," said 
 the duke, stopping half way down the steps, "if you 
 have nothing better to do, come and dine with us to- 
 morrow. Lord Dudley has sent us some grouse from 
 Scotland, and they are out-of-the-way things, you know. 
 You'll come, won't you?" And the duke sprang into 
 the carriage which contained his wife and Conrad. 
 
 Saint-Remy remained alone on the steps, and saw the 
 carriage drive away. His own then drove up. He got 
 into it, casting on that house which he had so often 
 
 216
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 entered as master, and which now he so ignominiously 
 quitted, a look of anger, hatred, and despair. 
 
 " Home ! " he said, abruptly. 
 
 " To the hStel ! " said the footman to Edwards, as he 
 closed the door. 
 
 We may imagine how bitter and desolating were 
 Saint-Remy's thoughts as he returned to his house. At 
 the moment when he reached it, Boyer, who awaited 
 him at the portico, said to him : 
 
 " M. le Comte is above, and waits for M. le Vicomte." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 " And there is also a man whom your lordship 
 appointed at ten o'clock, — a M. Petit-Jean." 
 
 " Very well. Oh, what an evening party ! " said 
 Florestan, as he went up-stairs to see his father, whom 
 he found in the salon on the first floor, the same room 
 in which their meeting of the morning had taken place. 
 " A thousand pardons, my father, that I was not await- 
 ing you when you arrived ; but I — " 
 
 " Is the man here who holds the forged bill ? " in- 
 quired the comte, interrupting his son. 
 
 " Yes, father, he is below." 
 
 " Desire him to come up." 
 
 Florestan rang, and Boyer appeared. 
 
 " Desire M. Petit-Jean to come up." 
 
 " Yes, my lord," and Boyer withdrew. 
 
 " How good you are, father, to remember your kind 
 promise ! " 
 
 " I always remember what I promise." 
 
 " What gratitude do I owe you ! How can I ever 
 prove to you — " 
 
 " I will not have my name dishonoured ! It shall not 
 be!" 
 
 " It shall not be ! No, it shall never be, I swear to 
 you, my father ! " 
 
 The comte looked strangely at his son, and re- 
 peated : 
 
 217
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 "No, it shall never be!" Then he added, with a 
 sarcastic air, " You are a prophet." 
 
 " I read my resolution in my heart." 
 
 Florestan's father made no rejoinder. He walked up 
 and down the room with his two hands thrust into the 
 pockets of his long coat. lie was very pale. 
 
 " M. Petit-Jean," said Boyer, introducing a man of a 
 mean, sordid, and crafty look. 
 
 " Where is the bill ? " inquired the comte. 
 
 "Here it is, sir," said Petit-Jean (Jacques Fcrrand 
 the notary's man of straw), handing the bill to the 
 comte. 
 
 " Is this it ? " said the latter, showing the bill to his 
 son. 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 The comte took from his waistcoat pocket twenty-five 
 notes of a thousand francs each, handed them to his son, 
 and said : 
 
 " Pay ! " 
 
 Florestan paid, and took the bill with a deep sigh of 
 the utmost satisfaction. M. Petit-Jean put the notes 
 carefully in an old pocket-book, made his bow, and 
 retired. M. de Saint-Remy left the salon with him, 
 whilst Florestan was very carefully tearing up the bill. 
 
 "At least Clotilde's twenty-five thousand francs are 
 still in my pocket, and if nothing is revealed, that is a 
 comfort. But how she treated me ! But what can my 
 father have to say to the man Petit-Jean ? " 
 
 The noise of a door being double-locked made the 
 vicomte start. His father returned to the room. His 
 pallor had even increased. 
 
 " I fancied, father, I heard you lock the door of my 
 cabinet ? " 
 
 " Yes, I did." 
 
 " And why, my dear father ? " asked Florestan, greatly 
 amazed. 
 
 " I will tell you." 
 
 218
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 And the comte placed himself so that his son could 
 not pass out by the secret staircase which led to the 
 ground floor. 
 
 Florestan, greatly disquieted, now observed the sinister 
 look of his father, and followed all his movements with 
 mistrust. Without being able to accoxmt for it, he felt 
 a vague alarm. 
 
 " What ails you, father ? " 
 
 " This morning when you saw me, your only thought 
 was, ' My father will not allow his name to be dis- 
 honoured ; he will pay if I can but contrive to wheedle 
 him by some feigned words of repentance.' " 
 
 " Can you indeed think — " 
 
 " Do not interrupt me. I have not been your dupe ; 
 you have neither shame, regret, nor remorse. You are 
 vicious to the very core, you have never felt one 
 honest aspiration, you have not robbed as long as 
 you have been in possession of wherewithal to gratify 
 your caprices, — that is what is called the probity of rich 
 persons of your stamp. Then came the want of delicate 
 feeling, then meannesses, then crime, then forgery. This 
 is but the first period of your life, — it is bright and 
 pure in comparison with that which would be yet to 
 come." 
 
 " If I did not change my conduct, assuredly ; but I 
 shall change it, father, I have sworn to you." 
 
 " You will not change it." 
 
 "But — " 
 
 " You will not change it ! Expelled from society in 
 which you have hitherto lived, you would become very 
 quickly criminal, like the wretches amongst whom you 
 would be cast, a thief inevitably, and, if your need were, 
 an assassin. That would be your future life." 
 
 " I an assassin ? — I ? " 
 
 " Yes, because you are a coward ! " 
 
 " I have had duels, and have evinced — " 
 
 " I tell you, you are a coward ! You have already 
 
 219
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 preferred infamy to death. A day would come in which 
 you would prefer the impunity for fresh crimes to the 
 life of another. This must not be, — I will not allow it. 
 I have come in time, at least, to save my name from 
 public dishonour hereafter. There must be an end to 
 this." 
 
 " What do you mean, dearest father ? How an end 
 to this ? What would you imply ? " exclaimed Flores- 
 tan, still more alarmed at the fearful expression and the 
 increased pallor of his father's countenance. 
 
 Suddenly there was a violent blow struck on the 
 cabinet door. Florestan made a motion to go and open 
 it, in order to put an end to a scene which terrified him ; 
 but the comte seized him with a hand of iron, and held 
 him fast. 
 
 " Who knocks ? " inquired the comte. 
 
 " In the name of the law, open ! Open ! " said a 
 voice. 
 
 " That forgery, then, was not the last," exclaimed the 
 comte, in a low voice, and looking at his son with a 
 terrible air. 
 
 " Yes, my father, I swear it ! " exclaimed Florestan, 
 endeavouring, but vainly, to extricate himself from the 
 vigorous grasp of his father. 
 
 " In the name of the law, open ! " repeated the voice. 
 ; " What is it you seek ? " demanded the comte. 
 
 " I am a commissary of police, and I have come to 
 make a search after a robbery of diamonds, of which 
 M. de Saint-Remy is accused. M. Baudoin, a jeweller, 
 has proofs. If you do not open, sir, I shall be compelled 
 to force open the door." 
 
 " Already a thief ! I was not then deceived," said 
 the comte, in a low voice. " I came to kill you, — I 
 have delayed too long." 
 
 "Kill me?" 
 
 " There is already too much dishonour on my name, 
 — it must end. I have here two pistols ; you must 
 
 220
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 blow out your brains, or I will blow them out, and I 
 will say that you killed yourself in despair in order 
 to escape from shame." 
 
 And, with a fearful sang-froid, the comte drew a 
 pistol from his pocket, and, with the hand that was 
 free, presented it to his son, saying : 
 
 " Now an end to this, if, indeed, you are not a 
 coward ! " 
 
 After repeated and ineffectual attempts to free him- 
 self from the comte's hand, his son fell back aghast and 
 livid with fear. He saw by the fearful look, the inexo- 
 rable demeanour of his father, that he had no pity to 
 expect from him. 
 
 " My father ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " You must die ! " 
 
 " I repent ! " 
 
 " It is too late. Hark ! They are forcing in the 
 door ! " 
 
 " I will expiate my faults ! " 
 
 " They are entering ! Must I then kill you with my 
 own hand ? " 
 
 " Pardon ! " 
 
 " The door gives way ! You will then have it so ! " 
 
 And the comte placed the muzzle of the weapon 
 against Florestan's breast. 
 
 The noise without announced that the door of the 
 cabinet could not long resist. The vicomte saw he 
 was lost. A sudden and desperate resolution lighted 
 up his countenance. He no longer struggled with his 
 father, and he said to him, with equal firmness and 
 resignation : 
 
 " You are right, my father ! Give me the pistol ! 
 There is infamy enough on my name ! The life in store 
 for me is frightful, and is not worth the trouble of a 
 struggle. Give me the pistol ! You shall see if I am 
 a coward ! " and he put forth his hand to take the 
 pistol. " But, at least, one word, — one single word 
 
 221
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 of consolation, — pity, — farewell ! " said Florestan ; and 
 his trembling lips, his paleness, his agitated features, all 
 betokened the terrible emotion of this frightful moment. 
 
 " But what if he were, indeed, my son ! " thought the 
 comte, with terror, and hesitating to hand him the deadly 
 instrument. "If he were my son I ought to hesitate 
 before such a sacrifice." 
 
 A loud cracking of the cabinet door announced that 
 it was being forced. 
 
 " My father, they are coming ! Oh, now I feel that 
 death is indeed a benefit. Yes, now I thank you ! But, 
 at least, your hand, — and forgive me ! " 
 
 In spite of his sternness, the comte could not repress 
 a shudder, as he said, in a voice of emotion : 
 
 " I forgive you." 
 
 " My father, the door opens ; go to them, that, at 
 least, they may not even suspect you. Besides, if they 
 enter here, they will prevent me from completing, — 
 adieu ! " 
 
 The steps of several persons were heard in the next 
 room. Florestan placed the muzzle of the pistol to his 
 heart. It went off at the instant when the comte, to 
 avoid the horrid sight, turned away his head, and 
 rushed out of the salon, whose curtains closed upon 
 him. 
 
 At the sound of this explosion, at the sight of the 
 comte, pale and haggard, the commissary stopped short 
 at the threshold of the door, making a sign- to his agents 
 to pause also. 
 
 Informed by Boyer that the vicomte was shut up with 
 his father, the magistrate understood all, and respected 
 his deep grief. 
 
 " Dead ! " exclaimed the comte, hiding his face in 
 his hands. " Dead ! " he repeated in a tone of agony. 
 " It was just, — better death than infamy ! But it is 
 horrible ! " 
 
 " Sir," said the magistrate, sorrowfully, after a few 
 222
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 minutes' silence, « spare yourself a painful spectacle, — 
 leave the house. And now I have another duty to 
 fulfil, even more painful than that which summoned 
 me hither." 
 
 " You are quite right, sir," said M. de Saint-Remy ; 
 "as to the sufferer by this robbery, you will request 
 him to call on M. Dupont, the banker." 
 
 "In the Rue Richelieu? He is very well known," 
 replied the magistrate. 
 
 "What is the estimated value of the stolen dia- 
 monds ? " 
 
 "About thirty thousand francs. The person who 
 bought them, and by whom the fraud was detected, 
 gave that amount for them to your son." 
 
 " I can still pay it, sir. Let the jeweller go to my 
 banker the day after to-morrow, and I will have it all 
 arranged." 
 
 The commissary bowed. The comte left the room. 
 After the departure of the latter, the magistrate, 
 deeply affected by this unlooked-for scene, went slowly 
 towards the salon, the curtains of which were closed. 
 He moved them on one side with agitation. 
 
 "Nobody!" he exclaimed, amazed beyond measure, 
 and looking around him, unable to see the least trace 
 of the tragic event which he believed had just occurred. 
 ' Then, seeing a small door in the panel of the apart- 
 ment, he went towards it. It was fastened in the side 
 of the secret staircase. 
 
 " It was a trick, and he has escaped by this door ! " he 
 exclaimed, with vexation. 
 
 And in fact, the vicomte, having in his father's pres- 
 ence placed the pistol on his heart, had very dexterously 
 fired it under his arm, and rapidly made off. 
 
 In spite of the most careful search throughout the 
 house, they could not discover Florestan. 
 
 During the conversation with his father and the com- 
 
 223
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 missary, he had quickly gained the boudoir, then the 
 conservatory, then the lone alley, and so to the Champs 
 Elysdes. 
 
 The picture of this ignoble degi'adation in opulence is 
 a sad thing. 
 
 We are aware of it. But for want of warnings, the 
 richer classes have also fatally their miseries, vices, 
 crimes. Nothing is more frequent and more afflicting 
 than those insensate, barren prodigalities which we have 
 now described, and which always entail ruin, loss of 
 consideration, baseness, or infamy. It is a deplorable, 
 sad spectacle, just like contemplating a flourishing field 
 of wheat destroyed by a herd of wild beasts. No doubt 
 that inheritance, property, are, and ought to be, invio- 
 lable, sacred. Wealth acquired or transmitted ought to 
 be able to shine with impunity and magnificently in the 
 eyes of the poor and suffering masses. We must, too, 
 see those frightful disproportions which exist between 
 the millionaire Saint-Remy, and the artisan Morel. But, 
 inasmuch as these inevitable disproportions are conse- 
 crated, protected by the law, so those who possess such 
 wealth ought morally to be accountable to those who 
 have only probity, resignation, courage, and desire to 
 labour. 
 
 In the eyes of reason, human right, and even of a 
 well-understood social interest, a great fortune should 
 be a hereditary deposit, confided to prudent, firm, skil- 
 ful, generous hands, which, entrusted at the same time 
 to fructify and expend this fortune, know how to fertilise, 
 vivify, and ameliorate all that should have the felicity to 
 find themselves within the scope of its splendid and 
 salutary rays. 
 
 And sometimes it is so, but the instances are very 
 rare. How many young men, like Saint-Remy, masters 
 at twenty of a large patrimony, spend it foolishly in 
 idleness, in waste, in vice, for want of knowing how to 
 
 224
 
 THE SEARCH. 
 
 employ their wealth more advantageously either for 
 themselves or for the public. Others, alarmed at the 
 instability of human affairs, save in the meanest man- 
 ner. Thus there are those who, knowing that a fixed 
 fortune always diminishes, give themselves up, fools or 
 rogues, to that hazardous, immoral gaming, which the 
 powers that be encourage and patronise. 
 
 How can it be otherwise ? Who impai-ts to inexperi- 
 enced youth that knowledge, that instruction, those 
 rudiments of individual and social economy ? No one. 
 
 The rich man is thrown into the heart of society with 
 his riches, as the poor maujwith his poverty. No one 
 takes any more care of the superfluities of the one than 
 of the wants of the other. No one thinks any more of 
 making the one moralise than the other. Ought not 
 power to fulfil this great and noble task ? 
 
 If, taking to its pity the miseries, the continually 
 increasing troubles, of the still resigned workmen, re- 
 pressing a rivalry injurious to all, and, addressing itself 
 finally to the imminent question of the organisation of 
 labour, it gave itself the salutary lesson of the associa- 
 tion of capital and labour ; and if there were an honour- 
 able, intelligent, equitable association, which should 
 assure the well-doing of the artisan, without injuring 
 the fortune of the rich, and which, establishing between 
 the two classes the bonds of affection and gratitude, 
 would for ever keep safeguard over the tranquillity of 
 the state, — how powerful, then, would be the conse- 
 quences of such a practical instruction ! 
 
 Amongst the rich, who then would hesitate as to 
 the dishonourable, disastrous chances of stock-jobbing, 
 the gross pleasures of avarice, the foolish vanities of 
 a ruinous dissipation ; or, a means at once remuner- 
 ative and beneficial, which would shed ease, morality, 
 happiness, and joy, over scores of families ? 
 
 225
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 THE ADIEUX. 
 
 The day after that on which the Comte de Saint- 
 Remy had been so shamefully tricked by his son, a 
 touching scene took place at St. Lazare at the hour of 
 recreation amongst the prisoners. 
 
 On this day, during the walk of the other prisoners, 
 Fleur-de-Marie was seated on a bench close to the foun- 
 tain of the courtyard, which was already named " La 
 Goualeuse's Bench." By a kind of taciturn agreement, 
 the prisoners had entirely given up this seat to her, as 
 she had evinced a marked preference for it, — for the 
 young girl's influence had decidedly increased. La 
 Goualeuse had selected this bench, situated close to 
 the basin, because the small quantity of moss which 
 velveted the margin of the reservoir reminded her of 
 the verdure of the fields, as the clear water with which 
 it was filled reminded her of the small river of Bouque- 
 val. To the saddened gaze of a prisoner a tuft of grass 
 is a meadow, a flower is a garden. 
 
 Relying on the kind promises of Madame d'Harville, 
 Fleur-de-Marie had for two days expected her release 
 from St. Lazare. Although she had no reason for 
 being anxious about the delay in her discharge, the 
 young girl, from her experience in misfortune, scarcely 
 ventured to hope for a speedy liberation. Since her 
 return amongst creatures whose appearance revived at 
 each moment in her mind the incurable memory of her 
 early disgrace, Fleur-de-Marie's sadness had become 
 
 226
 
 THE ADIEUX. 
 
 more and more overwhelming. This was not all. A 
 new subject of trouble, distress, and almost alarm to her, 
 had arisen from the impassioned excitement of her 
 gratitude towards Rodolph. 
 
 It was strange, but she only fathomed the depth of 
 the abyss into which she had been plunged, in order to 
 measure the distance which separated her from him 
 whose perfection appeared to her more than human, 
 from this man whose goodness was so extreme, and his 
 power so terrible to the wicked. In spite of the respect 
 with which her adoration for him was imbued, some- 
 times, alas ! Fleur-de-Marie feared to detect in this 
 adoration the symptoms of love, but of a love as secret 
 as it was deep, as chaste as it was secret, and as hopeless 
 as it was chaste. The unhappy girl had not thought of 
 reading this withering revelation in her heart until after 
 her interview with Madame d'Harville, who was herself 
 smitten with a love for Rodolph, of which he himself was 
 ignorant. 
 
 After the departure and the promises of the marquise, 
 Fleur-de-Marie should have been transported with joy 
 on thinking of her friends at Bouqueval, of Rodolph 
 whom she was again about to see. But she was not. 
 Her heart was painfully distressed, and to her memory 
 occurred incessantly the severe language, the haughty 
 scrutiny, the angry looks, of Madame d'Harville, as the 
 poor prisoner had been excited to enthusiasm when 
 alluding to her benefactor. By singular intuition La 
 Goualeuse had thus detected a portion of Madame 
 d'Harville's secret. 
 
 " The excess of my gratitude to M. Rodolph offended 
 this young lady, so handsome and of such high rank," 
 thought Fleur-de-Marie ; " now I comprehend the se- 
 verity of her words, they expressed a jealous disdain. 
 She jealous of me ! Then she must love him, and I must 
 love, too — him ? Yes, and my love must have betrayed 
 itself in spite of me ! Love him, — I — I — a creature 
 
 227
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 fallen for ever, ungrateful and wretched as I am ! Oh, 
 if it were so, death were a hundred times preferable ! " 
 
 Let us hasten to say that the unhappy girl, thus a 
 martyr to her feelings, greatly exaggerated what she 
 called her love. 
 
 To her profound gratitude towards Rodolph was united 
 involuntary admiration of the gracefulness, strength, and 
 manly beauty which distinguished him from other men. 
 Nothing could be less gross, more pure, than this admira- 
 tion ; but it existed in full and active force, because 
 physical beauty is always attractive. And then the 
 voice of blood, so often denied, mute, unknown, or mis- 
 interpreted, is sometimes in full force, and these throbs 
 of passionate tenderness which attracted Fleur-de-Marie 
 towards Rodolph, and which so greatly startled her, 
 because in her ignorance she misinterpreted their tend- 
 ency, these feelings resulted from mysterious sympathies, 
 as palpable, but as inexplicable, as the resemblance of 
 features. In a word, Flcur-de-Marie, on learning that 
 she was Rodolph's daughter, could have accounted to 
 herself for the strong affection she had for him, and 
 thus, completely enlightened on the point, she would 
 have admired without a scruple her father's manly 
 beauty. 
 
 Thus do we explain Fleur-de-Marie's dejection. Al- 
 though she was every instant awaiting, according to 
 Madame d'Harville's promise, her release from St. 
 Lazare, Fleur-de-Marie, melancholy and pensive, was 
 seated on her bench near the basin, looking with a kind 
 of mechanical interest at the sports of some bold little 
 birds who came to play on the margin of the stone-work. 
 She had ceased for an instant to work at a baby's night- 
 gown, which she had just finished hemming. Need we 
 say that this nightgown belonged to the lying-in clothes 
 so generously offered to Mont Saint-Jean by the prison- 
 ers, through the kind intervention of Fleur-de-Marie ? 
 The poor misshapen protegee of La Goualeuse was sitting 
 
 228
 
 THE ADIEUX. 
 
 at her feet, working at a small cap, and, from time to 
 time, casting at her benefactress a look at once grateful, 
 timid, and confiding, such a look as a dog throws at his 
 master. The beauty, attraction, and delicious sweetness 
 of Fleur-de-Marie had inspired this fallen creature with 
 sentiments of the most profound respect. 
 
 There is always something holy and great in the aspi- 
 rations of a heart, which, although degraded, yet feels for 
 the first time sensations of gratitude ; and, up to this time, 
 no one had ever given Mont Saint^Jean the opportunity 
 of even testifying whether or not she could comprehend 
 the religious ardour of a sentiment so wholly unknown 
 to her. After some moments Fleur-de-Marie shuddered 
 slightly, wiped a tear from her eyes, and resumed her 
 sewing with much activity. 
 
 " You will not then leave off your work even during the 
 time for rest, my good angel ? " said Mont Saint-Jean to 
 La Goualeuse. 
 
 " I have not given you any money towards buying 
 your lying-in clothes, and I must therefore furnish my 
 part with my own work," replied the young girl. 
 
 " Your part ! Why, but for you, instead of this good 
 white linen, this nice warm wrapper for my child, I 
 should have nothing but the rags thev dragged in the 
 mud of the yard. I am very grateful to my companions 
 who have been so very kind to me ; tliat's quite true ! 
 But you ! — ah, you ! — how can I tell you all I feel ? " 
 added the poor creature, hesitating, and greatly embar- 
 rassed how to express her thought. " There," she said, 
 " there is the sun, is it not ? That is the sun ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mont Saint-Jean ; I am attending to you," re- 
 plied Fleur-de-Marie, stooping her lovely face towards 
 the hideous countenance of her companion. 
 
 "Ah, you'll laugh at me," she replied, sorrowfully. 
 *' I want to say something, and I do not know how." 
 
 " Oh, yes, say it, Mont Saint-Jean ! " 
 
 " How kind you look always," said the prisoner, look 
 
 229
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 ing at Fleur-de-Marie in a sort of ecstasy ; " your eyes 
 encourage me, — those kind eyes ! Well, then, I will try 
 and say what I wish : There is the sun, is it not ? It is so 
 warm, it lights up the prison, it is very pleasant to see 
 and feel, isn't it ? " 
 
 « Certainly." 
 
 " But I have an idea, — the sun didn't make itself, and 
 if we are grateful to it, why, there is greater reason still 
 why — " 
 
 " Why we should be grateful to him who created it ; 
 that is what you mean, Mont Saint-Jean ? You are 
 right; and we ought to pray to, adore him, — he is 
 God ! " 
 
 " Yes, that is my idea ! " exclaimed the prisoner, joy- 
 ously. " That is it ! I ought to be grateful to my com- 
 panions, but I ought to pray to, adore you, Goualeuse, 
 for it is you who made them so good to me, instead of 
 being so unkind as they had been." 
 
 " It is God you should thank, Mont Saint-Jean, and 
 not me." 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes, it is you, I see you ; and it is you who 
 did me such kindness, by yourself and others." 
 
 " But if I am as good as you say, Mont Saint-Jean, it 
 is God who has made me so, and it is he, therefore, 
 whom we ought to thank." 
 
 " Ah, indeed, it may be so since you say it ! " replied 
 the prisoner, whose mind was by no means decided ; 
 " and if you desire it, let it be so ; as you please." 
 
 " Yes, my poor Mont Saint-Jean, pray to him con- 
 stantly, that is the best way of proving to me that you 
 love me a little." 
 
 " If I love you, Goualeuse ? Don't you remember, 
 then, what you said to those other prisoners to prevent 
 them from beating me ? — ' It is not only her whom you 
 beat, it is her child also ! ' Well, it is all the same as the 
 way I love you ; it is not only for myself that I love 
 you, but also for my child." 
 
 230
 
 THE ADIEUX. 
 
 "Thanks, thanks, Mont Saint-Jean, you please me 
 exceedingly when you say that." And Fleur-de-Marie, 
 much moved, extended her hand to her companion. 
 
 " What a pretty, little, fairy-like hand ! How white and 
 small ! " said Mont Saint-Jean, receding as though she 
 were afraid to touch it with her coarse and clumsy hands. 
 
 Yet, after a moment's hesitation, she respectfully ap- 
 plied her lips to the end of the slender fingers which 
 Fleur-de-Marie extended to her, then, kneeling suddenly, 
 she fixed on her an attentive, concentrated look. 
 
 " Come and sit here by me," said La Goualeuse. 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed ; never, never ! " 
 
 « Why not ? " 
 
 " Respect discipline, as my brave Mont Saint-Jean 
 used to say ; soldiers together, officers together, each 
 with his equals." 
 
 " You are crazy ; there is no difference between us 
 two." 
 
 " No difference ! And you say that when I see you, as 
 I do now, as handsome as a queen. Oh, what do you 
 mean now ? Leave me alone, on my knees, that I may 
 look at you as I do now. Who knows, although I am 
 a real monster, my child may perhaps resemble you ? 
 They say that sometimes happens from a look." 
 
 Then by a scruple of incredible delicacy in a creature 
 of her position, fearing, perhaps, that she had humiliated 
 or wounded Fleur-de-Marie by her strange desire, Mont 
 Saint-Jean added, sorrowfully : 
 
 " No, no, I was only joking, Goualeuse ; I never could 
 allow myself to look at you with such an idea, — unless 
 with your free consent. If my child is as ugly as I am, 
 what shall I care ? I sha'n't love it any the less, poor 
 little, unhappy thing ; it never asked to be born, as they 
 say. And if it lives what will become of it ? " she 
 added, with a mournful and reflective air. " Alas, yes, 
 what will become of us ? " 
 
 La Goualeuse shuddered at these words. In fact, 
 
 231
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 what was to become of the child of this miserable, de- 
 graded, abased, poor, despised creature ? 
 
 " What a fate ! What a future ! " 
 
 " Do not think of that, Mont Saint-Jean," said Fleur- 
 de-Marie ; " let us hope that your child will find benevo- 
 lent friends in its way." 
 
 " That chance never occurs twice, Goualeuse," replied 
 Mont Saint-Jean, bitterly, and shaking her head. " I have 
 met with you, that is a great chance ; and then — no 
 offence — I should much rather my child had had that 
 good luck than myself, and that wish is all I can do for 
 it!" 
 
 " Pray, pray, and God will hear you." 
 
 " Well, I will pray, if that is any pleasure to you, 
 Goualeuse, for it may perhaps bring me good luck. In- 
 deed, who could have thought, when La Louve beat me, 
 and I was the butt of all the world, that I should meet 
 with my little guardian angel, who with her pretty soft 
 voice would be even stronger than all the rest, and that 
 La Louve who is so strong and so wicked — " 
 
 " Yes, but La Louve became very good to you as soon 
 as she reflected that you were doubly to be pitied." 
 
 " Yes, that is very true, thanks to you ; I shall never 
 forget it. But, tell me, Goualeuse, why did she the 
 other day request to have her quarters changed, — La 
 Louve, she, who, in spite of her passionate temper, 
 seemed unable to do without you ? " 
 
 " She is rather wilful." 
 
 " How odd ! A woman, who came this morning from 
 the quarter of the prison where La Louve now is, says 
 that she is wholly changed." 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 " Instead of quarrelling and contending with every- 
 body, she is sad, quite sad, and sits by herself, and if 
 they speak to her she turns her back and makes no 
 answer. It is really wonderful to see her quite still, 
 who used always to be making such a riot ; and then 
 
 232
 
 THE ADIEUX. 
 
 the woman says another thing, which I really cannot 
 believe." 
 
 « And what is that ? " 
 
 " Why, that she had seen La Louve crying ; La Louve 
 crying, — that's impossible ! " 
 
 " Poor Louve ! It was on my account she changed 
 her quarters ; I vexed her without intending it," said La 
 Goualeuse, with a sigh. 
 
 " You vex any one, my good angel ? " 
 
 At this moment, the inspectress, Madame Armand, 
 entered the yard. After having looked for Fleur-de- 
 Marie, she came towards her with a smiling and satisfied 
 air. 
 
 " Good news, my child." 
 
 " What do you mean, madame ? " said La Goualeuse, 
 rising. 
 
 " Your friends have not forgotten you, they have ob- 
 tained your discharge ; the governor has just received 
 the information." 
 
 " Can it be possible, madame ? Ah, what happiness ! " 
 
 Fleur-de-Marie's emotion was so violent that she 
 turned pale, placed her hand on her heart, which throbbed 
 violently, and fell back on the seat. 
 
 " Don't agitate yourself, my poor girl," said Madame 
 Armand, kindly. " Fortunately these shocks are not 
 dangerous." 
 
 " Ah, madame, what gratitude ! " 
 
 " No doubt it is Madame d'Harville who has obtained 
 your liberty. There is an elderly female charged to con- 
 duct you to the persons who are interested in you. Wait 
 for me, I will return for you ; I have some directions to 
 give in the work-room." 
 
 It would be difficult to paint the expression of extreme 
 desolation which overcast the features of Mont Saint- 
 Jean, when she learned that her good angel, as she called 
 La Goualeuse, was about to quit St. Lazare. This 
 woman's grief was less caused by the fear of becoming 
 
 233
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 again the ill-used butt of the prison, than by her anguish 
 at seeing herself separated from the only being who had 
 ever testified any interest in her. 
 
 Still seated at the foot of the bench, lilont Saint-Jean 
 lifted both her hands to the sides of her matted and 
 coarse hair, which projected in disorder from the sides of 
 her old black cap, as if to tear them out ; then this deep 
 affliction gave way to dejection, and she drooped her head 
 and remained mute and motionless, with her face hidden 
 in her hands, and her elbows resting on her knees. 
 
 In spite of her joy at leaving the prison, Fleur-de- 
 Marie could not help shuddering when she thought for 
 an instant of the Chouette and the Schoolmaster, recol- 
 lecting that these two monsters had made her swear 
 never to inform her benefactors of her wretched fate. 
 But these dispiriting thoughts were soon effaced from 
 Fleur-de-Marie's mind before the hope of seeing Bouque- 
 val once more, with Madame Georges and Rodolph, to 
 whom she meant to intercede for La Louve and Martial. 
 It even seemed to her that the warm feeling which she 
 reproached herself for having of her benefactor, being no 
 longer nourished by sadness and solitude, would be 
 calmed down as soon as she resumed her rustic occupa- 
 tions, which she so much delighted in sharing with the 
 good and simple inhabitants of the farm. 
 
 Astonished at the silence of her companion, a silence 
 whose source she did not suspect. La Goualeuse touched 
 her gently on the shoulder, saying to her : 
 
 " Mont Saint-Jean, as I am now free, can I be in any 
 way useful to you ? " 
 
 The prisoner trembled as she felt La Goualeuse's 
 hand upon her, let her hands drop on her knees, and 
 turned towards the young girl, her face streaming with 
 tears. So bitter a grief overspread the features of 
 Mont Saint-Jean that their ugliness had disappeared. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " said La Goualeuse. " You 
 are weeping ! " 
 
 234
 
 THE ADIEUX. 
 
 " You are going away ! " murmured the poor prisoner, 
 •with a voice broken by sobs. " And I had never thought 
 that you would go away, and that I should never see you 
 more, — never, no, never !" 
 
 " I assure you that I shall always think of your good 
 feeling towards me, Mont Saint-Jean." 
 
 " Oh, and to think how I loved you, when I was sit- 
 ting there at your feet on the ground ! It seemed as if 
 I was saved, — that I had nothing more to fear ! It 
 was not for the blows which the other women may, per- 
 haps, begin again to give me that I said that I have led 
 a hard life ; but it seemed to me that you were my good 
 fortune, and would bring good luck to my child, just 
 because you had pity on me. But, then, when one is 
 used to be ill-treated, one is then more sensible than 
 others to kindness." Then, interrupting herself, to 
 burst again into a loud fit of sobs, — " Well, well, it's 
 done, — it's finished, — all over! And so it must be 
 some day or other. I was wrong to think any 
 otherwise. It's done — done — done ! " 
 
 " Courage ! Courage ! I will think of you, as you 
 will remember me." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, they may tear me to pieces before 
 they shall ever make me forget you ! I may grow old, 
 — as old as the streets, — but I shall always have your 
 angel face before me. The first word I will teach my 
 child shall be your name, Goualeuse ; for but for you it 
 would have perished with cold." 
 
 " Listen to me, Mont Saint-Jean ! " said Fleur-de- 
 Marie, deeply affected by the attachment of this un- 
 happy woman. " I cannot promise to do anything for 
 you, although I know some very charitable persons ; but, 
 for your child, it is a different thing ; it is wholly inno- 
 cent ; and the persons of whom I speak will, perhaps, 
 take charge of it, and bring it up, when you can resolve 
 on parting from it." 
 
 " Part from it ! Never, oh, never ! " exclaimed Mont 
 
 235
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Saint-Jean, with excitement. " What would become of 
 me now, when I have so built upon it ? " 
 
 " But how will you bring it up ? Boy or girl, it ought 
 to be made honest ; and for that — " 
 
 " It must eat honest bread. I know that, Goualeuse, 
 — I believe it. It is my ambition ; and I say so to 
 myself every day. So, in leaving here, I will never put 
 my foot under a bridge again. I will turn rag-picker, 
 street-sweeper, — something honest; for I owe that, if 
 not to myself, at least to my child, when I have the 
 honour of having one," she added, with a sort of pride. 
 
 " And who will take care of your child whilst you 
 are at work ? " inquired the Goualeuse. " Will it not 
 be better, if possible, as I hope it will be, to put it in 
 the country with some worthy people, who will make 
 a good country girl or a stout farmer's boy of it? 
 You can come and see it from time to time ; and one 
 day you may, perhaps, find the means to live near it 
 constantly. In the country, one lives on so little ! " 
 
 " Yes, but to separate myself from it, — to separate 
 myself from it! It would be my only joy, — I, who 
 have nothing else in the world to love, — nothing that 
 loves me! " 
 
 " You must think more of it than of yourself, my poor 
 Mont Saint-Jean. In two or three days I will write to 
 Madame Armand, and if the application I mean to make 
 in favour of your child should succeed, you will have no 
 occasion to say to it, as you said so painfully just now, 
 ' Alas ! What will become of it ? ' " 
 
 Madame Armand interrupted this conversation, and 
 came to seek Fleur-de-Marie. After having again burst 
 into sobs, and bathed with her despairing tears the 
 young girl's hands, Mont Saint-Jean fell on the scat 
 perfectly overcome, not even thinking of the promise 
 which Fleur-de-Marie had just made with respect to 
 her child. 
 
 " Poor creature ! " said Madame Armand, as she 
 
 236
 
 THE ADIEUX. 
 
 quitted the yard, accompanied by Fleur-de-Marie, " her 
 gratitude towards you gives me a better opinion of her." 
 
 Learning that La Goualeuse was discharged, the other 
 prisoners, far from envying her this favour, displayed 
 their delight. Some of them surrounded Fleur-de- 
 Marie, and took leave of her with adieux full of 
 cordiality, frankly congratulating her on her speedy 
 release from prison. 
 
 " Well, I must say," said one, " this little fair girl 
 has made us pass an agreeable moment, when we agreed 
 to make up the basket of clothes for Mont Saint-Jean. 
 That will be remembered at St. Lazare." 
 
 When Fleur-de-Marie had quitted the prison buildings, 
 the inspectress said to her : 
 
 " Now, my dear child, go to the clothing-room, and 
 leave your prison clothes. Put on your peasant girl's 
 clothes, whose rustic simplicity suits you so well. 
 Adieu! You will be happy, for you are going to be 
 under the protection of good people, and leave these 
 walls, never again to return to them. But I am really 
 hardly reasonable," said Madame Armand, whose eyes 
 were moistened with tears. " I really cannot conceal 
 from you how much I am attached to you, my poor 
 girl ! " Then, seeing the tears in Fleur-de-Marie's eyes, 
 the inspectress added, " But we must not sadden your 
 departure thus." 
 
 "Ah, madame, is it not through your recommenda- 
 tion that this young lady to whom I owe my liberty has 
 become interested in me ? " 
 
 " Yes, and I am happy that I did so ; my presenti- 
 ments had not deceived me." 
 
 At this moment a clock struck. 
 
 " That is the hour of work ; I must return to the 
 rooms. Adieu ! Once more adieu, my dear child ! " 
 
 Madame Armand, as much affected as Fleur-de- 
 Marie, embraced her tenderly, and then said to one 
 of the women employed in the establishment: 
 
 237
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Take mademoiselle to the vestiary." 
 
 A quarter of an hour afterwards, Fleur-de-Marie, 
 dressed like a peasant girl, as we have seen her at 
 the farm at Bouqueval, entered the waiting-room, 
 where Madame S^raphin was expecting her. The 
 housekeeper of the notary, Jacques Ferrand, had come 
 to seek the unhappy girl, and conduct her to the Isle 
 du Ravageur. 
 
 238
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 Jacques Ferrand had quickly and readily obtained 
 the liberty of Fleur-de-Marie, which, indeed, only re- 
 quired a simple official order. Instructed by the 
 Chouette of La Goualeuse being at St. Lazare, he 
 had immediately applied to one of his clients, an 
 honourable and influential man, saying that a young 
 female who had once erred, but afterwards sincerely 
 repented, being now confined in St. Lazare, was in 
 danger of forgetting her good resolutions, in conse- 
 quence of her association with the other prisoners. This 
 young girl having been (added the notary) strongly 
 recommended to him by persons of high respectability, 
 who wanted to take care of her when she quitted the 
 prison, he besought his client, in the name of religion, 
 virtue, and the future return to goodness of the poor 
 girl, to interest himself in obtaining her liberation. 
 And, further to screen himself from all chance of 
 future consequences, the notary most earnestly charged 
 his client not to allow his name to transpire in the busi- 
 ness on any account, as he was desirous of avoiding any 
 mention of having been employed in the furtherance of 
 so good and charitable a work. 
 
 This request, which was attributed to the unassuming 
 modesty and benevolence of Jacques Ferrand, a man 
 equally esteemed for his piety as for honour and prob- 
 ity, was strictly complied with, the liberation of 
 
 239
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Fleur-de-Marie being asked and obtained in the 
 client's name alone ; and by way of evincing a still 
 greater regard for the shrinking delicacy of the notary's 
 nature, the order for quitting the prison was sent under 
 cover to Jacques Ferrand, that he might send it on to 
 the parties interesting themselves for the young girl. 
 And when Madame S^raphin presented the order to the 
 directors of the prison, she stated herself to have been 
 sent by the parties feeling a desire to save the young 
 person it referred to. 
 
 From the favourable manner in which the matron of 
 the prison had spoken to Madame d'Harville of Fleur- 
 de-Marie, not a doubt existed as to its being to that 
 lady La Goualeuse was indebted for her return to 
 freedom. There was, therefore, no chance of the 
 appearance of Madame S^raphin exciting any mis- 
 trust in the mind of her victim. Madame S^raphin 
 could so well assume the look and manner of what 
 is commonly styled " a nice motherly kind of person," 
 that it required a more than ordinary share of penetra- 
 tion to discover a strong proportion of falsehood, deceit, 
 and cunning behind the smooth glance or the hypo- 
 critical smile ; but, spite of the hardened villainy with 
 which she had shared so long and deeply in the nefarious 
 practices of her employer, Madame S^raphin, old and hack- 
 neyed as she was, could not view without emotion the 
 exquisite loveliness of the being her own hand had sur- 
 rendered, even as a child, to the cruel care of the Chou- 
 ette, and whom she was now leading to an inevitable 
 death. 
 
 " Well, my dear," cried Madame S(^raphin, speaking 
 in a tone of honeyed sweetness, as Fleur-de-Marie drew 
 near, " I suppose you are very glad to get away from 
 prison." 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed, ma'am. I presume it is Madame 
 d'Harville who has had the goodness to obtain m7 
 liberty for me ? " 
 
 240
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 " You are not mistaken in your guess. But, come, we 
 are already a little behindhand, and we have still some 
 distance to go." 
 
 " We are going to Madame Georges at the farm at 
 Bouqueval, are we not, madame ? " cried La Goualeuse. 
 
 " Oh, yes, certainly, by all means ! " answered the 
 femme de charge, in order to avert all suspicion from 
 the mind of her victim. " Yes, my dear, we are going 
 into the country, as you say ; " and then added, with a 
 sort of good-humoured teasing, " But that is not all ; 
 before you see Madame Georges, a little surprise awaits 
 you — Come, come, our coach is waiting below ! Ah, 
 how you will be astonished by and by ! Come, then, let 
 us go. Your most obedient servant, gentlemen ! " 
 
 And, with a multitude of bows and salutations from 
 Madame Seraphin to the registrar, his clerk, and all the 
 various members of the establishment then and there 
 assembled, she descended the stairs with La Goualeuse, 
 followed by an officer, to command the opening of the 
 gates through which they had to pass. The last had 
 just closed behind them, and the two females found 
 themselves beneath the vast porch which looks out upon 
 the street of the Faubourg St. Denis, when they nearly 
 ran against a young female, who appeared hurrying 
 towards the prison, as though full of anxiety to visit 
 one of its inmates. It was Rigolette, as pretty and 
 light-footed as ever, her charming face set off by a 
 simple yet becoming cap, tastefully ornamented with 
 cherry-coloured riband ; while her dark brown hair 
 was laid in bright glossy bands down each clear and 
 finely rounded cheek. She was wrapped in a plaid 
 shawl, over which fell a snowy muslin collar, secured 
 by a small knot of riband. On her arm she carried 
 a straw basket ; while, thanks to her light, careful way 
 of picking her steps, her thick-soled boots were scarcely 
 soiled ; and yet the poor girl bad walked far that 
 day. 
 
 241
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Rigolette ! " exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, as she recog-' 
 nised her old prison companion, and the sharer in her 
 rural excursions.^ 
 
 " La Goualeuse ! " returned the grisette, and with one 
 accord the two girls threw themselves into each other's 
 arms. 
 
 Nothing more touchingly beautiful could be imagined 
 than the contrast between these two young creatures, 
 both so lovely, though differing so entirely from one 
 another in appearance : the one exquisitely fair, with 
 large, melancholy blue eyes, and an outline of feature 
 of faultless purity, the pale, pensive, intellectual cast 
 of the whole countenance reminding the observer of 
 one of those sweet designs of a village maid by 
 Greuze, — the same clear delicacy of complexion, the 
 same ineffable mixture of graceful pensiveness and 
 candid innocence ; the other a sparkling brunette, 
 with round rosy cheek and bright black eyes, set off by 
 a laughing, dimpled face and mirthful air, — the very 
 impersonation of youthful gaiety and light-heartedness, 
 the rare and touching specimen of happy poverty, 
 of contented labour, and honest industry ! 
 
 After the first burst of their affectionate greetings had 
 passed away, the two girls regarded each other with close 
 and tender scrutiny. The features of Rigolette were radi- 
 ant with the joy she experienced at this unexpected meet- 
 ing ; Fleur-de-Marie, on the contrary, felt humbled and 
 confused at the sight of her early friend, which re- 
 called but too vividly to her mind the few days of 
 peaceful calm she had known previous to her first 
 degradation. 
 
 " Dear, dear Goualeuse ! " exclaimed the grisette, 
 fixing her bright eyes with intense delight on her 
 
 1 The reader will, perhaps, recollect that in the recital made by La Goua- 
 leuse to Rodolph, at their first meeting: at the offress's, of the early events 
 of her life, she spoke to him of Rigolette, who, a friendless child like herself, 
 had been (with her) confined in a niaison de detention until she had reached the 
 age of sixteen. 
 
 242
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 companion. " To think of meeting you at last, after so 
 long an absence! " 
 
 " It is, indeed, a delightful surprise! " repHed Fleur- 
 de-Marie. " It is so very long since we have seen each 
 other." 
 
 " Ah, but now," said Rigolette, for the first time 
 remarking the rustic habiliments of La Goualeuse, " I 
 can account for seeing nothing of you during the last 
 six months, — you Uve in the country, I see? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her 
 eyes, " I have done so for some time past." 
 
 " And I suppose that, like me, you have come to see 
 some friend in this prison? " 
 
 " Yes," stammered poor Fleur-de-Marie, blushing up 
 to her eyes with shame and confusion; " I was going — 
 I mean I have just been seeing some one, and, of course, 
 am now returning home." 
 
 " You live a good way out of Paris, I dare say? Ah, 
 you dear, kind girl! It is just hke you to come all this 
 distance to perform a good action. Do you remember 
 the poor lying-in woman to whom you gave, not only 
 your mattress, with the necessary baby-clothes, but even 
 what money you had left, and which we meant to have 
 spent in a country excursion; for you were then crazy 
 for the country, my pretty village maid? " 
 
 " And you, who cared nothing about it, how very good- 
 natured and obliging of you to go thither, merely for the 
 sake of pleasing me! " 
 
 " Well, but I pleased myself at the same time. Why, 
 you, who were always inclined to be grave and serious, 
 when once you got among the fields, or found yourself 
 in the thick shade of a wood, oh, then, what a wild, 
 overjoyed little madcap you became! Nobody would 
 have fancied it the same person, — flying after the 
 butterflies, — crowding your hands and apron with 
 more flowers than either could hold. It made me 
 quite delighted to see you! It was quite treat 
 
 243
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 enough for a week to recollect all your happiness and 
 enjoyment. But do let me have another look at you : 
 how sweetly pretty you look in that nice little round 
 cap ! Yes, decidedly, you were cut out to be 
 a country girl, — just as much as I was to be a Paris 
 grisette. Well, I hope you are happy, since you have 
 got the sort of line you prefer ; and, certainly, after all, 
 I cannot say I was so very much astonished at your 
 never coming near me. * Oh,' said I, ' that dear Goua- 
 leuse is not suited for Paris ; she is a true wild flower, 
 as the song says ; and the air of great cities is not 
 for them. So,' said I, ' my pretty, dear Goualeuse has 
 found a place in some good honest family who live in 
 the country.' And I was right, was I not, dear ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Fleur-de-Marie, nearly sinking with con- 
 fusion, " quite right." 
 
 " There is only one thing I have to reproach you for." 
 " Reproach me ? " inquired Fleur-de-Marie, looking 
 tearfully at her companion. 
 
 " Yes, you ought to have let me know before you 
 went. You should have said ' good-bye,' if you were 
 only leaving me at night to return in the morning ; or, 
 at any rate, you should have sent me word how you 
 were going on." 
 
 "I — I — quitted Paris so suddenly," stammered out 
 Fleur-de-Marie, becoming momentarily more and more 
 embarrassed, " that, indeed — I — was not able — " 
 
 " Oh, I'm not at all angry ! I don't speak of it to 
 scold you ! I am far too happy in meeting you unex- 
 pectedly ; and, besides, I commend you for getting out 
 of such a dangerous place as Paris, where it is so diffi- 
 cult to earn a quiet livelihood ; for, you know, two poor 
 friendless girls like you and me might be led into 
 mischief, without thinking of, or intending, any harm. 
 When there is no person to advise, it leaves one so 
 very defenceless ; and then come a parcel of deceitful, 
 flattering men, with their false promises, when, perhaps, 
 
 244
 
 KECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 want and misery are staring you in the face. There, 
 for instance, do you recollect that pretty girl called 
 Julie ? — and Rosine, who had such a beautiful fair 
 skin, and such coal black eyes?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I recollect them very well ! " 
 
 " Then, my dear Goualeuse, you will be extremely 
 sorry to hear that they were both led astray, seduced, 
 and deserted, till at last, from one unfortunate step to 
 another, they have become like the miserable creatures 
 confined in this prison ! " 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! " exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, hang- 
 ing down her head, and blushing the deep blush of shame. 
 
 Rigolette, misinterpreting the real cause of her friend's 
 exclamation, continued : 
 
 " I admit that their conduct is wrong, nay wicked ; 
 but then, you know, my dear Goualeuse, because you 
 and I have been so fortunate as to preserve ourselves 
 from harm, — you, because you have been living with 
 good and virtuous people in the country, out of the 
 reach of temptation ; and I, because I had no time to 
 waste in listening to a set of make-believe lovers ; and 
 also because I found greater pleasure in having a few 
 birds, and in trying to get things a little comfortable 
 and snug around me, — I say, it is not for you and me 
 to be too severe with others; and God alone knows 
 whether opportunity, deceit, and destitution may not 
 have had much to do in causing the misery and disgrace 
 of Julie and Rosine! And who can say whether, in 
 their place, we might not have acted as they have done ? " 
 
 " Alas ! " cried Fleur-de-Marie, " I accuse them not ; 
 on the contrary, I pity them from my heart ! " 
 
 " Come, come, my dear child ! " interrupted Madame 
 S^raphin, impatiently offering her arm to her victim, 
 " you forget that I said we were already behind our time." 
 
 "Pray, madame, grant us a little more time," said 
 Rigolette. "It is so very long since I saw my dear 
 Goualeuse ! " 
 
 245
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " I should be glad to do so," replied Madame S^raphin, 
 much annoyed at this meeting between the two friends ; 
 " but it is now three o'clock, and we have a long way to 
 go. However, I will manage to allow you ten minutes 
 longer gossip. So pray make the best of your time." 
 
 " And tell me, I pray, of yourself," said Fleur-de- 
 Marie, affectionately pressing the hands of Rigolette 
 between her own. " Are you still the same merry, 
 light-hearted, and happy creature I always knew 
 you?" 
 
 " I was happy and gay enough a few days ago ; but 
 now — " 
 
 " You sorrowful ? I can hardly believe it." 
 
 " Ah, but indeed I am ! Not that I am at all 
 changed from what you always found me, — a regular 
 Roger Bontemj)s, — one to whom nothing was a trouble. 
 But then, you see, everybody is not like me ; so that, 
 when I see those I love unhappy, why, naturally, that 
 makes me unhappy, too." 
 
 " Still the same kind, warm-hearted girl ! " 
 
 " Why, who could help being grieved as I am ? Just 
 imagine my having come hither to visit a poor young 
 creature, — a sort of neighbouring lodger in the house 
 where I live, — as meek and mild as a lamb she was, 
 poor thing! Well, she has been most shamefully and 
 unjustly accused, — that she has; never mind of what 
 just now ! Her name is Louise Morel. She is the 
 daughter of an honest and deserving man, a lapidary, 
 who has gone mad in consequence of her being put in 
 prison." 
 
 At the name of Louise Morel, one of the victims of 
 the notary's villainy, Madame S^raphin started, and 
 gazed earnestly at Rigolette. The features of the gri- 
 sette were, however, perfectly unknown to her ; neverthe- 
 less, from that instant, the femme de charge listened with 
 an attentive ear to the conversation of the two girls. 
 
 " Poor thing," continued the Goualeuse ; " how happy 
 
 246
 
 EECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 it must make her to find that you have not forgotten 
 her in her misfortunes ! " 
 
 " And that is not all ; it really seems as though some 
 spell hung over me ! But, truly and positively, this is 
 the second poor prisoner I have left my home to-day to 
 visit ! I have come a long way, and also from a prison, 
 — but that was a place of confinement for men." 
 « You, Rigolette, — in a prison for men ? " 
 "Yes, I have, indeed. I have a very dejected cus- 
 tomer there, I can assure you. There, — you see my 
 basket ; it is divided in two parts, and each of my poor 
 friends has an equal share in its contents. I have got 
 some clean things here for poor Louise, and I have left 
 a similar packet with Germain, — that is the name of 
 my other poor captive. I cannot help feeling ready to 
 cry when I think of our last interview. I know it will 
 do no good, but still, for all that, the tears will come 
 into my eyes." 
 
 " But what is it that distresses you so much ? " 
 « Why, because, you see, poor Germain frets so much 
 at being mixed up in his prison with the many bad char- 
 acters that are there, that it has quite broken his spirits ; 
 he seems to have no taste, no relish for anything, has 
 quite lost his appetite, and is wasting away daily. So, 
 when I perceived the change, I said to myself: « Oh, 
 poor fellow, I see he eats nothing. I must make him 
 something nice and delicate to tempt his appetite a 
 little ; he shall have one of those little dainties he used 
 to be so fond of when he and I were next-room neigh- 
 bours.' When I say dainties, of course I don't mean 
 such as rich people expect by that name. No, no, my 
 dish was merely some beautiful mealy potatoes, mashed 
 with a little milk and sugar. Well, my dear Goualeuse, 
 I prepared this for him, put it in a nice little china basin 
 and took it to him in his prison, telling him I had 
 brought him a little titbit he used once to be fond of, 
 and which I hoped he would like as well as in former 
 
 247
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 days. I told him I had prepared it entirely myself,, 
 hoping to make him relish it. But alas, no ! What do 
 you think ? " 
 
 " Oh, what ? " 
 
 " Why, instead of increasing his appetite, I only set 
 him crying ; for, when I displayed my poor attempts at 
 cookery, he seemed to take no notice of anything but the 
 basin, out of which he had been accustomed to see me 
 take my milk when we supped together ; and then he 
 burst into tears, and, by way of making matters still 
 better, I began to cry, too, although I tried all I could 
 to restrain myself. You see how everything went 
 against me. I had gone with the intention of enliv- 
 ening his spirits, and, instead of that, there I was 
 making him more melancholy than ever." 
 
 " Still, the tears he shed were, no doubt, sweet and 
 consoling tears ! " 
 
 " Oh, never mind what sort of tears they were, that 
 was not the way I meant to have consoled him. But la ! 
 All this while I am talking to you of Germain as if you 
 knew him. He is an old acquaintance of mine, one of 
 the best young men in the world, as timid and gentle as 
 any young girl could be, and whom I loved as a friend 
 and a brother." 
 
 " Oh, then, of course, his troubles became yours 
 also." 
 
 " To be sure. But just let me show you what a good 
 heart he must have. When I was coming away, I asked 
 him as usual what orders he had for me, saying jokingly, 
 by way of making him smile, that I was his little house- 
 keeper, and that I should be very punctual and exact in 
 fulfilling whatever commissions he gave me, in order to 
 remain in his employ. So then he, trying to smile in 
 his turn, asked me to bring him one of Walter Scott's 
 romances, which he had formerly read to me while I 
 worked, — that romance was called 'Ivan — ' ' Ivanhoe,' 
 that's it. I was so much amused with this book that 
 
 248
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 Germain read it twice over to me. Poor Germain! 
 How very, very kind and attentive he was!" 
 
 " I suppose he wished to keep it as a reminiscence of 
 bygone days?" 
 
 " No doubt of it ; for he bade me go to the library 
 from whence we had had it, and to purchase the very 
 same vohimes that had so much entertained us, and 
 which we had read together, — not merely to hire them, 
 
 yes, positively to buy them out and out; and you 
 
 may imagine that was something of a sacrifice for him, 
 for he is no richer than you or I." 
 
 « He must have a noble and excellent heart to have 
 thought of it," said the Goualeuse, deeply touched. 
 
 « I declare you are as much affected by it as I was, my 
 dear, kind Goualeuse ! But then, you see, the more I 
 felt ready to cry, the more I tried to laugh ; for, to shed 
 tears twice during a visit, intended to be so very cheer- 
 ing and enlivening as mine was, was rather too bad. So, 
 to drive all those thoughts out of my head, I began to 
 remind him of the amusing story of a Jew, — a person 
 we read about in the romance I was telling you of. But 
 the more I rattled away, and the greater nonsense I 
 tried to talk, the faster the large round tears gathered 
 in his eyes, and he kept looking at me with such an 
 expression of misery as quite broke my heart. And so 
 
 and so — at last my voice quite failed me, and I could 
 
 do nothing but mingle my sobs with his. He had not 
 regained his composure when I left him, and I felt quite 
 provoked with myself for my folly. ' If that is the way,' 
 said I, ' that I comfort and cheer up poor Germain, I 
 think I had better stay away ! ' Really, when I remem- 
 ber all the fine things I intended to have said and done, 
 by way of keeping up his spirits, I feel quite spiteful 
 towards myself for having so completely failed." 
 
 At the name of Germain, another victim of the 
 notary's unprincipled persecution, Madame S^raphin 
 redoubled her before close attention. 
 
 249
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " And what has this poor young man done to deserve 
 being put in prison ? " inquired Fleur-de-Marie. 
 
 " What has he done ? " exclaimed Rigolette, whose 
 grief became swallowed up in indignation ; " why, he has 
 had the misfortune to fall into the hands of a wicked old 
 notary, — the same as persecutes poor Louise." 
 
 " Of her whom you have come to see ? " 
 
 " To be sure ; she lived as servant with this notary, 
 and Germain was also with him as cashier. It is too 
 long a story to tell you now, how or of what he unjustly 
 accuses the poor fellow ; but one thing is quite certain, 
 and that is, that the wretch of a notary pursues these 
 two unfortunate beings, who have never done him the 
 least harm, with the most determined malice and hatred. 
 However, never mind, — a little patience, ' every one in 
 their turn,' — that's all." Rigolette uttered these last 
 words with a peculiarity of manner and expression that 
 created considerable uneasiness in the mind of Madame 
 S^raphin. Instead, therefore, of preserving the distance 
 she had hitherto observed, she at once joined in the con- 
 versation, saying to Fleur-de-Marie, with a kind and 
 maternal air : 
 
 " My dear girl, it is really growing too late for us to 
 wait any longer, — we must go ; we are waited for, I 
 assure you, with much anxiety. I am sorry to hurry 
 you away, because I can well imagine how much you 
 must be interested in what your friend is relating ; for 
 even I, who know nothing of the two young persons she 
 refers to, cannot help feeling my very heart ache for 
 their undeserved sufferings. Is it possible there can be 
 people in the world as wicked as the notary you were 
 mentioning ? Pray, my dear mademoiselle, what may 
 be the name of this bad man, — if I may make so bold 
 as to ask ? " 
 
 Although Rigolette entertained not the slightest sus- 
 picion of the sincerity of Madame S^raphin's affected 
 sympathy, yet, recollecting how strictly Rodolph had 
 
 250
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 enjoined her to observe the utmost secrecy respecting 
 the protection he bestowed on both Germain and Louise, 
 she regretted having been led away by her affectionate 
 zeal for her friends to use such words, — " Patience ; 
 every one has his turn ! " 
 
 " His name, madame, is Ferrand, — M. Jacques Fer- 
 rand. Notary," replied Rigolette, skilfully adding, by way 
 of compensation for her indiscreet warmth, " and it is 
 the more wicked and shameful of him to torment Louise 
 and Germain as he does, because the poor things have 
 not a friend upon earth but myself, and, God knows, 
 it is little I can do besides wishing them well out of 
 their troubles ! " 
 
 " Dear me, — poor things ! " observed Madame Sdra- 
 phin. " Well, I'm sure I hoped it was otherwise when I 
 heard you say, ' Patience ; every one has their turn ! ' 
 I supposed you reckoned for certain upon some powerful 
 protector to defend these people against that dreadful 
 notary." 
 
 " Alas, no, madame ! " answered Rigolette, hoping to 
 destroy any suspicion Madame Seraphin might still har- 
 bour ; " such, I am sorry to say, is not the case. For 
 who would be generous and disinterested enough to take 
 the part of two poor creatures like my unfortunate friends 
 against a rich and powerful man like M. Ferrand ? " 
 
 " Oh, there are many good and noble-minded persons 
 capable of performing so good an action," pursued Fleur- 
 de-Marie, after a moment's consideration, and with ill- 
 restrained excitement ; " I myself know one to whom it 
 is equally a duty and a pleasure to succour and assist all 
 who are in need or difficulty, — one who is beloved and 
 valued by all good persons, as he is dreaded and hated 
 by the bad." 
 
 Rigolette gazed on the Goualeuse with deep astonish- 
 ment, and was just on the point of asserting that she, 
 too (alluding to Rodolph), knew some one capable of 
 courageously espousing the cause of the weak against 
 
 251
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 the strong; but, faithful to the injunctions of her 
 neighbour (as she styled the prince), she contented 
 herself with merely saying, " Really, do you indeed 
 know anybody capable of generously coming forward 
 in defence of poor oppressed individuals, such as we 
 have been talking of ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I do. And, although I have already to 
 solicit his goodness in favour of others also in severe 
 trouble, yet, I am quite sure that, did he but know of 
 the undeserved misfortunes of Louise and Germain, he 
 would both rescue them from misery and punish their 
 wicked persecutor; for his goodness and justice are 
 inexhaustible." 
 
 Madame S^raphin surveyed her victim with surprise. 
 *' This girl," said she, mentally, " might be even more 
 dangerous than we thought for. And, even if I had 
 been weak enough to feel inclined to pity her, what I 
 have just heard would have rendered the little ' accident,' 
 which is to rid us of her, quite inevitable." 
 
 " Then, dear Goualeuse, since you have so valuable an 
 acquaintance, I beseech of you to recommend poor Louise 
 and Germain to his notice," said Rigolette, wisely con- 
 sidering that her two prot<^g^es would be all the better 
 for obtaining two protectors instead of one. " And pray 
 say that they do not in the least deserve their present 
 wretched fate." 
 
 " Make yourself perfectly easy," returned Fleur-de- 
 Marie ; " I promise to try to interest M. Rodolph in 
 favour of your poor friends." 
 
 " Who did you say ? " exclaimed Rigolette, " M. Ro- 
 dolph ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied La Goualeuse ; " do you know him ? " 
 
 " M. Rodolph ? " again repeated Rigolette, perfectly 
 bewildered ; " is he a travelling clerk ? " 
 
 " I really don't know what he is. But why are you 
 so much astonished ? " 
 
 " Because I know a M. Rodolph ! '* 
 
 252
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 " Perhaps it is not the same." 
 
 " Well, describe yours. What is he like ?" 
 
 " In the first place, he is young." 
 
 " So is mine." 
 
 « With a countenance full of nobleness and goodness." 
 
 " Precisely," exclaimed Rigolette, whose amazement 
 increased. " Oh, it must be the very man ! Is your M. 
 Rodolph rather dark-complexioned, with a small mous- 
 tache ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " Is he tall and thin, with a beautiful figure, and quite 
 a fashionable, gentlemanly sort of air, — wonderfully so, 
 considering he is but a clerk ? Now, then, does your M. 
 Rodolph answer to that description ? " 
 
 " Perfectly," answered Fleur-de-Marie ; " and I feel 
 quite sure that we both mean the same. The only thing 
 that puzzles me is your fancying he is a clerk." 
 
 " Oh, but I know he is. He told me so himself." 
 
 " And you know him intimately ? " 
 
 " Why, he is my next-door neighbour." 
 
 " M. Rodolph is ? " 
 
 " I mean next-room neighbour ; because he occupies 
 an apartment on the fourth floor, next to mine." 
 
 « He — M. Rodolph — lodges in the next room to 
 you?" 
 
 " Why, yes. But what do you find so astonishing in 
 a thing as simple as that ? He only earns about fifteen 
 or eighteen hundred francs a year, and, of course, he 
 could not afford a more expensive lodging, — though, 
 certainly, he does not strike me as being a very careful 
 or economical person ; for, bless his dear heart, he ac- 
 tually does not know the price of the clothes he wears." 
 
 "No, no, it cannot be the same M. Rodolph I am 
 acquamted with," said Fleur-de-Marie, reflecting seri- 
 ously ; " oh, no, quite impossible ! " 
 
 "I suppose yours is a pattern of order and exact- 
 ness ? " 
 
 253
 
 THE ^lYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " He of whom I spoke, I must tell you, Rigolette,'* ■ 
 said Fleur-de-Marie, with enthusiasm, " is all-powerful ; 
 his name is never pronounced but with love and venera- 
 tion ; there is something awe-inspiring in his very aspect, 
 giving one the desire to kneel in his presence and offer 
 humble respect to his goodness and greatness." 
 
 " Ah, then, it is no use trying the comparison any fur- 
 ther, my dear Goualeuse ; for my M. Rodolph is neither 
 powerful, great, nor imposing. He is very good-natured 
 and merry, and all that ; but oh, bless you, as for being 
 a person one would be likely to go on one's knees to, why, 
 he is quite the reverse. He cares no more for cere- 
 mony than I do, and even promised me to come and help 
 me clean my apartment and polish the floor. And then, 
 instead of being awe-inspiring, he settled with me to 
 take me out of a Sunday anywhere I liked to go. So 
 that, you see, he can't be a very great person. But, 
 bless you, what am I thinking of ? It seems as if my 
 heart were wholly engrossed by my Sunday pleasures, 
 instead of recollecting these poor creatures shut up and 
 deprived of their liberty in a prison. Ah, poor dear 
 Louise — and poor Germain, too ! Until they are re- 
 stored to freedom there is no happiness for me ! " 
 
 For several minutes Fleur-de-Marie remained plunged 
 in a deep reverie ; she all at once recalled to her remem- 
 brance that, at her first interview with Rodolph, at the 
 house of the ogress, his language and manners resembled 
 those of the usual frequenters of the tapis-franc. Was 
 it not, then, possible that he might be playing the part 
 of the travelling clerk, for the sake of some scheme he 
 had in view ? The difficulty consisted in finding any 
 probable cause for such a transformation. The grisette, 
 who quickly perceived the thoughtful meditation in which 
 Fleur-de-Marie was lost, said, kindly : 
 
 " Never mind puzzling your poor brains on the subject, 
 my dear Goualeuse ; we shall soon find out whether we 
 both know the same M. Rodolph. When ycu see yours, 
 
 254
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 speak of me to him ; when I see mine, I will mention 
 you ; by these means we shall easily discover what con- 
 clusion to come to." 
 
 " Where do you live, Rigolette ? " 
 
 " No. 17 Rue du Temple." 
 
 " Come ! " said Madame S^raphin (who had atten- 
 tively listened to all this conversation) to herself, " that 
 is not a bad thing to know. This all-powerful and mys- 
 terious personage, M. Rodolph, who is, no doubt, passing 
 himself off for a travelling clerk, occupies an apartment 
 adjoining that of this young mantua-maker, who appears 
 to me to know much more than she chooses to own to ; 
 and this defender of the oppressed, it seems, is lodging 
 in the same house with Morel and Bradamanti. Well, 
 well, if the grisette and the travelling clerk continue to 
 meddle with what does not concern them, I shall know 
 where to lay my hand upon them." 
 
 " As soon as ever I have spoken with M. Rodolph," 
 said the Goualeuse, " I will write to you, and give you 
 my address where to send your answer ; but tell me 
 yours over again, I am afraid of forgetting it." 
 
 " Oh, dear, how fortunate ! I declare I have got one 
 of my cards with me ! I remember a person I work for 
 asked me to leave her one, to give a friend who wished 
 to employ me. So I brought it out for that purpose ; 
 but I will give it to you, and carry her one another 
 time." And here Rigolette handed to Fleur-de-Marie 
 a small card, on which was written, in beautiful text- 
 hand, " Mademoiselle Rigolette, Dressmaker, 17 Rue du 
 Temple." " There's a beauty ! " continued the grisette. 
 " Oh, isn't it nicely done ? Better, a good deal, than 
 printing ! Ah, poor dear Germain wrote me a number 
 of cards long ago ! Oh, he was so kind, so attentive ! 
 I don't know how it could have happened that I never 
 found out half his good qualities till he became unfor- 
 tunate ; and now I continually reproach myself with 
 having learned to love him so late." 
 
 255
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " You love Germain, then ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, that I do ! Why, you know, I must have 
 some pretext for visiting him in prison. Am I not an 
 odd sort of girl ? " said Rigolette, choking a rising sigh, 
 and smiling, like an April shower, amid the tears which 
 glittered in her large dark eyes. 
 
 " You are good and generous-hearted, as you ever 
 were ! " said FleUr-de-Marie, tenderly pressing her friend's 
 hands within her own. 
 
 Madame Seraphin had evidently learned all she cared 
 to know, and feeling very little interest in any further 
 disclosure of Rigolette's love for young Germain, hastily 
 approaching Fleur-de-Marie, she abruptly said : 
 
 " Come, my dear child, do not keep me waiting an- 
 other minute, I beg ; it is very late, and I shall be 
 scolded, as it is, for being so much behind my time ; we 
 have trifled away a good quarter of an hour, and must 
 endeavour to make up for it." 
 
 " What a nasty cross old body that is ! " said Rigolette, 
 in a whisper, to Fleur-de-Marie. " I don't like the looks 
 of her at all ! " Then, speaking in a louder voice, she 
 added, " Whenever you come to Paris, my dear Goualeuse, 
 be sure to come and see me. I should be so delighted to 
 have you all to myself for a whole day, to show you my 
 little home and my birds ; for I have got some, such 
 sweet pretty ones ! Oh, that is my chief indulgence and 
 expense ! " 
 
 " I will try to come and see you, but certainly I will 
 write you. So good-bye, my dear, dear Rigolette ! Adieu ! 
 Oh, if you only knew how happy I feel at having met 
 with you again ! " 
 
 " And, I am sure, so do I ; but I trust we shall soon 
 see each other again ; and, besides, I am so impatient to 
 know whether your M. Rodolph is the same as mine. 
 Pray write to me very soon upon this subject, will you ? 
 Promise you will ! " 
 
 " Indeed I will ! Adieu, dear Rigolette ! " 
 
 256
 
 EECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 " Farewell, my very dear Goualeuse ! " 
 
 And again the two poor girls, each striving to conceal 
 their distress at parting, indulged in a long and affection- 
 ate embrace. Rigolette then turned away, to enter the 
 prison for the purpose of visiting Louise, according to 
 the kind permission obtained for her by Rodolph, while 
 Fleur-de-Marie, with Madame S^raphin, got into the 
 coach which was waiting for them. The coachman was 
 instructed to proceed to Batignolles, and to stop at the 
 barrier. A cross-road of inconsiderable length conducted 
 from this spot almost directly to the borders of the Seine, 
 not far from the Isle du Ravageur. Wholly unacquainted 
 with the locality of Paris, Fleur-de-Marie was unable to 
 detect that the vehicle did not take the road to the Bar- 
 rier St. Denis ; it was only when the coach stopped at 
 Batignolles, and she was requested by Madame Seraphin 
 to alight, that she said : 
 
 " It seems to me, madame, that we are not in the 
 road to Bouqueval ; and how shall we be able to walk 
 from hence to the farm ? " 
 
 " All that I can tell you, my dear child," answered the 
 femme de charge, kindly, " is, that I am obeying their 
 orders given me by your benefactors, and that you will 
 pain them greatly if you keep your friends waiting." 
 
 " Oh, not for worlds would I be so presuming and 
 ungrateful as to oppose their slightest wish ! " exclaimed 
 poor Fleur-de-Marie, with kindling warmth, " and I be- 
 seech you, madame, to pardon my seeming hesitation ; 
 but, since you plead the commands of my revered pro- 
 tectors, depend upon my following you blindly and 
 silently whithersoever you are pleased to take me. Only 
 tell me, is Madame Georges quite well ? " 
 
 " Oh, in most excellent health and spirits ! " 
 
 " And M. Rodolph ? " 
 
 " Perfectly well, also." 
 
 " Then you know him ? But, madame, when I was 
 speaking to Rigolette concerning him just now, you did 
 
 257
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 not seem to be acquainted with him ; at least, you did 
 not say so." 
 
 " Because, in pursuance with the directions given me,. 
 I affected to be ignorant of the person you alluded to." 
 
 " And did M. Rodolph, himself, give you those orders ? " 
 
 " Why, what a dear, curious little thing this is ! " said 
 the femme de charge, smilingly ; " I must mind what I 
 am about, or, with her innocent ways of putting ques- 
 tions, she will find out all my secrets ! " 
 
 " Indeed, madame, I am ashamed of seeming so in- 
 quisitive, but if you could only imagine how my heart 
 beats with joy at the bare thoughts of seeing my beloved 
 friends again, you would pardon me ; but, as we have 
 only to walk on to the place whither you are taking me, 
 I shall soon be able to gratify my wishes, without tor- 
 menting you by further inquiries." 
 
 " To be sure you will, my dear, for I promise you that 
 in a quarter of an hour we shall have reached the end 
 of our journey." 
 
 The femme de charge, having now left behind the last 
 houses in the village of Batignolles, conducted Fleur-de- 
 Marie across a grassy road, bordered on each side by 
 lofty walnut-trees. The day was warm and fine, the sky 
 half covered by the rich purple clouds of the setting sun, 
 which now cast its declining rays on the heights of the 
 colombesy situated on the other side of the Seine. As 
 Fleur-de-Marie approached the banks of the river, a deli- 
 cate bloom tinged her pale cheeks, and she seemed to 
 breathe with delight the pure fresh air that blew from 
 the country. Indeed, so strongly was the look of happi- 
 ness imprinted on her countenance, that even Madame 
 S^raphin could not avoid noticing it. 
 
 " You seem full of joy, my dear child ; I declare it is 
 quite a pleasure to see you." 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed, I am overflowing with gratitude and 
 eagerness at the thoughts of seeing my dear Madame 
 Georges so soon, and perhaps, too, M. Rodolph ! I trust 
 
 258
 
 KECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 I may, for, besides my own happiness at beholding him, 
 I want to speak to him in favour of several poor unfor- 
 tunate persons I should be so glad to recommend to his 
 kindness and protection. How, then, can I be sad when 
 I have so many delightful things to look forward to ? 
 Oh, who could be unliappy, with such a prospect as mine ? 
 And see, too, how gay and beautiful the sky is, all cov- 
 ered with bright, golden clouds ! And the dear soft green 
 grass, — I think it seems greener than ever, spite of the 
 season. And look — look out there ! See, where the 
 river flows behind those willow-trees ! Oh, how wide 
 and sparkling it seems ; and, when the sun shines on it, 
 it almost dazzles my eyes to gaze on it ! It seems like a 
 sheet of gold. Ah, I saw it shining in the same way in 
 the basin of the prison a little while ago ! God does not 
 forget even the poor prisoners, but allows them to have a 
 sight of his wondrous works. Though they are separated 
 by high stone walls from their fellow creatures, the glo- 
 rious sun shows them his golden face, and sparkles and 
 glitters upon the water there, the same as in the gardens 
 of a king ! " added Fleur-de-Marie, with pious gratitude. 
 Then, incited by a reference to her captivity still more to 
 appreciate the charms of liberty, she exclaimed, with a 
 burst of innocent delight : " Oh, pray, madame, do look 
 there, just in the middle of the river, at that pretty little 
 island, bordered with willows and poplars, and that sweet 
 little white house, almost close to the water's edge ! How 
 delicious it must be to live there in the summer, when 
 all the leaves are on the trees and the birds sing so 
 sweetly among the branches ! Oh, how quiet and cool it 
 must be in that nice place ! " 
 
 " Well, really, now, my dear," said Madame Seraphin, 
 with a grim smile, " it is singular enough your being so 
 much struck with that little isle ! " 
 
 " Why, madame ? " 
 
 " Because it is there we are actually going to." 
 
 " Going to that island ? " 
 
 259
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Yes ; does that astonish you ? " 
 
 " Rather so, madame." 
 
 " But suppose you found your friends there ? " 
 
 *' Oh, what do you mean ":' " 
 
 " Suppose, I say, you found all your friends had as- 
 sembled there, to welcome you on your release from 
 prison, should you not then be greatly surprised ? " 
 
 " Oh, if it were but possible I My dear Madame 
 Georges ? — M. Rodolph ? " 
 
 " Upon my word, my dear, I am just like a baby in 
 your hands, and you turn and twist me just as you please ; 
 it is useless for me to try to conceal anything, for, with 
 your little winning ways, you find out all secrets." 
 
 " Then I shall soon see them again ? Dear madame, 
 how can I ever thank you sufficiently for your goodness 
 to a poor girl like me ? Feel how my heart beats ! It is 
 all with joy and happiness I " 
 
 " Well, weU, my love, be as wild with delight as you 
 please, but pray do not hurry on so very fast. You for- 
 get, you little mad thing, that my old bones cannot run 
 as fast as your nimble young feet." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madame ; but I cannot help being 
 quite impatient to arrive where we are going." 
 
 " To be sure you cannot ; don't fancy I mean to blame 
 you for it ; quite the contrary." 
 
 " The road slopes a little now, madame, and it is rather 
 rough, too ; will you accept of my arm to assist you 
 down ? " 
 
 " I never refuse a good offer, my dear ; for I am some- 
 what infirm, as well as old, while you are young and 
 active." 
 
 " Then pray lean all your weight on me, madame ; 
 don't be afraid of tiring me." 
 
 " Many thanks, my child I Your help was really very 
 serviceable, for the descent is so extremely rapid just 
 here. Now, then, we are once more on smooth, level 
 ground." 
 
 260
 
 KECOLLECTIOXS. 
 
 " Oh, madame, can it, indeed, be true that I am about 
 to meet my dear Madame Georges ? I can scarcely 
 persuade myself it is reality." 
 
 " A little patience, — another quarter of an hour, and 
 then you will see whether it is true or false." 
 
 " But what puzzles me," said Fleur-de-Marie, after a 
 moment's reflection, " is, why Madame Georges should 
 have thought proper to meet me here, instead of at the 
 farm." 
 
 " Still curious, my dear child, still wanting to know 
 everybody's reasons." 
 
 " How very foolish and unreasonable I am, am I not, 
 madame ? " said Fleur-de-Marie, smiling. 
 
 " And, by way of punishing you, I have a great mind 
 to tell you what the surprise is that your friends have 
 prepared for you." 
 
 " For me, madame, a surprise ? " 
 
 " Be quiet, you little chatterbox ! You will make me 
 reveal the secret, in spite of myself." 
 
 We shall now leave Madame Seraphin and her victim 
 proceeding along the road which led to the river's side, 
 while we precede them, by a few minutes, to the Isle du 
 Ravageur. 
 
 261
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE BOATS. 
 
 DuEiNG the night the appearance of the isle inhabited 
 by the Martial family was very gloomy, but by the bright 
 light of day nothing could be more smiling than this 
 accursed spot. Bordered by willows and poplars, almost 
 entirely covered with thick grass, in which wound several 
 paths of yellow sand, the islet included a kitchen-garden 
 and a good number of fruit-trees. In the midst of the 
 orchard was to be seen the hovel, with the thatched roof, 
 into which Martial had expressed his intention to retire 
 with Fran9ois and Amandine. On this side, the isle 
 terminated at its point by a kind of stockade, formed of 
 large piles, driven in to prevent the soil from wearing 
 away. 
 
 In front of the house, and almost touching the land- 
 ing-place, was a small arbour of green trellis-work, 
 intended to support in summer-time the creeping shoots 
 of the young vines and hops, — a cradle of verdure, be- 
 neath which were arranged tables for the visitors. At 
 one end of the house, painted white and covered with 
 tiles, a wood-house, with a loft over it, formed at the 
 angle a small wing, much lower than the main body of 
 the building. Almost precisely over this wing there 
 appeared a window, with the shutters covered with iron 
 plates, and strengthened without by two transverse iron 
 bars attached to the wall by strong clamps. 
 
 Three boats were undulating in the water, fastened to 
 
 262
 
 THE BOATS. 
 
 posts at the landing-place. Seated in one of these boats, 
 Nicholas was making sure that the valve he had intro- 
 duced performed its part properly. Standing on a bench 
 at the mouth of the arbour, Calabash, with her hands 
 placed over her eyes so as to shade away the sun, was 
 looking out in the direction in which Madame S^raphin 
 and Fleur-de-Marie were to come to reach the isle. 
 
 " I don't see any one yet, old or young," said Cala- 
 bash, getting off the bench and speaking to Nicholas. 
 <'It will be just as it was yesterday; we may as well 
 wait for the King of Prussia. If these women do not 
 come in half an hour, we can't wait any longer ; Bras- 
 Rouge's ' dodge ' is much better, and he'll be waiting for 
 us. ' The diamond-matcher is to be at his place in the 
 Champs Elysdes at five o'clock. We ought to be there 
 before her ; the Chouette said so this morning." 
 
 " You are right," replied Nicholas, leaving the boat. 
 « May thunder smite the old devil's kin, who has given 
 us all the trouble for nothing ! The valve works capi- 
 tally. It appears we shall only have one instead of two 
 jobs." 
 
 " Besides, Bras-Rouge and Barbillon will want us ; 
 they can do nothing by their two selves." 
 
 " True, again ; for, whilst the job is doing, Bras-Rouge 
 must keep watch outside the cabaret, and Barbillon is 
 not strong enough to drag the matcher into the cellar, 
 for the old will fight for it, I know ! " 
 
 " Didn't the Chouette say that, for a joke, she had got 
 the Schoolmaster at ' school ' in the cellar ? " 
 
 " Not in this one ; in another much deeper, and which 
 is filled with water at spring-tides." 
 
 " How the Schoolmaster must rage and foam there in 
 the cellar ! There all alone, and blind, too ! " 
 
 " That is no matter, for, if he saw as clear as ever, 
 he could see nothing there ; the cellar is as dark as an 
 oven." 
 
 " Still, when he has done singing all the songs he 
 
 263
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 tnows, to pass away the time, his days must hang 
 precious heavy on his hands." 
 
 " The Chouette says that he amuses himself with rat- 
 hunting, and that the cellar is full of game," 
 
 " I say, Nicholas, talking of certain persons who must 
 be tired, and fume, and fret," remarked Calabash, with 
 a savage smile, and pointing to the window fastened up 
 with the iron plates, " there is one there who must be 
 ready to devour his own flesh and blood." 
 
 " Bah ! He's asleep. Since the morning he hasn't 
 stirred, and his dog is silent." 
 
 " Perhaps he has strangled him for food. For two 
 days, they must both be desperate hungry and thirsty up 
 there together." 
 
 " That is their affair. Martial may still last a long 
 time in this way, if it amuses him. When it is done, 
 why, we shall say he died of his complaint, and there'll 
 be an end of that affair." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 " Of course I do. As mother went to Asnieres this 
 morning, she met P^re Ferot, the fisherman, and, as he 
 was very much astonished at not having seen his friend 
 Martial for the last two days, mother told him that Mar- 
 tial was confined to his bed, and was so ill that his life 
 was despaired of. Daddy F^rot swallowed all, like sa 
 much honey ; he'll tell everybody else, and when the 
 thing's done and over, why, it'll all seem nat'ral 
 enough." 
 
 " Yes, but he won't die directly ; this way is a tedious 
 one." 
 
 " What else is to be done ? There was no way of 
 doing otherwise. That devil of a Martial, when he's 
 put up, is as full of mischief as the old one himself, and 
 as strong as a bull ; particularly when he suspects any- 
 thing, it is dangerous to approach him ; but, now his 
 door is well nailed up on the outside, what can he do ? 
 His window is strongly fastened with iron, too." 
 
 264
 
 THE BOATS. 
 
 " Why, he might have driven out the bars by cutting 
 away the plaster with his knife, and he would have done 
 it, only I got up the ladder, and chopped at his fingers 
 with the bill-hook every time he tried to go to work." 
 
 " What a pleasant watch ! " said the ruffian, with a 
 chuckle ; " it must have been vastly amusing ! " 
 
 " Why, it was to give you time to come with the iron 
 plates you went to get from Pere Micou." 
 
 " What a rage the dear brother must have been 
 in!" 
 
 " He ground his teeth like a lunatic. Two or three 
 times he tried to drive me away from the iron bars with 
 his stick, but then, as he had only one hand at liberty, 
 he could not work and release the iron bars, which was 
 what he was trying at." 
 
 " Fortunately, there's no fireplace in his room, and the 
 door is solid, and his hands finely cut ; if not, he would 
 work his way through the floor." 
 
 " What ! Through those heavy beams ? No, no, 
 there's no chance of his escaping; the shutters are 
 covered with iron plates and strengthened with two 
 bars of iron, the door is nailed up outside with large 
 boat-nails three inches long. His coffin is more solid 
 than if it were made of oak and lead." 
 
 " I say, though, when La Louve comes out of prison, 
 and makes her way here, to see her man, as she calls 
 him?" 
 
 " Well, we shall say, 'Look for him.' " 
 
 " By the way, do you know that, if mother had not 
 shut up those young ' rips ' of children, they would have 
 gnawed their ways through the door, like young rats, to 
 free Martial? That little vagabond Frangois is quite 
 furious since he suspects we have packed away his 
 tall brother." 
 
 " But, you know, they mustn't be left in the room up- 
 stairs whilst we leave the island ; the window is not 
 barred, and they have only to drop down outside." 
 
 265
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 At this moment the attention of Nicholas and Cala- 
 bash was attracted by the sound of cries and sobs which 
 came from the house. They saw the door of the ground 
 floor, which had been open until then, close violently, 
 and a minute afterwards the pale and sinister counte- 
 nance of Mere Martial appeared through the bars of the 
 kitchen window. With her long lean arm the culprit's 
 widow made a sign to her children to come to her. 
 
 " There's a row, I know ; I'll bet that it is Frangois, 
 who's giving himself some airs again," said Nicholas. 
 " That beggar Martial ! But for him, this young scamp 
 would be by himself. You keep a good look-out, and, 
 if you see the two women coming, give me a call." 
 
 Whilst Calabash again mounted the bench, and looked 
 out for the arrival of Seraphin and the Goualeuse, 
 Nicholas entered the house. Little Amandine was on 
 her knees in the centre of the kitchen, sobbing and 
 asking pardon for her Brother Francois. Enraged 
 and threatened, the lad, ensconced in one of the angles 
 of the apartment, had Nicholas's hatchet in his hand, 
 and appeared determined this time to offer the most 
 desperate resistance to his mother's wishes. Impassive 
 as usual, showing Nicholas the cellar, the widow made a 
 sign to her son to shut Francois up there. 
 
 " I will never be shut up there ! " cried the boy, in a 
 determined tone. " You want to make us die of hunger, 
 like Brother Martial." 
 
 The widow looked at Nicholas with an impatient air, 
 as if to reproach him for not instantly executing her 
 commands, as, with another imperious gesture, she 
 pointed to Francois. Seeing his brother advance 
 towards him, the young boy brandished the axe with 
 a desperate air and cried : 
 
 " If you try to shut me up there, whether it is mother, 
 brother, or Calabash, so much the worse. I shall strike, 
 and the hatchet cuts." 
 
 Nicholas felt as the widow did the pressing necessity 
 
 266
 
 THE BOATS. 
 
 there was to prevent the two children from going to 
 Martial's succour whilst the house was left to itself, as 
 well as to put them out of the way of seeing the scenes 
 which were about to pass, for their window looked onto 
 the river in which they were about to drown Fleur-de- 
 Marie. But Nicholas was as cowardly as he was fero- 
 cious, and, afraid of receiving a blow from the dangerous 
 hatchet with which his young brother was armed, hesi- 
 tated to approach him. The widow, angry at his 
 hesitation, pushed him towards Francois; but Nicho- 
 las, again retreating, exclaimed : 
 
 " But, mother, if he cuts me ? You know I want all 
 my arms and fingers at this time, and I feel still the 
 thump that brute Martial gave me." 
 
 The widow shrugged her shoulders, and advanced 
 towards Francois. 
 
 " Don't come near me, mother," shrieked the boy in 
 a fury, " or you'll pay dear for all the beatings you have 
 given me and Amandine ! " 
 
 " Let 'em shut us up ; don't strike mother ! " cried 
 Amandine, in fear. 
 
 At this moment Nicholas saw upon a chair a large 
 blanket which he used to wrap his booty in at times, 
 and, taking hold of and partly unfolding it, he threw it 
 completely over Francois's head, who, in spite of his 
 efforts, finding himself entangled under its folds, could 
 not make use of his weapon. Nicholas then seized hold 
 of him, and, with his mother's help, carried him into the 
 cellar. Amandine had continued kneeling in the centre 
 of the kitchen, and, as soon as she saw her brother over- 
 come, she sprang up and, in spite of her fright, went to 
 join him in the dark hole. The door was then double- 
 locked on the brother and sister. 
 
 " It will still be that infernal Martial's fault, if these 
 children behave in this outrageous manner to us," said 
 Nicholas. 
 
 "Nothing has been heard in his room since this 
 
 267
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 morning," said the widow, with a pensive air, and she 
 shuddered, " nothing ! " 
 
 " That's a sign, mother, that you were right to say to 
 Pere F^rot, the fisherman at Asnieres, that Martial had 
 been so dangerously ill as to be confined to his bed for 
 the last two days ; for now, when all is known, it will 
 not astonish anybody." 
 
 After a moment's silence, as and if she wished to 
 escape a painful thought, the widow replied, suddenly : 
 
 " Didn't the Chouette come here whilst I was at 
 Asnieres ? " 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " Why didn't she stay and accompany us to Bras- 
 Rouge's ? I mistrust her." 
 
 " Bah ! You mistrust everybody, mother ; you are 
 always fancying they are going to play you some 
 trick. To-day it is the Chouette, yesterday it was 
 Bras-Rouge." 
 
 " Bras-Rouge is at liberty, — my son is at Toulon, yet 
 they committed the same robbery." 
 
 " You are always saying this. Bras-Rouge escaped 
 because he is as cunning as a fox — that's it; the 
 Chouette did not stay, because she had an appoint- 
 ment at two o'clock, near the Observatory, with the 
 tall man in black, at whose desire she has carried off 
 this young country girl, by the help of the Schoolmaster 
 and Tortillard ; and Barbillon drove the hackney-coach 
 which the tall man in black had hired for the job. So 
 how, mother, do you suppose the Chouette would inform 
 against us, when she tells us the ' jobs ' she has in hand, 
 and we do not tell her ours ? for she knows nothing of 
 this drowning job that is to come off directly. Be easy, 
 mother ; wolves don't eat each other, and this will be 
 a good day's work ; and when I recollect, too, that the 
 jewel-matcher has often about her twenty to thirty thou- 
 sand francs' worth of diamonds in her bag, and that, in 
 less than two hours, we shall have her in Bras-Rouge's
 
 THE BOATS. 
 
 cellar! Thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds, 
 mother! Think of that!" 
 
 "And, whilst we lay hands on this woman, Bras- 
 Rouge is to remain outside the cabaret ? " inquired 
 the widow, with an air of suspicion. 
 
 " Well, and where would you have him, I should like 
 to know ? If any one comes to his house, mustn't he be 
 outside the door to answer them, and prevent them from 
 entering the place whilst we are doing our ' job ? ' " 
 
 " Nicholas ! Nicholas ! " cried Calabash, at this moment 
 from outside, " here come the two women ! " 
 
 " Quick, quick, mother ! Your shawl ! I will land you 
 on the other side, and that will be so much done," said 
 Nicholas. 
 
 The widow had replaced her mourning head-dress with 
 a high black cap, in which she now made her appearance. 
 At the instigation of Nicholas, she wrapped herself in a 
 large plaid shawl, with gray and white checks ; and, after 
 having carefully closed and secured the kitchen door, she 
 placed the key behind one of the window-shutters on the 
 ground-floor, and followed her son, who was hastily 
 pursuing his way to the landing-place. Almost invol- 
 untarily, as she quitted the island, she cast a long and 
 meditative look at Martial's window; and the train of 
 thought to which its firmly nailed and iron-bound exte- 
 rior gave rise seemed, to judge by their effect, to be of a 
 very mingled and complicated character, for she knitted 
 her brows, pursed her lips, and then, after a sudden 
 convulsive shudder, she murmured, in a low hesitating 
 voice : 
 
 " It is his own fault — it is his own fault ! " 
 
 " Nicholas, do you see them ? Just down there, along 
 the path, — a country girl and an old woman ! " exclaimed 
 Calabash, pointing to the other side of the river, where 
 Madame S^raphin and Fleur-de-Marie were descending a 
 narrow, winding path which passed by a high bank, on 
 the top of which were the lime-kilns. 
 
 269
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Let us wait for the signal ; don't let us spoil the job 
 by too much haste," said Nicholas. 
 
 " What! Are you blind? Don't you recognise the stout 
 woman who came the day before yesterday? Look at 
 her orange shawl; and the little country girl, what a 
 hurry she seems in! She's a good little thing, I know; 
 and it's plain she has no idea of what is going to happen 
 to her, or she wouldn't hasten on at that pace, I'm 
 thinking." 
 
 " Yes, I recollect the stout woman now. It's all right, 
 then — all right ! Although they are so much behind the 
 time I had almost given up the job as bad. But let us 
 quite understand the thing, Calabash. I shall take the 
 old woman and the young girl in the boat with a valve 
 to it ; you will follow me close on, stern to stern ; and 
 mind and row steadily, so that, with one spring, I may 
 jump from one boat to the other, as soon as I have 
 opened the pipe and the water begins to sink the boat." 
 
 " Don't be afraid about me, it is not the first time I've 
 pulled a boat, is it ? " 
 
 " I am not afraid of being drowned, you know I can 
 swim ; but, if I did not jump well into the other boat, 
 why, the women, in their struggles against drowning, 
 might catch hold of me and — much obliged to you, 
 but I have no fancy for a bath with the two ladies." 
 
 " The old woman waves her handkerchief," said 
 Calabash ; " there they are on the bank." 
 
 " Come, come along, mother, let's push off," said 
 Nicholas, unmooring. " Come you into the boat with 
 the valve, then the two women will not have any fear ; 
 and you, Calabash, jump into t'other, and use your arms, 
 my girl, and pull a good one. Ah, by the way, take the 
 boat-hook and put it beside you, it is as sharp as a lance, 
 and it may be useful," added the ruffian, as he placed 
 beside Calabash in the boat a long hook with a sharp 
 iron point. 
 
 A few moments, and the two boats, one rowed by 
 
 270
 
 THE BOATS. 
 
 Nicholas and the other by Calabash, reached the shore 
 where, for some moments, Madame Sdraphin and Fleur- 
 de-Marie had been waiting. Whilst Nicholas was fas- 
 tening his boat to a post on the bank, Madame S^raphin 
 approached him, and said, in a low and rapid tone : 
 
 " Say that Madame Georges is waiting for us at the 
 island, — you understand?" And then, in a louder 
 voice, she added, " We are rather late, my lad." 
 
 " Yes, my good lady, Madame Georges has been ask- 
 ing for you several times." 
 
 "You see, my dear young lady, Madame Georges is 
 waiting for us," said Madame S^raphin, turning to 
 Fleur-de-Marie, who, in spite of her confidence, had 
 felt considerable repugnance at the sight of the 
 sinister countenances of Calabash, Nicholas, and the 
 widow ; but the mention of Madame Georges reas- 
 sured her, and she replied : 
 
 " I am just as impatient to see Madame Georges ; 
 fortunately, it is not a long way across." 
 
 " How delighted the dear lady will be ! " said Madame 
 S^raphin. Then, addressing Nicholas, " Now, then, my 
 lad, bring your boat a little closer that we may get in." 
 Adding, in an undertone, " The girl must be drowned, 
 mind; if she comes up thrust her back again into the 
 water." 
 
 " All right, ma'am ; and don't be alarmed yourself, 
 but, when I make you the signal, give me your hand, 
 she'll then pass under all alone, for everything's ready, 
 and you have nothing to fear," replied Nicholas, in a 
 similar tone ; and then, with savage brutality, unmoved 
 by Fleur-de-Marie's youth and beauty, he put his hand 
 out to her. The young girl leaned lightly on him and 
 entered the boat. 
 
 " Now you, my good lady," said Nicholas to Madame 
 S^raphin, offering her his hand in turn. 
 
 Was it presentiment, or mistrust, or only fear that she 
 could not spring quickly enough out of the little bark 
 
 271
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 in which Nicholas and the Goualeuse were, that made 
 Jacques Ferrand's housekeeper say to Nicholas, shrink- 
 ing back, " No, I'll go in the boat with mademoiselle ? " 
 And she took her seat by Calabash. 
 
 " Just as you please," said Nicholas, exchanging an 
 expressive look with his sister as, with a vigorous 
 thrust with his oar, he drove his boat from the bank. 
 
 His sister did the same directly Madame Seraphin 
 was seated beside her. Standing, looking fixedly on 
 the bank, indifferent to the scene, the widow, pensive 
 and absorbed, fixed her look obstinately on Martial's 
 window, which was discernible from the landing-place 
 through the poplars. During this time the two boats, 
 in the first of which were Nicholas and Fleur-de-Marie 
 and in the other Calabash and Madame Seraphin, left 
 the bank slowly. 
 
 272
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 Before the reader is made acquainted with the 
 denouement of the drama then passing in Nicholas's 
 boat, we shall beg leave to retrace our steps. 
 
 Shortly after Fleur-de-Marie had quitted St. Lazare 
 in company of Madame S^raphin, La Louve also left 
 that prison. Thanks to the recommendations of Madame 
 Armand and the governor, who were desirous of recom- 
 pensing her for her kindness towards Mont Saint-Jean, 
 the few remaining days the beloved of Martial had still 
 to remain in confinement were remitted her. A com- 
 plete change had come over this hitherto depraved, 
 degraded, and intractable being. Forever brooding over 
 the description of the peaceful, wild, and retired life, 
 so beautifully depictured by Fleur-de-Marie, La Louve 
 entertained the utmost horror and disgust of her past 
 life. To bury herself with Martial in the deep shades 
 of some vast forest, such was her waking and dreaming 
 thought, — the one fixed idea of her existence, against 
 which all her former evil inclinations had in vain strug- 
 gled when, separating herself from La Goualeuse, whose 
 growing influence she feared, this singular creature had 
 retired to another part of St. Lazare. 
 
 To complete this sincere though rapid conversion, 
 still more assured by the ineffectual resistance attempted 
 by the perverse and froward habits of her companion, 
 Fleur-de-Marie, following the dictates of her own natural 
 good sense, had thus reasoned : 
 
 273
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " La Louve, a violent and determined creature, is 
 passionately fond of Martial. She would, then, hail 
 with delight the means of quitting the disgraceful life 
 she now, for the first time, views with shame and dis- 
 gust, for the purpose of entirely devoting herself to the 
 rude, unpolished man whose taste she so entirely par- 
 takes of, and who seeks to hide himself from the world, 
 as much from inclination as from a desire of escaping 
 from the universal reprobation in which his family is 
 viewed." 
 
 Assisted by these small materials, gleaned during her 
 conversation with La Louve, Fleur-de-Marie, in giving a 
 right direction to the unbridled passion and restraining 
 the daring hardihood of the reckless creature, had pos- 
 itively converted a lost, wretched being into an honest 
 woman ; for what could the most virtuous of her sex 
 have desired more than to bestow her undivided affec- 
 tions on the man of her choice, to dwell with him in 
 the silence and solitude of woods, where hard labour, 
 privations and poverty, would all be cheerfully borne 
 and shared for his dear sake, to whom her heart was 
 given ? 
 
 And such was the constant, ardent prayer of La 
 Louve. Relying on the assistance which Fleur-de-Marie 
 had assured her of in the name of an unknown bene- 
 factor, La Louve determined to make her praiseworthy 
 proposal to her lover, not, indeed, without the keen and 
 bitter apprehension of being rejected by him, for La 
 Goualeuse, while she brought her to blush for her past 
 life, awakened her to a just sense also of her position as 
 regarded Martial. 
 
 Once at liberty. La Louve thought only of seeing 
 " her man," as she called him. He took exclusive 
 possession of her mind ; she had heard nothing of him 
 for several days. In the hopes of meeting with him in 
 the Isle du Ravageur, and with the determination of 
 waiting there until he came, should she fail to find him 
 
 274
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 at first, she paid the driver of a cabriolet liberally to 
 conduct her with all speed to the bridge of Asnieres, 
 which she crossed about a quarter of an hour before 
 Madame Seraphin and Fleur -de - Marie (they having 
 walked from the barrier) had reached the banks of the 
 river near the lime-kilns. As Martial did not present 
 himself to ferry La Louve across to the Isle du Ravageur, 
 she applied to an old fisherman, named Father Ferot, 
 who lived close by the bridge. 
 
 It was about four o'clock in the day when a cabriolet 
 stopped at the entrance of a small street in the village 
 of Asnieres. La Louve leaped from it at one bound, 
 threw a five-franc piece to the driver, and proceeded 
 with all haste to the dwelling of old Ferot, the ferry- 
 man. La Louve, no longer dressed in her prison garb, 
 wore a gown of dark green merino, a red imitation of 
 cashmere shawl with large, flaming pattern, and a net 
 cap trimmed with riband ; her thick, curly hair was 
 scarcely smoothed out, her impatient longing to see 
 Martial having rendered an ordinary attention to her 
 toilet quite impossible. Any other female would, after 
 so long a separation, have exerted her very utmost 
 to appear becomingly adorned at her first interview 
 with her lover; but La Louve knew little and cared 
 less for all these coquettish arts, which ill accorded 
 with her excitable nature. Her first, her predominating 
 desire was to see " her man " as quickly as possible, and 
 this impetuous wish was caused, not alone by the fervour 
 of a love which, in minds as wild and unregulated as 
 hers, sometimes leads on to madness, but also from a 
 yearning to pour into the ear of Martial the virtuous 
 resolutions she had formed, and to reveal to him the 
 bright vista of happiness opened to both by her conver- 
 sation with Fleur-de-Marie. 
 
 The flying steps of La Louve soon conducted her 
 to the fisherman's cottage, and there, seated tranquilly 
 before the door, she found Father F^rot, an old, white- 
 
 275
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 headed man, busily employed mending his nets. Even 
 before she came close up to him, La Louve cried out : 
 
 " Quick, quick, Father F^rot ! Your boat ! Your 
 boat ! " 
 
 " What ! Is it you, my girl ? Well, how are you ? 
 I have not seen you this long while." 
 
 " I know, I know ; but where is your boat ? and take 
 me across to the isle as fast as you can row." 
 
 " My boat ? Well to be sure ! Now, how very unlucky ! 
 As if it was to be so. Bless you, my girl, it is quite out 
 of my power to ferry you across to-day." 
 
 "But why? Why is it?" 
 
 " Why, you see, my son has taken my boat to go up 
 to the boat-races held at St. Ouen. Bless your heart, I 
 don't think there's a boat left all along the river's side." 
 
 " Distraction ! " exclaimed La Louve, stamping her 
 foot and clenching her hand. " Then all is lost ; I shall 
 not be able to see him ! " 
 
 " 'Pon my honour and word, it's true, though," said 
 old Ferot. " I am extremely sorry I am unable to ferry 
 you over, because, no doubt, by your going on so, he is 
 very much worse." 
 
 " Who is much worse ? Who ? " 
 
 " Why, Martial ! " 
 
 " Martial ! " exclaimed La Louve, snatching the sleeve 
 of old Ferot's jacket, " My man ill ? " 
 
 " Bless me ! Did you not know it ? " 
 
 " Martial ? Do you mean Martial ? " 
 
 " To be sure I do ; but don't hold me so tight, you'll 
 tear my blouse. Now be quiet, there's a good girl. I 
 declare you frighten me, you stare about so wildly." 
 
 " 111 ! Martial ill ? And how long has he been so ? " 
 
 " Oh, two or three days." 
 
 " 'Tis false ! He would have written and told me of 
 it, had it been so." 
 
 " Ah, but then, don't you see ? He's been too bad to 
 handle a pen." 
 
 276
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 " Too ill to write ! And he is on the isle ! Are you 
 sure — quite sure he is there ? " 
 
 " Why, I'll tell you. You must know, this morning, 
 I meets the widow Martial. Now you are aware, my 
 girl, that most, in general, when I notice her coming one 
 way, I make it my business to go the other, for I am not 
 particular fond of her, — I can't say I am. So then — " 
 
 " But my man — my man ! Tell me of him ! " 
 
 " Wait a bit, — I'm coming to him. So when I found 
 I couldn't get away from the mother, and, to speak the 
 honest truth, that woman makes me afraid to seem to 
 slight her. She has a sort of an evil look about her, 
 like one as could do you any manner of harm for only 
 wishing for ; I can't account for it, I don't know what 
 it is, for I am not timorous by nature, but somehow the 
 widow Martial does downright scare me. Well, says I, 
 thinking just to say a few words and pass on, ' I haven't 
 seen anything of your son Martial these last two or three 
 days,' says I, ' I suppose he's not with you just now ? ' 
 upon which she fixed her eyes upon me with such a look ! 
 'Tis well they were not pistols, or they would have shot 
 me, as folks say." 
 
 "You drive me wild! And then — and what said 
 she ? " 
 
 Father Fdrot was silent for a minute or two, and then 
 added : 
 
 "Come, now, you are a right sort of a girl; if you 
 will only promise me to be secret, I w^ll tell you all I 
 know." 
 
 " Concerning my man ? " 
 
 " Ay, to be sure, for Martial is a good fellow, though 
 somewhat thoughtless; and it would be a sore pity 
 should any mischance befall him through that old 
 wretch of a mother or his rascally brother!" 
 
 " But what is going on ? What have his mother or 
 brother done ? And where is he, eh ? Speak, I tell 
 you! Speak!" 
 
 277
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Well, well, have a little patience ! And, I say, do just 
 let my blouse alone ! Come, take your hands off, there's 
 a good girl ;• if you keep interrupting me, and tear my 
 clothes in this way, I shall never be able to finish 
 my story, and you will know nothing at last." 
 
 " Oh, how you try my patience ! " exclaimed La Louve, 
 stamping her foot with intense passion. 
 
 " And you promise never to repeat a word of what I 
 am about to tell you ? " 
 
 " No, no, I never will ! '* 
 
 " Upon your word of honour ? " 
 
 " Father F^rot, you will drive me mad ! " 
 
 " Oh, what a hot-headed girl it is ! Well, now, then, 
 this is what I have got to say ; but, first and foremost, I 
 must tell you that Martial is more than ever at variance 
 with his family ; and, if he were to get some foul play at 
 their hands, I should not be at all surprised ; and that 
 makes me the more sorry my boat is not at hand to help 
 you across the water, for, if you reckon upon either 
 Nicholas or Calabash taking you over to the isle, why, 
 you'll just find yourself disappointed, that's all." 
 
 " I know that as well as you do ; but what did my 
 man's mother tell you ? He was in the isle, then, when 
 he fell ill, was he not ? " 
 
 " Don't you put me out so with your questions ; let 
 me tell my story my own way. This morning I says to 
 the widow, ' Why,' says I, ' I have seen nothing of Mar- 
 tial these last two or three days. I mark his boat is 
 still moored, — he don't seem to use it as usual ; I sup- 
 pose he's gone away a bit ? Maybe he's in Paris upon 
 his business ? ' Upon which the widow gave me, oh, 
 such a devil's look ! So says she, ' He's bad a-bed in the 
 isle, and we don't look for him to get better ! ' ' Oh, 
 oh ! ' says I to myself, ' that's it, is it ? It's three days 
 since — ' Holla ! stop, I say ! " cried old F^rot, inter- 
 rupting himself ; " where the deuce are you going ? 
 What is the girl after now ? " 
 
 278
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 Believing the life of Martial in danger from the 
 inhabitants of the isle, and unable longer to endure 
 the twaddle of the old fisherman, La Louve rushed, half 
 frantic with rage and fear, towards the banks of the 
 Seine. Some topographical descriptions will be requisite 
 for the perfect understanding of the ensuing scene. 
 
 The Isle du Ravageur was nearer to the left bank of 
 the river than it was to the right, from which Fleur-de- 
 Marie and Madame Seraphin had embarked. La Louve 
 stood on the left bank. Without being extremely high, 
 the surface of the isle completely prevented those on one 
 side the river from seeing what was passing on the oppo- 
 site bank ; thus La Louve had been unable to witness 
 the embarkation of La Goualeuse, while the Martial 
 family had been equally prevented from seeing La 
 Louve, who, at that very instant, was rushing in wild 
 desperation along the banks of the other side of the 
 river. 
 
 Let us also recall to the reader, that the country-house 
 belonging to Doctor Griffon, and temporarily occupied by 
 the Count Saint-Remy was midway between the land 
 and that part of the shore where La Louve arrived half 
 wild with apprehension and impatience. Unconsciously 
 she rushed past two individuals, who, struck with 
 her excited manner and haggard looks, turned back to 
 watch her proceedings. These two personages were the 
 Count Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon. 
 
 The first impulse of La Louve, upon learning the 
 danger which threatened her lover, was to hurry 
 towards the spot from whence the peril proceeded ; 
 but, as she reached the water's edge, she became pain- 
 fully sensible of the difficulties that stood in the way of 
 her reaching the opposite land. As the old fisherman 
 had assured her, she well knew the folly of expecting 
 any strangers to pass by, and none of the Martial family 
 would take the trouble of rowing over to fetch her to 
 the isle. 
 
 279
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 Heated and breathless, her eyes sparkling with eager 
 excitement, she stopped opposite that point of the isle 
 which, taking a sudden bend in this direction, was the 
 nearest approach from the shore. Through the leafless 
 branches of the willows and poplars, La Louve could see- 
 the roof of the very house where Martial perhaps lay 
 dying. 
 
 At this distracting idea La Louve uttered a wild cry 
 of desperation, then, snatching off her shawl and cap, 
 she slipped out of her gown ; and, undressed as she was 
 to her petticoat, she threw herself intrepidly into the 
 river, waded until she got out of her depth, and then, 
 fearlessly striking out, she swam determinedly towards 
 the isle, affording a strange spectacle of wild and des- 
 perate energy. At each fresh impulsion of the arms 
 the long, thick hair of La Louve, unfastened by the vio- 
 lent exercise she was using, shook and waved about her 
 head like the rich mane of a war-horse. But for the 
 fixedness of her gaze, constantly riveted on the house 
 which contained Martial, and the contraction of her fea- 
 tures, drawn together by almost the convulsive agonies of 
 fear and dreadful anticipation of arriving too late, the 
 poacher's mistress might have been supposed to have 
 been merely enjo3dng the cool refreshment of the water 
 for her own sport and diversion, so boldly and freely did 
 she swim. 
 
 Tattooed in remembrance of her lover, her white but 
 sinewy arms, strong as those of a man, divided the 
 waters with a stroke which sent the sparkling element 
 in rushing streams of liquid pearls over her broad shoul- 
 ders and strong, expansive chest, resembling a block of 
 half-submerged marble. All at once, from the other 
 side of the isle, rose a cry of distress, — a cry of agony 
 at once fearful and despairing. La Louve started, and 
 suddenly stopped in her rapid course ; then supporting 
 herself with one hand, with the other she pushed back 
 her thick, dripping hair, and listened. Again the cry 
 
 280
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 was repeated, but more feebly, supplicatory, convulsive, 
 and expiring ; and then the most profound silence reigned 
 around. 
 
 " 'Tis Martial — 'tis his cry ! He calls me to his 
 aid ! " exclaimed La Louve, swimming with renewed 
 vigour, for, in her excited state of mind, the voice which 
 had rent the air, and sent a pang through her whole 
 frame, seemed to her to be that of her lover. 
 
 The count and the doctor, whom La Louve had rushed 
 so quickly by, were quite unable to overtake her in time 
 to prevent her daring attempt ; but both arrived imme- 
 diately opposite the isle at the moment when those 
 frightful cries were heard. Both stopped, as perfectly 
 shocked and startled as La Louve had been. Observing 
 the desperate energy with which she battled with the 
 water, they exclaimed : 
 
 " The unfortunate creature means to drown herself ! " 
 
 But their fears were vain. Martial's mistress swam 
 like an otter, and, with a few more vigorous strokes, the 
 intrepid creature had reached the land. She gained her 
 feet, and, to assist her in climbing up the bank, she took 
 hold of one of the stakes used as a sort of protecting 
 stockade at the extremity of the isle, when at that in- 
 stant, as partially in the water and holding on by one 
 hand, she saw drifting along the form of a young female, 
 dressed after the fashion of the country girls who come 
 to Paris with their wares. The body floated slowly on 
 with the current, which drove it against the piles, while 
 the garments served to render it buoyant. To cling to 
 one of the strongest stakes, and with the hand left free 
 to snatch at the clothes of the female as it was passing, 
 was the instantaneous impulse of La Louve, — an im- 
 pulse executed as rapidly as conceived. In her extreme 
 eagerness, however, she drew the unfortunate being she 
 sought to save so suddenly and violently towards herself 
 and within the small enclosure formed by the piles, that 
 the body sunk completely under water, though here it 
 
 281
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 was shallow enough to walk to land. Gifted with skill 
 and strength far from common, La Louve raised La 
 Goualeuse (for she it was, although not as yet recognised 
 by her late friend), took her up in her powerful arms as 
 though she had been a child, and laid her on the grassy 
 banks of the isle. 
 
 " Courage ! Courage ! " shouted M. de Saint-Remy, 
 from the opposite side, having, as well as Doctor Grif- 
 fon, witnessed this bold deliverance. " We will make 
 all haste to cross the bridge of Asnieres, and bring a 
 boat to your assistance." 
 
 After thus speaking, both the count and his com- 
 panion proceeded as quickly as they were able in the 
 direction of the bridge ; but La Louve heard not the 
 words addressed to her. 
 
 Let us again repeat, that, from the right bank of the 
 Seine, on which Nicholas, Calabash, and their mother 
 assembled after the commission of their atrocious crime, 
 it was impossible, owing to its steepness, to observe what 
 was passing on the opposite shore. Fleur-de-Marie, 
 abruptly drawn by La Louve within the piles, having 
 first sunk completely from the eyes of her murderers, 
 was thus in safety from any further pursuit on their 
 part, they believing that she had effectually perished. 
 
 A few instants after, the current, as it swept by, car- 
 ried with it a second body, floating near to the surface 
 of the water ; but La Louve perceived it not. It was 
 the corpse of Madame S^raphin, the notary's femme de 
 charge. She, however, was perfectly dead. 
 
 It was as much the interest of Nicholas and Calabash 
 as it was of Jacques Ferrand to remove so formidable a 
 witness as well as sharer of their crime ; seizing the 
 opportunity, therefore, when the boat sunk with Fleur- 
 de-Marie, to spring into that rowed by his sister, and in 
 which was Madame S^raphin, he contrived to give the 
 small vessel so great a shock as almost threw i\\Q femme 
 de charge into the water, and, while struggling to recover 
 
 282
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 herself, he managed to thrust her overboard, and then 
 to finish her with his boat-hook. 
 
 Breathless and exhausted. La Louve, kneeling on the 
 grass beside Fleur-de-Marie, tried to recover her strength, 
 and, at the same time, to make out the features of her she 
 had saved from certain death. Who can describe her 
 surprise, her utter astonishment, as she recognised 
 her late prison companion, — she who had exercised so 
 beneficial an influence on her mind, and produced so com- 
 plete a change in her conduct and ideas ? In the first 
 bewilderment of her feelings even Martial was forgotten. 
 
 " La Goualeuse ! " exclaimed she, as, with head bent 
 down, her hair dishevelled, her garments streaming with 
 wet, she, kneeling, contemplated the unhappy girl 
 stretched almost dying before her on the grass. 
 
 Pale, motionless, her half closed eyes vacant and sense- 
 less, her beautiful hair glued to her pallid brows, her lips 
 blue and livid, her small, delicate hands stiff and cold, 
 La Goualeuse might well have passed for dead to any but 
 the watchful eye of affection. 
 
 " La Goualeuse ! " again «ried La Louve. " What a 
 singular chance that I should have come hither to relate 
 to my man all the good and harm she has done me with 
 her words and promises, as well as the resolution I have 
 taken, and to find the poor thing thus to give me the 
 meeting ! Poor girl ! She is cold and dead. But, no, 
 no ! " exclaimed La Louve, stooping still more closely 
 over Fleur-de-Marie, and, as she did so, finding a faint 
 — indeed, almost imperceptible — breath escape her lips ; 
 « no, she lives ! Merciful Father, she breathes ! And 
 'tis I have snatched her from death ! I, who never yet 
 saved any one ! Oh, how happy the thought makes me ! 
 My heart glows with a new delight. How thankful I 
 feel that none but I saved her ! Ha ! but my man, -— 
 I must save him also. Perhaps he is even now in his 
 death-throes — his mother and brother are even wretches 
 
 283
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 enough to murder him ! What shall I do ? I cannot 
 leave this poor creature here, — I will carry her to the 
 widow's house. She must and she shall succour the poor 
 Goualcuse and let me see Martial, or I will smash every- 
 thing in my way. No mother, brother, or sister shall 
 hinder me from going wherever my man is ! " 
 
 And, springing up as she spoke. La Louve raised 
 Fleur-de-Marie in her strong arms. Charged with this 
 slender burthen, she hurried towards the house, never for 
 a moment doubting that, spite of their hard and wicked 
 natures, the widow and her daughter would bestow on 
 Fleur-de-Marie every requisite care. 
 
 When Martial's mistress had reached that point of the 
 isle from which both sides of the Seine were distinguish- 
 able, Nicholas, his mother, and Calabash had quitted the 
 place, certain of the accomplishment of their double 
 crime ; they then repaired, in all haste, to the house of 
 Bras-Rouge. 
 
 At this moment a man who, hidden in one of the re- 
 cesses of the river concealed by the lime-kiln, had, with- 
 out being seen himself, witnessed the whole progress of 
 this horrible scene, also disappeared ; believing, as well 
 as the guilty perpetrators, that the fell deed had been 
 fully achieved. This man was Jacques Ferrand. 
 
 One of Nicholas's boats was rocking to and fro, moored 
 to a stake on the river's bank, just by where Madame 
 Seraphin and La Goualeuse had embarked. 
 
 Scarcely had Jacques Ferrand quitted the lime-kiln to 
 return to Paris than M. de Saint-Remy and Doctor Griffon 
 hastily crossed the bridge of Asnieres, for the purpose of 
 reaching the isle ; which they contemplated doing by 
 means of Nicholas's boat, which they had discerned from 
 afar. 
 
 To the extreme astonishment of La Louve, when she 
 arrived at the house in the Isle du Ravageur, she found 
 the door shut and fastened. Placing the still inanimate 
 form of Fleur-de-Marie beneath the porch, she more 
 
 284
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 closely examined the dwelling. The window of Martial's 
 chamber was well known to her ; what was her surprise 
 to find the shutters belonging to it closed, and sheets of 
 tin nailed over them, strongly secured from without by 
 two bars of iron ! 
 
 Suspecting a part of the cause of this. La Louve, in a 
 loud, hoarse voice of mingled fury and deep tenderness, 
 screamed out as loudly as she could : 
 
 " Martial ! My man ! " 
 
 No answer was returned. 
 
 Terrified at this silence. La Louve began pacing round 
 and round the house like a wild beast who scents the 
 spot whither her mate has been entrapped, and with deep 
 roars and savage growls demands admittance to him. 
 
 Still pursuing her agitated search. La Louve kept 
 shouting from time to time, " My man ! Are you there, 
 my man?" And in her desperate fury she shook and 
 rattled the bars of the kitchen wdndows, beat against 
 the walls, and knocked long and loudly at the door. All 
 at once a dull, indistinct noise was heard from with- 
 inside the house. Eagerly and attentively La Louve 
 listened ; the noise, however, ceased. 
 
 " My man heard me ! I must and will get in some- 
 how, if I gnaw the door away with my teeth." 
 
 And again she reiterated her frantic cries and adjura- 
 tions to Martial. Several faint blows struck inside the 
 closed shutters of Martial's chamber replied to the yells 
 and screams of La Louve. 
 
 " He is there ! " cried she, suddenly stopping beneath 
 the window of her lover. " He is there ! I am sure of 
 it ; and if all other means fail I will strip off that tin 
 with my nails, but I will wrench those shutters open ! " 
 
 So saying, she glanced frantically around in search of 
 something to aid her efforts to free her lover, when her 
 eye caught sight of a ladder partly hanging against one 
 of the outside shutters of the sitting-room. Hastily pull- 
 ing the shutter, the more quickly to disengage the ladder, 
 
 235
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 the key of the outer door, left by the widow on the sill 
 of the window, fell to the ground. 
 
 " Oh, if this be only the right key ! " cried La Louve, 
 trying it in the lock of the entrance door ; " I can go 
 straight up stairs to his chamber. Oh, it turns ! It 
 opens ! " exclaimed La Louve, with delight ; " and my 
 man is saved ! " 
 
 Once in the kitchen she was struck by the cries of the 
 two children, who, shut up in the cellar, and hearing an 
 unusual noise, called loudly for help. The widow, per- 
 suaded that no person would visit the isle or her dwell- 
 ing, had contented herself with double-locking the door 
 upon Frangois and Amandine, leaving the key in the 
 lock. 
 
 Released by La Louve, the two children hurried from 
 the cellar to the kitchen. 
 
 " Oh, La Louve ! " exclaimed Frangois, " save our dear 
 Brother Martial ; they want him to die ! For two days 
 he has been shut up in his room ! " 
 
 " They have not wounded him, have they ? " 
 
 " No, no, I think not ! " 
 
 " I have arrived just in time, it seems," cried La 
 Louve, rushing towards the staircase, and hastily mount- 
 ing the stairs. Then, suddenly stopping, she exclaimed, 
 " Ah, but La Goualeuse ! I quite forgot her. Amandine, 
 my child, light a fire directly ; and then do you and your 
 brother fetch a poor, half-drowned girl you will find lying 
 outside the door under the porch, and place her before 
 the fire. She would have been quite dead, if I had not 
 saved her. Francois, quick ! Bring me a crowbar, a 
 hatchet, an axe, anything, that I may break in the door 
 that confines my man ! " 
 
 " There is the cleaver we split wood with, but it is too 
 heavy for you," said the lad, dragging forward an enor- 
 mous chopper. 
 
 " Too heavy ! I don't even feel it ! " cried La Louve, 
 swinging the ponderous weapon, which, at another time, 
 
 286
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 she would have had much difficulty in lifting, as though 
 it had been a feather. 
 
 Then, proceeding with hurried steps up-stairs, she 
 called out to the children: 
 
 " Go and fetch the young girl I told you of, and place 
 her by the fire." 
 
 And, with two bounds. La Louve reached the corri- 
 dor, at the end of which was situated the apartment of 
 Martial. 
 
 " Courage ! Courage, my man ! Your Louve is here ! " 
 cried she, and, lifting the cleaver with both hands, she 
 dashed it furiously against the door. 
 
 " It is fastened on the outside," moaned Martial, in a 
 feeble voice ; " draw out the nails, — you cannot open it 
 otherwise." 
 
 Throwing herself upon her knees in the passage, by 
 the help of the edge of the cleaver, her nails, which she 
 almost tore bleeding from their roots, and her fingers, 
 which were lacerated and torn. La Louve contrived to 
 extract the huge nails which fastened the door all around. 
 At length her heroic exertions were crowned with suc- 
 cess, — the door yielded to her efforts, and Martial, pale, 
 bleeding, and almost exhausted, fell into the arms of his 
 mistress. 
 
 " At last — I have you — I hold you — I press you to 
 my heart ! " exclaimed La Louve, as she received and 
 tenderly pressed Martial in her arms, with a joy of 
 possession that partook almost of savage energy. She 
 supported, or, rather, carried him to a bench placed in 
 the corridor. For several minutes Martial remained 
 weak and haggard, endeavouring to recover from the 
 violent surprise which had proved nearly too much for 
 his exhausted strength. La Louve had come to the suc- 
 cour of her lover at the very instant when, worn-out and 
 despairing, he felt himself dying, — less from want of 
 food than air, which it was impossible to obtain in so 
 small an apartment, unprovided with a chimney or any 
 
 287
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 other outlet, and hermetically closed, thanks to the 
 fiendish contrivance of Calabash, who had stopped even 
 the most trifling crevices in the door and window with 
 pieces of old rag. 
 
 Trembling with joy and apprehension, her eyes stream- 
 ing with tears, La Louve, kneeling beside Martial, watched 
 his slightest movements, and intently gazed on his fea- 
 tures. The unfortunate youth seemed gradually to 
 recover as his lungs inhaled a freer and more healthful 
 atmosphere. After a few convulsive shudderings he 
 raised his languid head, heaved a deep sigh, and, open- 
 ing his eyes, looked eagerly around him. 
 
 " Martial ! 'Tis I ! — your Louve ! How are you 
 now ? " 
 
 " Better ! " replied he, in a feeble voice. 
 
 " Thank God ! Will you have a little water or some 
 vinegar ? " 
 
 " No, no," replied Martial, speaking more naturally ; 
 " air, air ! Oh, I want only air ! " 
 
 At the risk of gashing the backs of her hands. La 
 Louve drove them through the four panes of a window 
 she could not have opened without first removing a 
 large and heavy table. 
 
 " Now I breathe ! I breathe freely ! And my head 
 seems quite relieved ! " said Martial, entirely recovering 
 his senses and voice. 
 
 Then, as if recalling for the first time the service his 
 mistress had rendered him, he exclaimed, with a burst of 
 ineffable gratitude : 
 
 " But for you, my brave Louve, I should soon have 
 been dead ! " 
 
 " Oh, never mind thinking of that ! But tell me, how 
 do you find yourself now ? " 
 
 " Better — much better ! " 
 
 " You are hungry, I doubt not ? " 
 
 " No ; I feel myself too weak for that. What I have 
 suffered most cruelly from has been want of air. At 
 
 288
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 last I felt suffocating, strangling, choking. Oh, it was 
 dreadful ! " 
 
 "But now?" 
 
 " I live again. I come forth from the very tomb 
 itself ; and that, too, thanks to you ! " 
 
 " And these cuts upon your poor bleeding hands I 
 For God's sake, what have they done to you ? " 
 
 " Nicholas and Calabash, not daring to attack me 
 openly a second time, fastened me up in my chamber 
 to allow me to perish of hunger in it. I tried to pre- 
 vent their nailing up my shutters, and my sister chopped 
 my fingers with a hatchet." 
 
 " The monsters ! They wished to make it appear that 
 you had died of sickness. Your mother had spread the 
 report of your being in a hopeless state. Your mother, 
 my man, — your own mother ! " 
 
 " Hold ! " cried Martial, with bitterness ; " mention 
 her not." Then for the first time remarking the wet 
 garments and singular state of La Louve's attire, he 
 added, " But what has happened to you ? Your hair is 
 dripping wet ; you have only your underclothes on ; and 
 they are drenched through." 
 
 " No matter, no matter what has happened to me, 
 since you are saved. Oh, yes, — saved ! " 
 
 " But explain to me how you became thus wet 
 through." 
 
 " I knew you were in danger, and finding no boat — " 
 
 " You swam to my rescue ? " 
 
 " I did. But your hands ? Give them to me that I 
 may heal them with my kisses ! You are in pain, I fear ? 
 Oh, the monsters ! And I not here to help you ! " 
 
 " Oh, my brave Louve ! " exclaimed Martial, enthusi- 
 astically ; " bravest and best of all brave creatures ! " 
 
 " Did not your hand trace on my arm ' Death to the 
 cowardly ? ' See ! " cried La Louve, showing her tat- 
 tooed arm, on which these very words were indelibly 
 engraved. 
 
 289
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Yes, you are bold and intrepid ; but the cold has 
 seized you, — you tremble ! " 
 
 " Indeed, it is not with cold." 
 
 " Never mind, — go in there. You will find Cala- 
 bash's cloak ; wrap yourself well in it." 
 
 « But — " 
 
 " I insist ! " 
 
 In an instant La Louve, who had quickly flown at 
 her lover's second command, returned wrapped in a 
 plaid mantle. 
 
 " To think you ran the risk of drowning yourself, — 
 and all for me ! " resumed Martial, gazing on her with 
 enthusiastic delight. 
 
 " Oh, no, not altogether for you. A poor girl was 
 nearly perishing in the river, and I saved her as I 
 landed." 
 
 " Saved her also. And where is she ? " 
 
 " Below with the children, who are taking care of her." 
 
 " And who is she ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear, you can scarcely credit what a singular 
 and lucky chance brought me to her rescue ! She was 
 one of my companions at St. Lazare, — a most extraordi- 
 nary sort of girl. Oh, you don't half know — " 
 
 « How so ? " 
 
 " Only conceive my both hating and loving her ; 
 for she had introduced happiness and death into my 
 heart and thoughts." 
 
 "Who? This girl?" 
 
 " Yes ; and all on your account." 
 
 " On midie ? " 
 
 " Hark ye. Martial ! " Then interrupting her pro- 
 posed speech. La Louve continued, " No, no ; I never, 
 never can — " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " I had a request to make to you, and for that pur- 
 pose I came hither ; because when I quitted Paris I 
 knew nothing of your danger." 
 
 290
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 " Then speak, — pray do ! " 
 
 " I dare not." 
 
 " Dare not, — after all you have done for me ?" 
 
 " No ; for then it would appear as though I claimed 
 a right to be rewarded." 
 
 " A right to be rewarded ? And have you not already 
 earned that right ? Do I not already owe you much ? 
 And did you not tend my sick bed with unfailing watch- 
 fulness, both night and day during my illness of the 
 past year ? " 
 
 " Are you not ' my man, — my own dear man ? ' " 
 
 "And for the reason that I am and ever shall be 
 *your man,' are you not bound to speak openly and 
 candidly to me ? " 
 
 " For ever, Martial ? " 
 
 " Yes, for ever ; as true as my name is Martial. I 
 shall never care for any other woman in the world but 
 you, my brave Louve. Never mind what you may have 
 been, or what you may have done; that is nobody's 
 affair but mine. I love you, and you love me ; and, 
 moreover, I owe you my life. But somehow, do you 
 know, since you have been in prison I have not been like 
 the same person. All sorts of fresh thoughts have come 
 into my mind. I have thought it well over, and I have 
 resolved that you shall no more be what you have been." 
 
 " "What can you mean ? " 
 
 " That I will never more quit you ; neither will I part 
 from Francois and Amandine." 
 
 " Your young sister and brother ? " 
 
 " Yes ; from this day forward I must be as a second 
 father to these poor children. Don't you see, by impos- 
 ing on myself fresh duties, I am compelled to alter and 
 amend what is amiss in my way of conducting myself ? 
 But I consider it my positive task to take charge of 
 these young things, or they will be made artful thieves. 
 And the only way to save them is to take them from 
 here." 
 
 291
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 "Whereto?" 
 
 " That I know not ; but certainly far from Paris." 
 
 « And me?" 
 
 " You ? Why, of course, you go with me ! " 
 
 " With you ? " exclaimed La Louve, with joyful sur- 
 prise, — she could not credit the reality of such happi- 
 ness. " And shall I never again be parted from 
 you?" 
 
 " No, my brave girl — never ! You will help me to 
 bring up my little sister and young brother. I know your 
 heart. When I say to you, ' I greatly wish my poor 
 little Amandine to grow up a virtuous and industrious 
 woman. Just talk to her about it, and show her what 
 to do,' I am quite sure and certain that you will be to 
 her all the best mother could be to her own child." 
 
 " Oh, thanks. Martial, — thanks, thanks ! " 
 
 " We shall live like honest workpeople. Never fear 
 but we shall find work ; for we will toil like slaves to 
 content our employers ; but, at least, these children will 
 not be depraved and degraded beings like their parents. 
 I shall not continually hear myself taunted with my 
 father and brother's disgraceful end, neither shall I go 
 through streets where you are known. But what is the 
 matter, — what ails you ? " 
 
 " Oh, Martial, I feel as though I should go mad." 
 
 "Mad!— for what?" 
 
 « For joy." 
 
 " And why should you go mad with joy ? " 
 
 " Because — because, — it is too much — " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I mean that what you propose is too great happiness 
 for one like me to hope for. Oh, indeed, indeed, it is 
 more than I can bear ! But who knows ? Perhaps sav- 
 ing La Goualeuse has brought me good luck, — that's 
 it, I am sure and certain." 
 
 " Still, I ask you, what is the matter, and why are you 
 thus agitated ? " exclaimed Martial. 
 
 292
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 " Oh, Martial, Martial, the very thing you have been 
 proposing — " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I was going to ask you." 
 
 « To quit Paris ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied she, in a hurried tone ; " and to try 
 your consent to accompany you to the forests, where we 
 should have a nice, neat little house, and children whom 
 I should love as La Louve would the children of her man 
 — or, if you would permit me," continued La Louve, in a 
 faltering voice, " instead of calling you ' my man,' to say 
 * my husband ? ' For," added she, confusedly and rapidly, 
 " for without that change, we should not obtain the place." 
 
 Martial, in his turn, regarded La Louve with deep 
 astonishment, unable to comprehend her meaning. 
 
 " What place are you speaking of ? " said he, at 
 length. 
 
 " Of that of gamekeeper." 
 
 « That I should have ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And who would give it to me ? " 
 
 " The protector of the young girl I saved." 
 
 " They do not know me." 
 
 " But I have told her all about you, and she will 
 recommend us to her protector." 
 
 " And what have you told her about me ?" 
 
 " Oh, Martial, can you not guess ? Of what could I 
 speak but of your goodness — and my love for you ? " 
 
 " My excellent Louve ! " 
 
 " And then, you know, being in prison together makes 
 folks talk to each other, and open their hearts in the 
 way of confidence. Besides which, there was something 
 so gentle and engaging about this young creature, that I 
 could not help feeling drawn towards her, even in spite 
 of myself ; for I very quickly discovered she was a very 
 different person to such as you and I have been used to." 
 
 " And who is she ? " 
 
 293
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 « I know not, neither can I guess ; but certainly I 
 never met with any one like her. Bless you, she can 
 read the very thoughts of your heart, the same as if she 
 were a fairy. I merely told her of my love for you, and 
 she immediately interested herself in us. She made me 
 feel ashamed of my past life ; not by saying harsh and 
 severe things, — you know very well that would not 
 have done much good with me, — but by talking of 
 the pleasures of a life passed in hard but peaceful 
 labour, tranquilly within the quiet shades of deep 
 forests, where you might be occupied according to your 
 tastes and inclinations ; only, instead of your being a 
 poacher, she made you a gamekeeper, and in place of 
 ray being only your mistress, she pictured me as your 
 true and lawful wife. And then we were to have fine, 
 healthy children who ran joyfully to meet you when you 
 returned at night, followed by your faithful dogs, and 
 carrying your gun on your shoulder. Then we all sat 
 down so gay and happy, to eat our supper beneath the 
 cool shade of the large trees that overhung our cottage 
 door, while the fresh wind blew, and the moon peeped at 
 us from amongst the thick branches, and the little ones 
 prattled and you related to us all you had seen and done 
 during the day, while wandering in the forests ; until, 
 at last, cheerful and contented, we retired to rest, to rise 
 the following day, and with light hearts to recommence 
 our labours. I cannot tell you how it was, but I listened 
 and listened to these delightful pictures till I quite be- 
 lieved in their reality. I seemed bound by a spell when 
 she spoke of happiness like this, though I tried ever so 
 much against it. I always found it impossible to dis- 
 believe that it would surely come to pass. Oh, but you 
 have no idea how beautifully she described it all ! I 
 fancied I saw it — you — our children — our forest 
 home. I rubbed my eyes, but it was ever before them, 
 although a waking dream." 
 
 " Ah, yes ! " said Martial, sighing ; " that would, in- 
 
 294
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING. 
 
 deed, be a sweet and pleasant life ! Without being 
 bad at heart, poor Francois has been quite enough in the 
 society of Calabash and Nicholas to make it far better 
 he should dwell in the solitude of woods and forests, 
 rather than be exposed to the further contamination of 
 great towns. Amandine would help you in your house- 
 hold duties, and I should make a capital gamekeeper, 
 from the very fact of my having been a poacher of some 
 notoriety. I should have you for my housekeeper and 
 companion, my good Louve ; and then, as you know, we 
 should have our children also. Bless their little hearts, 
 I doubt not our having a fine flock about us ! And what 
 more could we wish for or desire ? When once we got 
 used to a forest life, it would seem as though we had 
 always lived there ; and fifty or a hundred years would 
 glide away like a single day. But you must not talk to 
 me of such happiness ; it makes one so full of sadness 
 and regrets that it cannot be realised. No, no, don't let 
 us ever mention it again ; because, don't you see, La 
 Louve, it comes over one like — I should soon work 
 myself up to madness if I allowed my thoughts to dwell 
 on it." 
 
 " Ah, Martial, I let you go on because I thought I was 
 quite as bad myself. I said just those very words to La 
 Goualeuse." 
 
 " Did you, really ? " 
 
 " I did, indeed. For, after listening to all these tales 
 of enchantment, I said to her, ' What a pity, La Goua- 
 leuse, that these castles in the air, as you call them, are 
 not true ! ' And what do you think, Martial," asked La 
 Louve, her eyes flashing with joy, " what do you think 
 she answered me ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " ' Why,' said she, ' only let Martial marry you, and 
 give me your promise to live honestly and virtuously 
 henceforward, and directly I quit the prison I will exert 
 myself to get the place I have been speaking of for him.' '* 
 
 295
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Get me a gamekeeper's place ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I declare to you, Martial, she said so." 
 
 " Oh, but as you say, that can be but a dream — a 
 mere fancy. If, indeed, nothing were requisite for our 
 obtaining the place but our being married, my good girl, 
 that should be done to-morrow, if I had the means ; 
 though, from this very day and hour, I consider you as 
 my true and lawful wife." 
 
 " Oh, Martial ! I your lawful wife ? " 
 
 " The only woman who shall ever bear that title. 
 And, for the future, I wish you to call me ' husband ; ' 
 for such I am in word and heart, as firmly and lastingly 
 as though we had been before the maire.^^ 
 
 " Oh, La Goualeuse was right. A woman feels so 
 proud and happy to say ' My husband ! ' Oh, Martial, 
 you shall see what a good, faithful, devoted wife I will 
 be to you ; how hard I will work ! Oh, I shall be so 
 delighted to labour for you ! " 
 
 " And do you really think there is any chance of our 
 getting this place ? " 
 
 " If the poor dear Goualeuse deceives herself about it, 
 it is that others deceive her ; for she seemed quite sure 
 of being able to fulfil her promises. And besides, when 
 I was quitting the prison a little while ago, the inspect- 
 ress told me that the protectors of La Goualeuse, who 
 were people of rank and consequence, had removed her 
 from confinement that very day. Now that proved 
 her having powerful friends ; so that she can keep her 
 word to us if she likes." 
 
 " But," cried Martial, suddenly rising, " I don't know 
 what we have been thinking of all this time I " 
 
 " Thinking about — what do you mean, Martial ? " 
 
 " Why, the poor girl you saved from drowning is 
 down-stairs — perhaps dying ; and, instead of rendering 
 her any assistance, we are attending to our own affairs 
 up-stairs." 
 
 " Make yourself perfectly easy ; Frangois and Aman- 
 
 296
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF MEETING 
 
 dine are there watching her, and they would hare come 
 to call us had there been any danger or necessity. 
 Still you are right ; let us go to her. You must see her 
 to whom we shall, perhaps, owe all our future happiness." 
 And Martial, supported by La Louve, descended to the 
 lower part of the house. Before they have reached 
 the kitchen, let us in a few words describe what had 
 occurred there from the time when Fleur-de-Marie had 
 been confided to the charge of the two children. 
 
 297
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 DOCTOR GRIFFON. 
 
 Francois and Amandine had contrived to convey 
 Fleur-de-Marie near the fire, when M. de Saint-Remy 
 and Doctor Griffon, who had crossed the river in 
 Nicholas's boat, entered the house. Whilst the chil- 
 dren were making the fire burn up. Doctor Griffon 
 bestowed on the young girl his utmost care. 
 
 " The poor girl cannot be more than seventeen at 
 most ! " exclaimed the count, who was looking on. 
 " What do you think of her, doctor ? " 
 
 " Her pulse is scarcely perceptible ; but, strange to 
 say, the skin of the face is not livid in the subject, as is 
 usually the case in asphyxia from submersion," replied 
 the doctor, with professional calmness, and contemplat- 
 ing Fleur-de-Marie with a deeply meditative air. 
 
 Doctor Griffon was a tall, thin man, pallid and com- 
 pletely bald, except two tufts of thin black hair, carefully 
 brushed back on the poll, and flattened on the temples. 
 His countenance, wrinkled and furrowed by the fatigues 
 of study, was calm, intelligent, and reflective. Pro- 
 foundly learned, of great experience, and a skilful 
 practitioner, first surgeon at a civil hospital, where 
 we shall again encounter him. Doctor Griffon had but 
 one defect, that of completely abstracting himself from 
 the patient, and only considering the disease. Young or 
 old, rich or poor, was no matter, — he only thought of 
 medical fact, more or less remarkable, which the subject 
 presented. For him there was nothing but subjects. 
 
 298
 
 DOCTOR GRIFFON 
 
 " What a lovely face ! How beautiful she is in spite 
 of this frightful paleness ! " said M. de Saint-Remy. 
 " Did you ever see milder or more expressive features, 
 my dear doctor ? And so young — so young ! " 
 
 " Age is no consequence," said the doctor, abruptly, 
 " no more than the presence of water in the lungs, 
 which was formerly thought fatal. It was a gross 
 error, which the admirable experiments of Goodwin 
 — the famous Goodwin — incontestably detected and 
 exposed." 
 
 " But doctor — " 
 
 " But it is a fact," replied M. Griffon, absorbed by the 
 love of his art. " To detect the presence of any foreign 
 liquid in the lungs, Goodwin plunged some cats and dogs 
 several times into tubs filled with ink for some seconds, 
 taking them out alive, and then, after a time, dissected 
 the animals. Well, he was convinced from the dis- 
 section that the ink had penetrated the lungs, and 
 that the presence of this liquid in the respiratory 
 organs had not caused the death of the subject." 
 
 The count knew the doctor was a worthy creature at 
 heart, but that his mad passion for science made him 
 often appear harsh and cruel. 
 
 " Have you any hope ? " inquired M. de Saint-Remy, 
 impatiently. 
 
 " The extremities of the subject are very cold," said 
 the doctor ; " there is but very slight hope." 
 
 " Ah, poor child ! To die at that age is indeed 
 terrible ! " 
 
 " Pupil fixed — dilated ! " observed the doctor, impas- 
 sive, and pushing up the frigid eyelid of Fleur-de-Marie 
 with his forefinger. 
 
 " What a singular man ! " exclaimed the comte, almost 
 with indignation. " One would suppose you pitiless, and 
 yet I have seen you watch by my bedside for nights 
 together. Had I been your brother, you could not have 
 been more generously devoted to me." 
 
 299
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS 
 
 Doctor Griffon, still occupied in doing all that was 
 requisite and possible for Fleur-de-Marie, replied to the 
 comte without looking at him, and with imperturbable 
 phlegm : 
 
 ^'■Farhleu! Do you think one meets with an inter- 
 mittent fever so wonderfully complicated as that you 
 had! It was wonderful, my dear friend — astonishing! 
 Stupor, delirium, muscular action of the tendons, syn- 
 copes, — that important fever combined the most varied 
 symptoms. You were, indeed, affected by a partial and 
 momentary attack of paralysis ; and, if it had presented 
 notliing else, why, your attack was entitled to all the 
 attention in my power. You presented a magnificent 
 study ; and, truth to say, my dear friend, what I desire 
 most in the world is to meet with such another glorious 
 fever. But that is a piece of good fortune that never 
 occurs twice ! " 
 
 At this moment Martial descended, leaning on the 
 arm of La Louve, who still retained over her wet clothes 
 the plaid cloak which belonged to Calabash. Struck 
 with the paleness of Martial, and remarking his hands 
 covered with dried blood, the comte exclaimed, " Who is 
 this man ? " 
 
 " My husband ! " replied La Louve, looking at Martial 
 with an expression of happiness and noble pride impossi- 
 ble to describe. 
 
 " You have a good and intrepid wife, sir," said the 
 comte to him. " I saw her save this unfortunate young 
 girl with singular courage." 
 
 " Yes, sir, my wife is good and intrepid," replied 
 Martial, with emphasis, and regarding La Louve with an 
 air at once full of love and tenderness. " Yes, intrepid ; 
 for she has also come in time to save my life." 
 
 " Your life ? " exclaimed the comte. 
 
 "Look at his hands — his poor hands!" said La 
 Louve, wiping away the tears which softened the wild 
 brightness of her eyes. 
 
 300
 
 DOCTOR GRIFFON. 
 
 " Horrible ! " cried the comte. " See, doctor, how hia 
 hands are hacked ! " 
 
 Doctor Griffon, turning his head slightly, and looking 
 over his shoulder at Martial's hands, said to him, " Open 
 and shut your hand." 
 
 Martial did so with considerable pain. The doctor 
 shrugged his shoulders, and continued his attentions 
 to Fleur-de-Marie, saying merely, and as if with 
 regret : 
 
 " There's nothing serious in those cuts, — there's no 
 tendon injured. In a week the subject will be able to 
 use his hands again." 
 
 " Then, sir, my husband will not be crippled ? " said 
 La Louve, with gratitude. 
 
 The doctor shook his head affirmatively. 
 
 " And La Goualeuse will recover — won't she, sir ? " 
 inquired La Louve. " Oh, she must live, for I and my 
 husband owe her so much ! " Then turning towards 
 Martial, " Poor dear girl ! There she is, as I told you, — 
 she who will, perhaps, be the cause of our happiness ; 
 for it was she who gave me the idea of coming and say- 
 ing to you all I have said. "What a chance that I should 
 save her — and here, too ! " 
 
 " She is a providence," said Martial, struck by the 
 beauty of La Goualeuse. " What an angel's face ! Oh, 
 she vsdll recover, will she not, doctor ? " 
 
 " I cannot say," replied the doctor. " But, in the first 
 place, can she remain here ? Will she have all necessary 
 attention ? " 
 
 " Here ? " cried La Louve ; " why, they commit 
 murder here ! " 
 
 " Silence — silence ! " said Martial. 
 
 The comte and the doctor looked at La Louve with 
 surprise. 
 
 " This house in the isle has a bad reputation here- 
 abouts, and I am not astonished at it," observed the 
 doctor, in a low tone, to M. de Saint-Remy. 
 
 301
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " You have, then, been the victim of some violence ? " 
 observed the comte to Martial. " How did you come by. 
 those wounds ? " 
 
 " They are nothing — nothing, sir. I had a quarrel 
 — a struggle ensued, and I was wounded. But this 
 young peasant girl cannot remain in this house," he 
 added, with a gloomy air. " I cannot remain here my- 
 self — nor my wife, nor my brother, nor my sister, whom 
 you see. We are going to leave the isle, never to return 
 to it." 
 
 " Oh, how nice ! " exclaimed the two children. 
 
 " Then what are we to do?" said the doctor, looking 
 at Fleur-de-Marie. " It is impossible to think of con- 
 veying the subject to Paris in her present state of 
 prostration. But then my house is quite close at hand, 
 my gardener's wife and her daughter are capital nurses; 
 and since this asphyxia by submersion interests you, 
 my dear Saint-Remy, why, you can watch over the 
 necessary attentions, and I will come and see her every 
 day." 
 
 "And you assume the harsh and pitiless man," 
 exclaimed the comte, " when, as your proposal proves, 
 you have one of the noblest hearts in the world ! " 
 
 " If the subject sinks under it, as is possible, there 
 will be an opportunity for a most interesting dissection, 
 which will allow me to confirm once again Goodwin's 
 assertions." 
 
 " How horridly you talk ! " cried the comte. 
 
 " For those who know how to read, the dead body is 
 a book in which they learn to save the lives of the 
 diseased ! " replied Dr. Griffon, stoically. 
 
 " At last, then, you do good ? " said M. de Saint- 
 Remy, with bitterness ; " and that is important. "What 
 consequence is the cause provided that benefit results? 
 Poor child ! The more I look at her the more she 
 interests me." 
 
 " And well does she deserve it, I can tell you, sir," 
 
 302
 
 DOCTOR GRIFFON. 
 
 observed La Louve, with excitement, and approaching 
 him. 
 
 " Do you know her ? " inquired the comte. 
 
 " Do I know her, sir ? Why, it is to her I owe the 
 happiness of my life ; and I have not done for her half 
 what she has done for me." And La Louve looked 
 passionately towards her husband, — she no longer called 
 him her man ! 
 
 " And who is she ? " asked M. de Saint-Remy. 
 
 " An angel, sir, — all that is good in this world. 
 Yes; and although she is dressed as a country girl, 
 there is no merchant's wife, no great lady, who can dis- 
 course as well as she can, with her sweet little voice 
 just like music. She is a noble girl, I say, — full of 
 courage and goodness." 
 
 " By what accident did she fall into the water ? " 
 
 " I do not know, sir." 
 
 *' Then she is not a peasant girl ? " asked the comte. 
 
 " A peasant girl, — look at her small white hands, 
 sir!" 
 
 " True," observed M. de Saint-Remy ; " what a strange 
 mystery ! But her name — her family ? " 
 
 " Come along," said the doctor, breaking into the 
 conversation ; " we must convey the subject into the 
 boat." 
 
 Half an hour after this, Fleur-de-Marie, who had not 
 yet recovered her senses, was in the doctor's abode, 
 lying in a good bed, and maternally watched by M. 
 Griffon's gardener's wife, to whom was added La Louve 
 The doctor promised M. de Saint-Remy, who was more 
 and more interested in La Goualeuse, to return to see 
 her again in the evening. Martial went to Paris with 
 Franqois and Amandine, La Louve being unwilling to 
 quit Fleur-de-Marie before she had been pronoimced out 
 of danger. 
 
 The Isle du Ravageur remained deserted. We shall 
 presently find its sinister inhabitants at Bras-Rouge's, 
 
 303
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 where they were to be joined by the Chouette for the 
 murder of the diamond-matcher. In the meantime we. 
 will conduct the reader to the rendezvous which Tom, 
 Sarah's brother, had with the horrible hag, the School- 
 master's accomplice. 
 
 304
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE PORTEAIT. 
 
 Thomas Seyton, the brother of the Countess Sarah 
 Macgregor, was walking impatiently on the boulevards 
 near the Observatory, when he saw the Chouette arrive. 
 The horrible beldame had on a white cap and her usual 
 plaid shawl. The point of a stiletto, as round as a thick 
 swan's quill, and very sharp, having perforated a hole 
 at the bottom of her large straw basket which she car- 
 ried on her arm, the extremity of this murderous weapon, 
 which had belonged to the Schoolmaster, might be seen 
 projecting. Thomas Seyton did not perceive that the 
 Chouette was armed. 
 
 " It has just struck three by the Luxembourg," said the 
 old woman. " Here I am, like the hand of the clock." 
 
 " Come," replied Thomas Seyton. And, preceding 
 her, he crossed some open fields ; and turning down a 
 deserted alley near the Rue Cassini, he stopped half way 
 down the lane, which was barred by a turnstile, opened 
 a small door, motioned to the Chouette to follow him ; 
 and, after having advanced with her a few steps down 
 a path overgrown by thick trees, he said, " Wait here," 
 and disappeared, 
 
 " That is, if you don't keep me on the ' waiting lay ' 
 too long," responded the Chouette ; " for I must be at 
 Bras Rouge's at five o'clock to meet the Martials, and 
 help silence the diamond-matcher. It's very well I have 
 my ' gulley ' (poniard). Oh, the vagabond, he has got 
 his nose out of window ! " added the hag, as she saw 
 
 305
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 the point of the stiletto coming through the seam in the 
 basket. And taking the weapon, which had a wooden 
 handle, from the basket, she replaced it so that it was 
 completely concealed. " This is fourline's tool," she 
 continued, " and he has asked me for it so many times 
 to kill the rats who came skipping about him in his 
 cellar. Poor things ! They have no one but the old 
 blind man to divert them and keep them company. 
 They ought not to be hurt if they play about a bit ; and 
 so I will not let him hurt the dears, and I keep his tool 
 to myself. Besides, I shall soon want it for this woman, 
 perhaps. Thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds, — 
 what a ' haul ' for each of us ! It'll be a good day's 
 work, and not like that of the other day with that old 
 notary whom I thought to squeeze. It was no use to 
 threaten him if he would not ' stand some blunt ' that I 
 would lay information that it was his housekeeper who 
 had sent La Goualeuse to me by Tournemine when she 
 was a little brat. Nothing frightened the old brute, he 
 called me an old hag, and shoved me out-of-doors. 
 Well, well, I'll send an anonymous letter to these peo- 
 ple at the farm where Pegriotte was, to inform them 
 that it was the notary who formerly abandoned her to 
 me. Perhaps they know her family ; and when she gets 
 out of St. Lazare, why, the matter will get too hot for 
 that old brute, Jacques Ferrand. Some one comes , — ah, 
 it is the pale lady who was dressed in men's clothes at 
 the tapis-franc of the ogress, and with the tall fellow 
 who just left me, the same that the fourUne and I robbed 
 by the excavations near Notre-Dame," added the Chou- 
 ette, as she saw Sarah appear at the extremity of the 
 walk. " Here's another job for me, I see ; and this 
 little lady must have something to do with our having 
 carried off La Goualeuse from the farm. If she pays 
 well for another job of work, why, that will be ' the 
 ticket.' " 
 
 As Sarah approached the Chouette, whom she saw 
 
 306
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 again for the first time since their rencontre at the tapis- 
 franc, her countenance expressed the disdain, the dis- 
 gust, which persons of a certain rank feel when thej 
 come in contact with low wretches whom they take as 
 tools or accomplices. 
 
 Thomas Seyton, who, until now, had actively served 
 the criminal machinations of his sister, although he con- 
 sidered them as all but futile, had refused any longer to 
 continue this contemptible part, consenting, neverthe- 
 less, for the first and last time to put his sister in 
 communication with the Chouette, without himself inter- 
 fering in the fresh projects they might plan. The 
 countess, unable to win back Rodolph to her by breaking 
 the bonds or the affections which she believed so dear to 
 him, hoped, as we have seen, to render him the dupe of 
 a base deceit, the success of which might realise the 
 vision of this obstinate, ambitious, and cruel woman. 
 Her design was to persuade Rodolph that their daughter 
 was not dead, and to substitute an orphan for the child. 
 
 We know that Jacques Ferrand — having formally 
 refused to participate in this plot in spite of Sarah's 
 menaces — had resolved to make away with Fleur-de- 
 Marie, as much from the fear of the Chouette's disclosure, 
 as from fear of the obstinate persistence of the countess. 
 But the latter had by no means abandoned her design, 
 feeling persuaded that she should corrupt or intimidate 
 the notary when she should be assured of having ob- 
 tained a young girl capable of filling the character which 
 she desired her to assume. 
 
 After a moment's silence Sarah said to the Chouette, 
 " You are adroit, discreet, and resolute ? " 
 
 " Adroit as a monkey, resolute as a bulldog, and mute 
 as a fish ; such is the Chouette, and such the devil made 
 her ; at your service if you want her, — and you do," 
 replied the old wretch, quickly. " I hope we have 
 managed well with the young country wench who is now 
 in St. Lazare for two good months." 
 
 307
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " We are not talking of her, but of something 
 else." 
 
 " Anything you please, my handsome lady, provided 
 there's money at the end of what you mean to propose, 
 and then we shall be as right as my fingers." 
 
 Sarah could not control a movement of disgust. " You 
 must know," she resumed, " many people in the lower 
 ranks of life, — persons who are in misfortune ?" 
 
 " There are more of them than there are of million- 
 aires ; you may pick and choose. We have plentiful 
 wretchedness in Paris." 
 
 " I want to meet with a poor orphan girl, and particu- 
 larly if she lost her parents young. She must be 
 good-looking, of gentle disposition, and not more than 
 seventeen years of age." 
 
 The Chouette gazed at Sarah with amazement. 
 
 " Such an orphan girl must be by no means difficult 
 to meet with," continued the countess ; " there are so 
 many foundling children ! " 
 
 " Why, my good lady, you forget La Goualeuse. She 
 is the very thing." 
 
 " Who is La Goualeuse ? " 
 
 " The young thing we carried off from Bouqueval." 
 
 " We are not talking of her now, I tell you." 
 
 " But hear me, and be sure you pay me well for my 
 advice. You want an orphan girl, as quiet as a lamb, 
 as handsome as daylight, and who is only seventeen, you 
 say?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Well, then, take La Goualeuse when she leaves St. 
 Lazare ; she is the very thing for you, as if we had 
 made her on purpose. For she was about six years of 
 age when that scamp, Jacques Ferrand (and it's now 
 ten years ago), gave her to me with a thousand francs, 
 in order to get rid of her, — that is to say, it was Tour- 
 nemine, who is now at the galleys at Rochefort, who 
 brought her to me, saying there was no doubt she was 
 
 308
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 some child they wanted to get rid of or pass off for 
 dead." 
 
 " Jacques Ferrand, do you say ? " exclaimed Sarah, 
 in a voice so choked that the Chouette receded several 
 paces. " The notary, Jacques Ferrand, gave you this 
 child — and — ? " She could not finish, her emotion 
 was too violent; and with her two clasped hands ex- 
 tended towards the Chouette, she trembled convulsively, 
 surprise and joy agitating her features. 
 
 " I don't know what it is that makes you so much in 
 earnest, my good lady," replied the old hag ; " but it is 
 a very simple story. Ten years ago Tournemine, an old 
 pal of mine, said to me : ' Have you a mind to take 
 charge of a little girl that they want to get out of the 
 way ? No matter whether she slips her wind or not. 
 There's a thousand francs for the job, and do what you 
 like with the ' kinchin.' " 
 
 " Ten years ago ? " cried Sarah. 
 
 " Ten years." 
 
 « A little fair girl ? " 
 
 « A little fair girl." 
 
 "With blue eyes?" 
 
 " Blue eyes — as blue as blue bells." 
 
 " And it was she who was at the farm ? " 
 
 " And we packed her up and carted her off to St. Lazare. 
 I must say, though, that I didn't expect to find her — 
 Pegriotte — in the country as I did, though." 
 
 " Oh, mon Dieu ! mon Bieu!^'' exclaimed Sarah, falling 
 on her knees, and elevating her hands and eyes to 
 heaven, " Thy ways are inscrutable, and I bow down be- 
 fore thy providence ! Oh, if such happiness be possible ! 
 But, no, I cannot yet believe it ; it would be too fortu- 
 nate ! No ! " Then rising suddenly she said to the 
 Chouette, who was gazing at her with the utmost aston- 
 ishment, " Follow me ! " And Sarah walked before her 
 with hasty steps. 
 
 At the end of the alley she ascended several steps 
 
 309
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 that led by a glass door to a small room sumptuously 
 furnished. At the moment when the Chouette was 
 about to enter, Sarah made a sign to her to remain 
 outside, and then rang the bell violently. A servant 
 appeared. 
 
 " I am not at home to anybody, and let no one enter 
 here, — no one, do yoa hear ? " 
 
 The servant bowed and retired. Sarah, for the 
 sake of greater security, pushed to the bolt. The 
 Chouette heard the order given to the servant, and 
 saw Sarah fasten the bolt. The countess then turning 
 towards her, said : " Come in quickly, and shut the 
 door." 
 
 The Chouette did as she was bidden. 
 
 Hastily opening a secretaire, Sarah took from it an 
 ebony coffer, which she placed on a writing-table in the 
 centre of the room, and beckoned the Chouette towards 
 her. The coffer was filled with small caskets lying one 
 upon the other, and containing splendid jewelry. Sarah 
 was in so much haste to arrive at the bottom of the 
 coffer, that she hastily scattered over the table these 
 jewel-cases, splendidly filled with necklaces, bracelets, 
 tiaras of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, which sparkled 
 with a thousand fires. 
 
 The Chouette was dazzled. She was armed, was alone 
 with the countess ; escape was easy — certain. An in- 
 fernal idea shot through the brain of this monster. But 
 to put this new crime into execution it was necessary to 
 extricate her stiletto from her basket, and approach 
 Sarah without exciting her suspicions. 
 
 With the craft of the tiger-cat, who grovels along 
 treacherously towards its prey, the beldame profited by 
 the countess's preoccupation to move imperceptibly around 
 the table which separated her from her victim. The 
 Chouette had already begun her perfidious movement, 
 when she was compelled suddenly to stop short. Sarah 
 took a locket from the bottom of the box, leaned over 
 
 310
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 the table, and, handing it to the Chouette with a trem- 
 bling hand, said : 
 
 " Look at this portrait." 
 
 " It is Pegriotte ! " exclaimed the Chouette, struck 
 with the strong resemblance ; " it is the little girl who 
 was handed to me ! I think I see her just as she was 
 when Tournemine brought her to me. That's just like 
 her long curling hair, which I cut off and sold directly, 
 mafoi!''^ 
 
 " You recognise her ; it is really she ? Oh, I conjure 
 you, do not deceive me — do not deceive me ! " 
 
 " I tell you, my good lady, it is Pegriotte, as if I saw 
 herself there," said the Chouette, trying to draw nearer 
 to Sarah without being remarked. " And even now she 
 is very like this portrait ; if you saw her you would be 
 struck by the likeness." 
 
 Sarah had not uttered one cry of pain or alarm when 
 she learned that her daughter had been for ten years 
 leading a wretched existence, forsaken as she was. Not 
 one feeling of remorse was there when she reflected that 
 she herself had snatched her away disastrously from the 
 peaceful retreat in which Rodolph had placed her. This 
 unnatural mother did not eagerly question the Chouette 
 with terrible anxiety as to the past life of the child. 
 No ! In her heart ambition had long since stifled every 
 sentiment of maternal tenderness. It was not joy at 
 again being restored to a lost daughter that transported 
 her, — it was the hope of seeing at length realised the 
 vain dream of her whole existence. Rodolph had felt 
 deeply interested in this unfortunate girl, had protected 
 her without knowing her ; what would then be his feel- 
 ings when he discovered that she was — his daughter ? 
 He was free — the countess was a widow ! Sarah 
 already saw the sovereign crown sparkling on her 
 brow. 
 
 The Chouette, still stealing on with slow steps, had at 
 length reached one end of the table, and had her stiletto 
 
 311
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 perpendicularly in her basket, its handle on a level with 
 the opening, and within her clutch. She was but a step 
 or two from the countess. 
 
 " Do you know how to write ? " inquired Sarah of her ; 
 and, pushing from her the casket and gems, she opened 
 a blotting-book, which was by an inkstand. 
 
 "No, madame; I do not!" replied the Chouette, at 
 all risks. 
 
 " I will write, then, at your dictation. Tell me all 
 the circumstances of the abandonment of this little 
 girl." 
 
 And Sarah, sitting in an armchair before the writing- 
 table, took up a pen, and made a sign to the Chouette to 
 come close to her. The old wretch's one eye sparkled. 
 At last she was standing up, close to the seat on which 
 Sarah was sitting, and, stooping over a table, was pre- 
 paring to write. 
 
 " I will read aloud, and then," said the countess, " you 
 can correct any mistakes." 
 
 " Yes, madame," replied the Chouette, narrowly 
 watching every motion of Sarah ; and she furtively 
 introduced her hand into her basket, that she might 
 be able to grasp the poniard without being observed. 
 
 The countess commenced writing. 
 
 « I declare that — " 
 
 Then interrupting herself, and turning towards the 
 Chouette, who was at the moment touching the handle 
 of her poniard, Sarah added : 
 
 " At what period was the child brought to you ? " 
 
 « In the month of February, 1827." 
 
 " And by whom ? " continued Sarah, turning towards 
 the Chouetto. 
 
 " By Pierre Tournemine, now at the galleys at 
 Rochefort. It was Madame S^raphin, the notary's 
 housekeeper, who brought the young girl to him." 
 
 The countess continued writing, and then read 
 aloud : 
 
 312
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " I declare that, in the month of February, 1827, a 
 person named — " 
 
 The Chouette had drawn the poniard ; already had 
 she raised her arm to strike her victim between the 
 shoulders ; Sarah turned again. The Chouette, that 
 she might not be off her guard, leaned her right 
 hand, armed as it was, on the back of Sarah's arm- 
 chair, and then stooped towards her, as if in attitude 
 to reply to her question. 
 
 " Tell me again the name of the man who handed the 
 child to you?" said the countess. 
 
 " Pierre Tournemine," repeated Sarah, as she wrote it 
 down, " at this time at the galleys of Rochefort, brought 
 me a child, which had been confided to him by the 
 housekeeper of — " 
 
 The countess could not finish. The Chouette having 
 got rid of her basket by allowing it to slide from her 
 arm onto the floor, threw herself on the countess with 
 equal fury and rapidity ; and having grasped the back 
 of her neck with her left hand, forced her face down on 
 the table, and then with her right hand drove the 
 stiletto in between her two shoulders. 
 
 This atrocious assassination was so promptly effected 
 that the countess did not utter a cry — a moan. Still 
 sitting, she remained with her head and the front 
 of her body on the table. Her pen fell from her 
 fingers. 
 
 " Just the very blow which fourline gave the little old 
 man in the Rue du Roule ! " said the monster, " One 
 more who will never wag tongue again ! Her account 
 is settled ! " And the Chouette, gathering up the jewels 
 together, huddled them into her basket, not perceiving 
 that her victim still breathed. 
 
 The murder and robbery effected, the horrid old 
 devil opened the glass door, ran swiftly along the tree- 
 covered path, went out by the small side door, and 
 reached the lone tract of ground. Near the Observa- 
 
 313
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 tory she took a hackney-coach, which drove her to 
 Bras-Rouge's in the Champs Elysdes. 
 
 The widow Martial, Nicholas, Calabash, and Barbillon 
 had, as we know, an appointment with the Chouette in 
 this den of infamy, in order to rob and murder the 
 diamond-matcher. 
 
 314
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE AGENT OF SAFETY. 
 
 The reader already knows the Bleeding Heart in the 
 Champs Elysees, near the Court de la Reine, in one of 
 the deep ditches which, a few years since, were close 
 to this promenade. The inhabitants of the Isle du 
 Ravageur had not yet arrived. 
 
 After the departure of Bradamanti, who had, as we 
 know, accompanied Madame d'Harville's stepmother 
 into Normandy, Tortillard had returned to his father. 
 Placed as a sentinel at the top of the staircase, the little 
 cripple was to announce the arrival of the Martials by 
 a certain cry. Bras- Rouge being at this moment in secret 
 conference with an agent-de-surete named Narcisse Borel, 
 whom the reader may perchance remember to have seen 
 at the tapis-franc of the ogress, when he came there to 
 arrest two miscreants accused of murder. 
 
 This agent, a man about forty years of age, was thick- 
 set and powerful, with a high colour, a keen, quick eye, 
 his face entirely shaven, in order that he might better 
 assume the various disguises necessary for his dangerous 
 expeditions ; for it was frequently necessary for him to 
 imite the transformations of the actor to the courage and 
 energy of the soldier, in order to seize on certain ruffians 
 with whom he had to contend in cunning and determi- 
 nation. Narcisse Borel was, in a word, one of the most 
 useful and most active instruments of that providence 
 
 315
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 on a small scale which is modestly and commonly termed 
 the police. 
 
 We will return to the conversation between Narcisse 
 Borel and Bras-Rouge, which appeared to be very ani- 
 mated. 
 
 " Yes," said the agent of safety ; " you are accused of 
 profiting by your double-faced position, and of taking 
 with impunity a share in the booty of a band of most 
 dangerous malefactors, and then giving false informa- 
 tion respecting them to the protective police. Take 
 care, Bras-Rouge ; for if you are detected no mercy will 
 be shown you ! " 
 
 " Alas ! I know I am accused of this ; and it is very 
 distressing for me, my good M. Narcisse," replied Bras- 
 Rouge, whilst his weasel's face assumed a hypocritical 
 air of vexation. " But I hope that this day will at last 
 do me justice, and my good faith will be recognised." 
 
 " That remains to be proved." 
 
 " How can I be distrusted — have I not given proofs ? 
 Was it I or was it not who, at the time, enabled you to 
 apprehend Ambroise Martial, one of the most dangerous 
 malefactors in Paris, in the very fact ? " 
 
 " All this is very fine and good ; but Ambroise was 
 warned they were going to arrest him, and if I had not 
 been earlier than the hour you told me of, he would have 
 escaped." 
 
 " Do you think me capable, M. Narcisse, of having 
 secretly told him of your coming ? " 
 
 " I only know that I received from the scoundrel a 
 pistol-shot aimed full at me, but which, fortunately, only 
 grazed my arm." 
 
 " Why, to be sure, M. Narcisse, in your profession you 
 must be occasionally exposed to such mistakes ! " 
 
 " Ah, you call these mistakes, eh ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; for, no doubt, the wicked fellow intended 
 to lodge the ball in your body." 
 
 316
 
 THE AGENT OF SAFETY. 
 
 " In the arm, body, or head, no matter, I don't com- 
 plain of that ; every profession has its disagreeables." 
 
 " And its pleasures, too, M. Narcisse, and its pleasures. 
 For instance, when a man as cunning, as skilful, and 
 as courageous as you, has been for a long time on 
 the track of a gang of villains, whom he follows from 
 quarter to quarter, from lurking-place to lurking-place, 
 with a good bloodhound like your poor servant to com- 
 mand, Bras-Rouge, and, finally, marks them down and 
 comes upon them in a trap from which not one of them 
 can escape, why, then, you must say, M. Narcisse, that 
 there is great pleasure in it, — the joy of a sportsman, — 
 not including the service he renders to justice ! " added 
 the host of the Bleeding Heart, with a grave air. 
 
 " I should fully agree with you if the bloodhound were 
 faithful, but I fear it is not." 
 
 " Ah, M. Narcisse, you think — " 
 
 " I think that, instead of putting us on the track, you 
 amuse yourself with setting us on a false scent, and 
 abuse the confidence placed in you. Every day you 
 promise to aid us to lay hands on the gang, and that 
 day never arrives." 
 
 " What if the day arrives to-day, M. Narcisse, as I am 
 sure it will ? What if I bring together in a parcel Bar- 
 billon, Nicholas Martial, the widow, her daughter, and 
 the Chouette ? Will that or will it not be a good 
 sweep of the net? Will you then mistrust me any 
 longer ? " 
 
 " No ; and you will have rendered a real service ; for 
 there are very strong presumptive facts against this 
 gang, — suspicions almost assured, but, unfortunately. <\o 
 proofs." 
 
 " So, then, a small fag-end of actual crime, which 
 would allow of their being apprehended, would help 
 amazingly to unravel the difficult skein, — eh, M. Nar- 
 cisse ? " 
 
 " Most decidedly. And you assure me that there has 
 317
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 not been the slightest incitement on your part towards 
 the coup which they are now going to attempt ? " 
 
 " No, on my honour ! It is the Chouette, who came 
 to me to propose inveigling the diamond-matcher here 
 when that infernal hag learned from my son that Morel, 
 the lapidary, who lives in the Rue du Temple, was a 
 workman in real stones, and not in false, and that 
 Mother Mathieu had frequently considerable value about 
 her person, I acceded to the proposition, and suggested 
 to the Chouette that the Martials and Barbillon should 
 join her, so that I might be able to put the whole party 
 into your hands." 
 
 " And the Schoolmaster, — that fellow who is so dan- 
 gerous, so powerful, and so ferocious, and who was 
 always with the Chouette, — one of the frequenters of 
 the tapis-franc f ^^ 
 
 " The Schoolmaster ? " said Bras-Rouge, feigning as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 " Yes, a convict escaped from the galleys at Roche- 
 fort, Anselm Duresnel by name, sentenced for life. We 
 know now that he disfigured himself on purpose, that 
 he might not be recognised. Have you no trace of 
 him?" 
 
 " None," replied Bras-Rouge, boldly, for he had his 
 reasons for the lie, the Schoolmaster being at this very 
 moment shut up in one of the cellars of the cabaret. 
 
 " There is every reason to believe that the School- 
 master is the author of fresh murders. He would be an 
 important capture." 
 
 " No one knows what has become of him for the last 
 six weeks." 
 
 " And that's the reason you are reproached with 
 having lost all trace of him." 
 
 " Always reproaches, M. Narcisse, always ! " 
 
 " Not for want of ample cause ! And how goes on the 
 smuggling ? " 
 
 « Is it not necessary that I should know something of 
 
 318
 
 THE AGENT OF SAFETY. 
 
 all kinds of persons — smugglers as well as others — in 
 order to put you on the scent ? I disclosed to you that 
 pipe to introduce liquids, established outside the Barriere 
 du Tr6ne, and coming into a house in the street." 
 
 " I know that," said Narcisse, interrupting Bras- 
 Rouge ; " but for one that you denounce, you allow ten 
 to escape, and continue your traffic with impunity. I am 
 sure you eat at two mangers, as the saying is." 
 
 " Oh, M. Narcisse, I am incapable of an appetite so 
 dishonest ! " 
 
 " That is not all : in the Rue du Temple, No. 17, 
 there lives a woman named Burette, who lends money 
 on deposit, who, they say, is a private receiver of stolen 
 goods on your account." 
 
 " "What would you have me do, M. Narcisse ? The 
 world is so slanderous, — says so many wicked things ! 
 Once again, I say, it is necessary for me to mix with as 
 many rogues as possible, that I even seem one of them- 
 selves — so much the worse for them — in order that 
 they may not have any suspicions ; but it cuts me to the 
 heart to imitate them, — cuts me to the heart. I must, 
 indeed, be devoted to the service, to give myself up to 
 such a thing as that." 
 
 " Poor, dear man ! I pity you with all my soul ! " 
 
 " You are laughing at me, M. Narcisse ; but, if that 
 was believed, why has there not been a search made at 
 Mother Burette's and in my house ? " 
 
 " You know well enough, — that we might not alarm 
 the ruffians, whom, for so long a time, you have prom- 
 ised to deliver into our hands." 
 
 " And I am now about to deliver them, M. Narcisse ; 
 before an hour you will have them all handcuffed, and 
 that without much trouble, for there are three women. 
 As to Barbillon and Nicholas Martial, they are as savage 
 as tigers, but as cowardly as pullets." 
 
 " Tigers or pullets," said Narcisse, half opening his 
 long frock coat, and showing the butts of two pistols in 
 
 319
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 the pockets of his trousers, " I have wherewithal here for 
 them." 
 
 " You will do well to have two of your men with you, 
 M. Narcisse. When they see themselves caught, the 
 most cowardly sometimes show fight." 
 
 "I shall station two of my men in the small parlour 
 at the entrance, by the side of the room into which you 
 are to introduce the jewel-matcher. At the first cry, I 
 shall appear at one door, and my two men at the other." 
 
 " You must be speedy, then, for I expect the gang here 
 every moment, M. Narcisse." 
 
 " Very well, I will go at once and place my men, pro- 
 vided that all this is not another humbug." 
 
 The conversation was cut short by the peculiar whistle 
 intended as a signal. Bras-Rouge looked out of a window 
 to see whom it was that Tortillard announced. 
 
 " Ah, ha ! It is the Chouette already. Well, do you 
 believe me now, M. Narcisse ? " 
 
 " Why, this looks something like ; but it is not all. 
 But we shall see. And now to station my men." 
 
 And the agent of safety disappeared at a side door. 
 
 820
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE CHOUETTE. 
 
 The precipitation of the Chouette's step, the fierce 
 throbbings of a fever of rapine and murder which still 
 animated her, had suffused her hideous features with a 
 deep purple, whilst her green eye sparkled with savage 
 joy. Tortillard followed her, hopping and skipping. At 
 the moment when she descended the last steps of the 
 stairs, Bras-Rouge's son, from pure mischief, put his foot 
 on the long and dragging skirts of the Chouette's gown. 
 This sudden stoppage made the old woman stumble, and, 
 unable to catch hold of the baluster, she fell on her 
 knees, her two hands extended, and dropping her pre- 
 cious basket, whence escaped a gold bracelet set with 
 emeralds and pearls. The Chouette having, in her fall, 
 somewhat excoriated her fingers, picked up the bracelet, 
 which had not escaped the keen sight of Tortillard, and, 
 recovering her feet, turned furiously to the little cripple, 
 who approached her with a hypocritical air, saying to 
 her: 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! Did your foot slip ? " 
 
 Without making any reply, the Chouette seized Tortil- 
 lard by the hair, and, stooping to a level with his cheek, 
 she bit it with such fury that the blood spurted out be- 
 neath her teeth. Strange, however, Tortillard, in spite 
 of his usual vindictiveness, in spite of feeling such intense 
 pain, did not utter a murmur or a cry. He only wiped his 
 bleeding cheek, and said, with a forced laugh : 
 
 321
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " I hope next time you will not kiss me so hard, — eh, 
 LaChouette?" 
 
 " Wicked little brat ! Why did you tread on my gown 
 on purpose to make me fall ? " 
 
 " Me ? Oh ! How could you think so ? I swear I 
 didn't do it on purpose, my dear Chouette ! Don't think 
 your little Tortillard would do you any harm ; he loves 
 you too well for that. You should never beat him, or 
 scold him, or bite him, for he is as fond of you as if he 
 were a poor little dog, and you were his mistress ! " said 
 the boy, in a gentle and insinuating tone. 
 
 Deceived by Tortillard's hypocrisy, the Chouette 
 believed him, and replied : 
 
 " Well, well, if I was wrong to bite you, why, let it go 
 for all the other times you have deserved it, you little 
 villain ! But, vive la joie ! To-day I bear no malice. 
 Where is your old rogue of a father ? " 
 
 " In the house. Shall I go and find him for you ? " 
 
 " No ; are the Martials here ? " 
 
 « Not yet." 
 
 " Then I have time to go down and visit fourline. I 
 want to speak to old No-Eyes." 
 
 " Will you go into the Schoolmaster's cellar ? " 
 inquired Tortillard, scarcely concealing his diabolical 
 delight. 
 
 " What's that to you ? " 
 
 " To me ? " 
 
 " Yes, you ask me the question with such an odd 
 air. 
 
 " Because I was thinking of something odd." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Why, that you ought, at least, to have brought him 
 a pack of cards to pass away his time," replied Tortillard, 
 with a cunning look ; " that would divert him a little ; 
 now he has nothing to play at but not to be bitten by the 
 rats ; and he always wins at that game, and after awhile 
 it becomes tiresome." 
 
 322
 
 THE CHOUETTE. 
 
 The Chouette laughed heartily at Tortillard's wit, and 
 said to the cripple : 
 
 " Love of a baby boy to his mammy ! I do not know 
 any chap who has more vice than this scamp. Go and 
 get me a candle, that you may light me down to see four- 
 line, and you can help me to open his door. You know 
 that I can hardly push it by myself." 
 
 " Well, no, it is so very dark in the cellar," said 
 Tortillard, shaking his head. 
 
 "What! What! You who are as wicked as devil 
 to be a coward ? I like to see that, indeed ! Go directly, 
 and tell your father that I shall be with him almost 
 immediately ; that I am with fourline ; and that we are 
 talking of putting up the banns for our marriage. He, 
 he, he ! " added the disgusting wretch, grinning. " So 
 make haste, and you shall be bridesman, and, if you are 
 a good boy, you shall have my garter." 
 
 Tortillard went, with a sulky air, to fetch a light. 
 Whilst she was waiting for him, the Chouette, perfectly 
 intoxicated with the success of her robbery, put her hand 
 into her basket to feel the precious jewels it enclosed. It 
 was for the purpose of temporarily concealing this treas- 
 ure that she desired to descend into the Schoolmaster's 
 cellar, and not, according to her habit, to enjoy the tor- 
 ments of her new victim. 
 
 We will presently explain why, with Bras-Rouge's 
 connivance, the Chouette had immured the Schoolmaster 
 in the very subterranean cave into which this miscreant 
 had formerly precipitated Rodolph. 
 
 Tortillard, holding a light, now appeared at the door 
 of the cabaret. The Chouette followed him into the lower 
 room, in which opened the trap with the folding-doors, 
 with which we are already acquainted. Bras-Rouge's 
 son, sheltering the light in the hollow of his hand, and 
 preceding the old woman, slowly descended a stone stair- 
 case, which led to a sharp declivity, at the end of which 
 was the thick door of the cellar which had so nearly 
 
 323
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 proved Rodolph's grave. When he reached the bottom, 
 of the staircase, Tortillard pretended to hesitate in 
 following the Chouette. 
 
 " Well, now, you little vagabond, go on ! " she said. 
 
 " Why, it is so dark ; and you go so fast, Chouette ! 
 And, indeed, I'd rather go back again, and leave you the 
 light." 
 
 " And then, foolish imp, how am I to open the cellar 
 door by myself ? Will you come on ? " 
 
 " No, I am so frightened ! " 
 
 *' If I begin with you ! Mind — " 
 
 " If you threaten me, I'll go back again ! " and Tor- 
 tillard retreated several paces. 
 
 "Well, listen to me, now, — be a good boy," said 
 the Chouette, repressing her anger, " and I'll give you 
 something." 
 
 " Well, what ? " said Tortillard, coming up to her. 
 " Speak to me so always, and I'll do anything you wish 
 me. Mother Chouette." 
 
 " Come, come, I'm in a hurry ! " 
 
 *' Yes ; but promise me that I may have some fun 
 with the Schoolmaster." 
 
 " Another time ; I haven't time to-day." 
 
 " Only a little bit, — just let me tease him for five 
 minutes ? " 
 
 " Another time ; I tell you that I want to return 
 up-stairs as quickly as possible." 
 
 " Why, then, do you want to open the door of his 
 apartment ? " 
 
 " That's no affair of yours. Come, now, have done 
 with this. Perhaps the Martials are come by this 
 time, and I must have some talk with them. So be 
 a good boy, and you sha'n't be sorry for it. Come 
 along." 
 
 " I must love you very much, Chouette, for you 
 make me do just what you like," said Tortillard, slowly 
 advancing. 
 
 324
 
 THE CHOUETTE. 
 
 The dim, wavering light of the candle, which but 
 imperfectly lighted this gloomy way, reflected the black 
 profile of this hideous brat on the slimy walls, which 
 were full of crevices and reeking with damp. At the 
 end of this passage, through the half obscurity, might 
 be seen the low and crumbling arch of the entrance to 
 the cellar, the thick door strengthened with iron bars, 
 and, standing out in the shade, the red shawl and white 
 cap of the Chouette. 
 
 By the united exertions of the two, the door opened 
 harshly on its rusty hinges ; a puff of humid vapour 
 escaped from this den, as dark as midnight. The light, 
 placed on the ground, threw its faint beams on the first 
 steps of the stone staircase, the bottom of which was 
 completely lost in the darkness. A cry, or, rather, a 
 savage roar, came from the depths of the cave. 
 
 " Ah, there's fourline wishing his mamma good-morn- 
 ing ! " said the Chouette, with a sneer. 
 
 And she descended several steps, in order to conceal 
 her basket in some hole. 
 
 " I'm hungry ! " exclaimed the Schoolmaster, in a 
 voice that shook with rage ; " do you wish to kill me 
 like a mad dog ? " 
 
 " What's the deary lovey hungry ? " said the Chou- 
 ette, with a laugh of mockery ; " then smell its 
 thumb." 
 
 There was a sound like that of a chain twisted vio- 
 lently ; then a groan of mute, repressed passion. 
 
 " Take care ! Take care, or you'll have a bump in 
 your leg, as you had at Bouqueval farm, poor dear pa ! '* 
 said Tortillard. 
 
 " He's right, the boy is, — keep yourself quiet, four- 
 U7ie" continued the hag ; " the ring and chain are solid, 
 old No-Eyes, for they came from Father Micou's, and he 
 sells nothing but the best goods. It is your fault, too ; 
 why did you allow yourself to be bound whilst you were 
 asleep ? We only had then to put the ring and chain in 
 
 325
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 this place, and bring you down here in the cool to pre- 
 serve you, old darling." 
 
 « That's a pity ! He'll grow mouldy," said Tortillard. 
 
 Again the clank of the chain was heard. 
 
 " He, he, fourline ! Why, he's dancing like a cock- 
 chafer tied by the claw," said the beldame, " I think I 
 see him ! " 
 
 " Cockchafer, cockchafer, fly away home ! Fly, fly, 
 fly ! Your husband is the Schoolmaster ! " sung Tortil- 
 lard, 
 
 This increased the Chouette's hilarity. Having de- 
 posited her basket in a hole formed by the lowering of 
 the wall of the staircase, she stood erect, and said : 
 
 " You see, fourline — " 
 
 " He don't see," said Tortillard. 
 
 "The brat's right. Will you heav^ fourline? There 
 was no occasion, when we came away from the farm, to 
 be such a booby as to turn compassionate, and prevent 
 me from marking Pegriotte's face with my vitriol ; and 
 then, too, you talked of your conscience, which was get- 
 ting troubled. I saw you were growing lily-livered, and 
 meant to come the ' honest dodge ; ' and so, some of these 
 odd-come-shortlies, you would have turned ' nose ' (in- 
 former), and have 'made a meal' of us, old No-Eyes; 
 and then — " 
 
 " Then old No-Eyes will make a meal of you, for he 
 is hungry, Chouette," said Tortillard, suddenly, and with 
 all his strength pushing the old woman by her back. 
 
 The Chouette fell forward with a horrible imprecation. 
 She might have been distinctly heard as she rolled from 
 the top to the bottom of the staircase. 
 
 " Bump, bump, bump, bump ! There's the Chouette 
 for you — there she is ! Why don't you jump upon her, 
 old bufler?" added Tortillard. 
 
 Then, seizing the basket from under the stone where 
 he had seen the old woman place it, he scampered up the 
 stairs, exclaiming, with a shout of savage joy: 
 
 326
 
 THE CHOUETTE. 
 
 " Here's a pull worth more than that you had before, 
 — eh, Chouette ? This time you won't bite me till the 
 blood comes, — eh ? Ah, you thought I bore no spite — 
 much obliged — my cheek bleeds still ! " 
 
 " Oh, I have her ! I have her ! " cried the School- 
 master, from the depth of the cave. 
 
 " If you have her, old lad, I cry snacks," said Tor- 
 tillard, with a laugh. 
 
 And he stopped on the top step of the stairs. 
 
 " Help ! " shrieked the Chouette, in a strangling 
 voice. 
 
 " Thanks, Tortillard ! " said the Schoolmaster, " thanks. 
 And, to reward you, you shall hear the night-bird 
 (Chouette) shriek ! Listen, boy, — listen to the bird of 
 death!" 
 
 " Bravo ! Here I am in the dress-boxes ! " said Tor- 
 tillard, seating himself on the top of the stairs. 
 
 As he said this, he raised the light to endeavour to 
 see the fearful scene which was going on in the depths 
 of the cavern ; but the darkness was too thick, so faint 
 a light could not disperse it : Bras-Rouge's son could not 
 see anything. The struggle with the Schoolmaster and 
 the Chouette was mute, deadly, without a word, without 
 a cry ; only from time to time was heard the hard 
 breathing, or the stifled groan, which always accompa- 
 nies violent and desperate efforts. Tortillard, seated on 
 the step, began to stamp his feet with that cadence 
 peculiar to an audience impatient to see the beginning 
 of a play ; then he uttered the cry so familiar to the 
 frequenters of the gallery of the minor theatres : 
 
 " Music ! Music ! Play up ! Up with the curtain ! " 
 
 " Oh, now I have hold of you, as I desired," mur- 
 mured the Schoolmaster, from the recess of the cellar ; 
 " and you were going — " 
 
 A desperate movement of the Chouette interrupted 
 him ; she struggled with all the energy which the fear 
 of death inspires. 
 
 327
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 " Louder ! Can't hear ! " bawled Tortillard. 
 
 " It is in vain you try to gnaw my hand, I will hold 
 you as I like," said the Schoolmaster. Then, having, 
 no doubt, succeeded in keeping the Chouette down, he 
 added, " That's it ! Now listen — " 
 
 " Tortillard, call your father ! " shrieked the Chouette, 
 with a faltering, exhausted voice. " Help ! Help ! " 
 
 " Turn her out, the old thing ! She won't let us 
 hear," said the little cripple, with a shout of laughter ; 
 " put her out ! " 
 
 The Chouette's cries were not audible from this cav- 
 ern, low as it was. The wretched creature, seeing that 
 there was no chance of help from Bras-Rouge's son, 
 resolved to try a last effort. 
 
 " Tortillard, go and fetch help, and I will give you 
 my basket; it is full of jewels. There it is, under 
 a stone." 
 
 " How generous ! Thank ye, madame. Why, haven't 
 I got it already ? Hark ! Don't you hear how it 
 rattles ? " said Tortillard, shaking it. " But now, if 
 you'll give us half a pound of gingerbread nuts, I'll 
 go and fetch pa." 
 
 " Have pity on me, and I will — " 
 
 The Chouette was unable to conclude. Again there 
 was a profound silence. The little cripple again began 
 to beat time on the stone staircase on which he was 
 seated, accompanying the noise of his feet with the 
 repeated cry : 
 
 " Why don't you begin ? Up with the curtain ! 
 Music ! Music ! " 
 
 " In this way, Chouette, you can no longer disturb 
 me with your cries," said the Schoolmaster, after a few 
 minutes, during which he had, no doubt, gagged the 
 old woman. " You know very well," he continued, in 
 a slow, hollow voice, " that I do not wish to end this all 
 at once ; torture for torture ! You have made me suffer 
 enough, and I must speak at length to you before I kill 
 
 328
 
 THE CHOUETTE. 
 
 you, — yes, at length. It "will be very terrible for you, 
 agonising ! " 
 
 " Come, no stuff and nonsense, old parson," said Tortil- 
 lard, raising himself half up from his seat; " punish her, but 
 don't do her any harm. You say you'll kill her, — that's 
 only a hum ; I am very fond of my Chouette ; I have 
 only lent her to you, and you must give her back again. 
 Don't spoil her, — I won't have my Chouette spoiled, — 
 if you do, I'll go and fetch pa ! " 
 
 " Be quiet, and she shall only have what she deserves, 
 a profitable lesson," said the Schoolmaster, in order to 
 assure Tortillard, and for fear the cripple should go and 
 fetch assistance. 
 
 " All right ! Bravo ! Now the play's going to begin ! " 
 said Bras-Rouge's son, who did not seriously believe that 
 the Schoolmaster intended to kill the Chouette. 
 
 " Let us discourse a little, Chouette," continued the 
 Schoolmaster, in a calm voice. " In the first place, you 
 see, since that dream at the Bouqueval farm, which 
 brought all my crimes before my eyes, since that 
 dream, which did all but drive me mad, — which will 
 drive me mad, for, in my solitude, in the deep isola- 
 tion in which I live, all my thoughts dwell on this 
 dream, in spite of myself, — a strange change has come 
 over me ; yes, I have a horror of my past ferocity. In 
 the first place, I would not allow you to make a martyr 
 of La Goualeuse, though that was nothing. Chaining 
 me here in the cellar, making me suffer from cold and 
 hunger, and detaining me for your wicked suggestions, 
 you have left me to all the fear of my own reflections. 
 Oh, you do not know what it is to be left alone, — always 
 alone, — with a dark veil over your eyes, as the pitiless 
 man said who punished me. Oh, it is horrid ! It was 
 in this very cavern that I flung him, in order to kill him ; 
 and this cavern is the place of my punishment, it may 
 be my grave. I repeat that this is horrid ! All that 
 that man predicted to me has come to pass ; he said to 
 
 329
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 me, * You have abused your strength, — you will be the 
 plaything, the sport of the most weak.' And it has 
 been so. He said to me, ' Henceforward separated from 
 the exterior world, face to face with the eternal remem- 
 brance of your crimes, one day you will repent those 
 crimes.' And that day has come ; the loneliness has 
 purified me ; I could not have believed it possible. 
 Another proof that I am perhaps less wicked than 
 formerly, is that I feel inexpressible joy in holding 
 you here, monster! Not to avenge myself, but to 
 avenge your victims, — yes, I shall have accomplished a 
 duty when, with my own hands, I shall have pun- 
 ished my accomplice. A voice says to me, that, if 
 jfiM had fallen into my power earlier, much blood, much 
 blood would have been spared. I have now a horror of 
 my past murders ; and yet, is it not strange ? It is with- 
 out fear, it is even with security, that I am now about to 
 perpetrate on you a fearful murder, with most fearful 
 refinements. Say, say ! Do you understand that ? " 
 
 " Bravo ! Well played, old No-Eyes ! He gets on," 
 exclaimed Tortillard, applauding. " It is really some- 
 thing to laugh at." 
 
 " To laugh at ? " continued the Schoolmaster, in a 
 hollow voice. " Keep still, Chouette ; I must complete 
 my explanation as to how I gradually came to repent- 
 ance. This revelation will be hateful to you, heart of 
 stone, and will prove to you also how remorseless 
 I ought to be in the vengeance which I should wreak on 
 you in the name of our victims. I must be quick. My 
 delight at grasping you thus makes my blood throb in 
 my veins, — my temples beat with violence, just as when, 
 by thinking of my dream, my reason wanders. Perhaps 
 one of my crises will come on ; but I shall have time 
 to make the approaches of death frightful to you by 
 compelling you to hear me." 
 
 " At him, Chouette ! " cried Tortillard. « At him ! 
 And reply boldly ! Why, you don't know your part. 
 
 330
 
 THE CHOUETTE. 
 
 Tell the ' old one * to prompt you, my worthy elderly 
 damsel." 
 
 " It is useless for you to struggle and bite me," said 
 the Schoolmaster, after another pause. " You shall not 
 escape me, — you have bitten my fingers to the bone ; 
 but I will pull your tongue out, if you stir. Let us con- 
 tinue our discourse. When I have been alone — alone 
 in tlie night and silence — I have begun to experience 
 fits of furious, impotent rage ; and, for the first time, 
 my senses wandered. Oh ! though I was awake, I 
 again dreamed the dream — you know — the dream. 
 The little old man in the Rue du Roule, the drowned 
 woman, the cattle-dealer, and you — soaring over these 
 phantoms ! 1 tell you it was horrible ! I am blind, 
 and my thoughts assume a form, a body, in order to 
 represent to me incessantly, and in a visible, palpable 
 manner, the features of my victims. I should not have 
 dreamed this fearful vision, had not my mind, contin- 
 ually absorbed by the remembrance of my past crimes, 
 been troubled with the same fantasies. Unquestionably, 
 when one is deprived of sight, the ideas that beset us 
 form themselves into images in the brain. Yet some- 
 times, by dint of viewing them with resigned terror, it 
 would appear that these menacing spectres have pity on 
 me, — they grow dim — fade away — vanish. Then I 
 feel myself awakened from my horrid dream, but so 
 weak — cast down — prostrated — that — would you 
 believe it ? ah, how you will laugh, Chouette ! — that 
 I weep ! Do you hear ? I weep ! You don't laugh ? 
 Laugh ! Laugh 1 Laugh, I say ! " 
 
 The Chouette gave a dull and stifled groan. 
 
 " Louder," said Tortillard ; " can't hear." 
 
 " Yes," continued the Schoolmaster, " I weep, for I 
 suffer and rage in vain. I say to myself, * To-morrow, 
 next day, for ever, I shall be a prey to the same attacks 
 of delirium and gloomy desolation.' What a life ! Oh, 
 what a life ! And I would not choose death rather 
 
 331
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 than be buried alive in this abyss which incessantly 
 pervades my thoughts ! Blind, alone, and a prisoner, — ■ 
 what can relieve me from my remorse ? Nothing, noth- 
 ing ! When the fantasies disappear for a moment, 
 and do not pass and repass the black veil constantly 
 before my eyes, there are other tortures, — other over- 
 whelming reflections. I say to myself, ' If I had 
 remained an honest man, I should be at this moment 
 free, tranquil, happy, beloved, and honoured by my con- 
 nections, instead of being blind and chained in this 
 dungeon at the mercy of my accomplices.' Alas! the 
 regret of happiness lost from crime is the first step 
 towards repentance ; and when to repentance is joined 
 an expiation of fearful severity, — an expiation which 
 changes life into a long, sleepless night, filled with 
 avenging hallucinations or despairing reflections, — per- 
 haps then man's pardon succeeds to remorse and expia- 
 tion." 
 
 " I say, old chap," exclaimed Tortillard, " you are 
 borrowing a bit from M. Moissard's part! Come, no 
 cribbing — gammon ! " 
 
 The Schoolmaster did not hear Bras-Rouge's son. 
 
 " You are astonished to hear me speak thus, Chouette ? 
 If I had continued to imbrue myself either in bloody 
 crimes or the fierce drunkenness of the life of the gal- 
 leys, this salutary change would never have come over 
 me I know full well. But alone, blind, stung with 
 remorse, which eats into me, of what else could I think ? 
 Of new crimes, — how to commit them ? Escape, — 
 how to escape ? And, if I escaped, whither should I 
 go ? What should I do with my liberty ? No ; I must 
 henceforth live in eternal night, between the anguish of 
 repentance and the fear of formidable apparitions which 
 pursue me. Sometimes, however, a faint ray of hope 
 comes to lighten the depth of my darkness, a moment of 
 calm succeeds to my torments, — yes, for sometimes I 
 am able to drive away the spectres which beset me by 
 
 332
 
 THE CHOUETTE. 
 
 opposing to them the recollections of an honest and 
 peaceable past, by ascending in thought to my youthful 
 days, to my hours of infancy. Happily, the greatest 
 wretches have, at least, some years of peace and inno- 
 cence to oppose to their criminal and blood-stained 
 years. None are born wicked ; the most infamous have 
 had the lovely candour of infancy, — have tasted the 
 sweet joys of that delightful age. And thus, I again 
 say, I sometimes find a bitter consolation in saying to 
 myself, ' I am, at this hour, doomed to universal execra- 
 tion, but there was a time when I was beloved, protected, 
 because I was inoffensive and good. Alas ! I must, 
 indeed, take refuge in the past, when I can, for it is 
 there only that I can find calm.' " 
 
 As he uttered these last words, the tones of the 
 Schoolmaster lost their harshness ; this man of iron 
 appeared deeply moved, and he added : 
 
 " But now the salutary influence of these thoughts is 
 such that my fury is appeased ; courage, power will fail 
 me to punish you. No, it is not I who will shed your 
 blood." 
 
 " Well said, old buck ! So, you see, Chouette, it was 
 only a lark," cried Tortillard, applauding. 
 
 " No, it is not I who will shed your blood," continued 
 the Schoolmaster ; " it would be a murder, excusable 
 perhaps, but still a murder ; and I have enough with 
 three spectres ; and then — who knows ? — perhaps one 
 day you will repent also ? " 
 
 And, as he spake thus, the Schoolmaster had mechani- 
 cally given the Chouette some liberty of movement. 
 She took advantage of it to seize the stiletto which she 
 had thrust into her stays after Sarah's murder, and 
 aimed a violent blow with this weapon at the rulfian, in 
 order to disengage herself from him. He uttered a cry 
 of extreme pain. 
 
 The ferocity of his hatred, his vengeance, his rage, 
 his bloody instincts, suddenly aroused and exasperated 
 
 333
 
 THE MYSTERIES OP PARIS. 
 
 by this attack, now all burst forth suddenly, terribly, 
 and carried with it his reason, already so strongly shaken 
 by so many shocks. 
 
 " Ah, viper, I feel your teeth ! " he exclaimed in a 
 voice that shook with passion, and seizing, with all his 
 might, the Chouette, who had thought thus to escape 
 him. " You are in this dungeon, then ? " he added, 
 with an air of madness. " But I will crush the viper 
 or screech-owl. No doubt you were waiting for the 
 coming of the phantoms. Yes ; for the blood beats in 
 my temples, — my ears ring, — my head turns — as 
 when they are about to appear ! Yes ; I was not 
 deceived ; here they are, — they advance from the 
 depths of darkness, — they advance 1 How pale they 
 are ; and their blood, how it flows, — red and smoking ! 
 It frightens you, — you struggle. Well, be still, you 
 shall not see the phantoms, — no, you shall not see 
 them. I have pity on you ; I will make you blind. 
 You shall be, like me, — eyeless ! " 
 
 Here the Schoolmaster paused. The Chouette uttered 
 a cry so horrible that Tortillard, alarmed, bounded off 
 the step, and stood up. The horrid shrieks of the 
 Chouette served to place the copestone on the fury of 
 the Schoolmaster. 
 
 " Sing," he said, in a low voice, " sing, Chouette, — 
 night-bird ! Sing your song of death ! You are happy ; 
 you do not see three phantoms of those we have assassi- 
 nated, — the little old man in the Rue du Roule, the 
 drowned woman, the cattle-dealer. I see them ; they 
 approach ; they touch me. Ah, so cold, — so cold ! 
 Ah!" 
 
 The last gleam of sense of this unhappy wretch was 
 lost in this cry of condemnation. He could no longer 
 reason, but acted and roared like a wild beast, and only 
 obeyed the savage instinct of destruction for destruc- 
 tion. A hurried trampling was now heard, interrupted 
 frequently at intervals with a heavy sound, which ap- 
 
 334
 
 THE CHOUETTE. 
 
 peared like a box of bones bounding against a stone, 
 upon which it was intended to be broken. Sharp, 
 convulsive shrieks, and a burst of hellish laughter 
 accompanied each of these blows. Then there was 
 a gasp of agony. Then — nothing. 
 
 Suddenly a distant noise of steps and voices reached 
 the depths of the subterranean vault. Tortillard, frozen 
 with terror by the fearful scene at which he had been 
 present without seeing it, perceived several persons hold- 
 ing lights, who descended the staircase rapidly. In a 
 moment the cave was full of agents of safety, led by 
 Narcisse Borel. The Municipal Guards followed. Tor- 
 tillard was seized on the first steps of the cellar, with 
 the Chouette's basket still in his hand. 
 
 Narcisse Borel, with some of his men, descended into 
 the Schoolmaster's cavern. They all paused, struck by 
 the appalling sight. Chained by the leg to an enormous 
 stone placed in the middle of the cave, the Schoolmaster, 
 with his hair on end, his long beard, foaming mouth, 
 was moving like a wild beast about his den, drawing after 
 him by the two legs the dead carcase of the Chouette, 
 whose head was horribly fractured. It required desper- 
 ate exertions to snatch her from his grasp and manacle 
 him. After a determined resistance they at length con- 
 veyed him into the low parlour of the cabaret, a large 
 dark room, lighted by a solitary window. There, hand- 
 cuffed and guarded, were Barbillon, Nicholas Martial, his 
 mother and sister. They had been apprehended at the 
 very moment when laying violent hands on the jewel- 
 matcher to cut her throat. She was recovering her- 
 self in another room. Stretched on the ground, and 
 hardly restrained by two men, the Schoolmaster, slightly 
 wounded, but quite deranged, was roaring like a wild bull. 
 Barbillon, with his head hanging down, his face 
 ghastly, lead-coloured, his lips colourless, eye fixed 
 and savage, his long and straight hair falling on 
 the collar of his blouse, torn in the struggle, was 
 
 335
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 seated on a bench, his wrists, enclosed in handcuffs, 
 resting on his knees. The juvenile appearance of this 
 fellow (he was scarcely eighteen years of age), the reg- 
 ularity of his beardless features, already emaciated and 
 withered, were rendered still more deplorable by the 
 hideous stamp which debauchery and crime had im- 
 printed on his physiognomy. Impassive, he did not 
 say a word. It could not be determined whether this 
 apparent insensibility was owing to stupor or to a calm 
 energy ; his breathing was rapid, and, at times, he wiped 
 away the perspiration from his pale brow with his 
 fettered hands. 
 
 By his side was Calabash, whose cap had been torn 
 off, and her yellowish hair, tied behind with a piece of 
 tape, hung down in several scanty and tangled meshes. 
 More savage than subdued, her thin and bilious cheeks 
 were somewhat suffused, as she looked disdainfully at 
 her brother, Nicholas, who was in a chair in front of her. 
 Anticipating the fate that awaited him, this scoundrel 
 was dejected. With drooping head and trembling knees 
 he was overcome with fright ; his teeth chattered con- 
 vulsively, and he heaved heavy groans. 
 
 The Mother Martial, the only one unmoved, exhibited 
 every proof that she had lost nothing of her accustomed 
 audacity. With head erect, she looked unshrinkingly 
 around her. However, at the sight of Bras-Rouge, — 
 whom they brought into the low room, after having 
 made him accompany the commissary and his clerk in 
 the minute search they had made all over the place, — 
 the widow's features contracted, in spite of herself, and 
 her small and usually dull eyes lighted up like those 
 of an infuriated viper ; her pinched-up lips became 
 livid, and she twisted her manacled arms. Then, as if 
 sorry she had made this mute display of impotent rage, 
 she subdued her emotion, and became cold and calm 
 again. 
 
 Whilst the commissary and his clerk were writing 
 
 336
 
 THE CHOUETTB. 
 
 their depositions, Narcisse Borel, rubbing his hands, cast 
 a satisfied look on the important capture he had made, 
 and which freed Paris from a band of dangerous crimi- 
 nals ; but, confessing to himself how useful Bras-Rouge 
 had really been in the affair, he could not help casting 
 on him an expressive and grateful look. 
 
 Tortillard's father was to share until after trial 
 the confinement and lot of those he had informed 
 against, and, like them, he was handcuffed ; and even 
 more than them did he assume a trembling air of con- 
 sternation, twisting his weasel's features with all his 
 might, in order to give them a despairing expression, 
 and heaving tremendous sighs. He embraced Tortil- 
 lard, as if he should find some consolation in his pa- 
 ternal caresses. 
 
 The little cripple did not seem much moved by these 
 marks of tenderness ; he had just learned that, for a 
 time, he would be moved off to the prison for young 
 offenders. 
 
 " What a misery to have a dear child ! " cried Bras- 
 Rouge, pretending to be greatly affected. " It is we 
 two who are most unfortunate, madame, for we shall be 
 separated from our children." 
 
 The widow could no longer preserve her calmness ; 
 and having no doubt of Bras-Rouge's treachery, which 
 she had foretold, she exclaimed : 
 
 " I was sure it was you who had sold my son at 
 Toulon. There, Judas ! " and she spat in his face. 
 " You sell our heads ! Well, they shall see the right 
 sort of deaths, — deaths of true Martials ! " 
 
 " Yes ; we shan't shrink before the carline (guillo- 
 tine)," added Calabash, with savage excitement. 
 
 The widow, glancing towards Nicholas, said to her 
 daughter, with an air of unutterable contempt: 
 
 " That coward there will dishonour us on the scaf- 
 fold ! " 
 
 Some minutes afterwards the widow and Calabash, 
 
 337
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS. 
 
 accompanied by two policemen, got into a hackney- 
 coach to go to St. Lazare ; Barbillon, Nicholas, and 
 Bras Rouge were conveyed to La Force, whilst the 
 Schoolmaster was conveyed to the Conciergerie, where 
 there are cells for the reception of lunatics. 
 
 END OP VOLUME IV.
 
 ,fiC sou jHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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